Edition 75, Volume 2

SPRING 2023 EDITION 75, VOLUME 2

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 : love letters from the sun (you are the sun) artist : Camryn Maher

journal layout

Editor’s Note As we approach the end of another school year, the simple phrase I made it circles my mind. These three words convey a sense of relieved accomplishment, yet they don’t hold much meaning. Just by getting through my days, have I made anything? And what does the vague term ‘it’ conceal about my intended subject? Where have I ‘made it’ to?

From a grammatical standpoint, the phrase is nearly worthless.

However, given context, I made it holds power. Brushfire has made it—seventyfive editions, seventy-three years. Made it to an increased page count, which lets us feature more literature and art. Made it to host the publication’s first gallery exhibition and poetry nights and plan more exciting events for the future.

I made it becomes profound when used as an expression of survival or an artist’s declaration. To my delight, the idea of making one’s self emerged in this Brushfire volume.

The following works grapple with selfdiscovery and fashioning a place for your own, which seemingly involves a fair amount of existential dread.

So grab a box of tissues, and please enjoy Edition 75, Volume 2 of the Brushfire.

—Phoebe Coogle EIC Spring 2023

“Elijah Running Deer” Steph Therianos

Table

of

C o n t en t s

visual

Camryn Maher Steph Therianos Clayton Posey Luke Rizzotto Irina Novikova Jean Wolff Edward Lee Elsie Childress Aden Oster Aden Oster Eva Shipley Jose-Luis Segura Camryn Maher Jean Wolff Jason Mennel Anna Newman Julia Blank Hillarie Lara Zoe Malen Aden Oster Chase Wixon Krystal Carter Jordyn Owens Nelson Lowhim Eva Elliott Irina Novikova Bobby Lee Olivia Johnson Kym Griffith Eva Shipley Jason Mennel

Cover

love letters from the sun (you are the sun) Editor’s Note Elijah Running Deer 6 Crystal Express 8&9 Through the Car Window 10 Mermaid 12 Grey Totem on Burlap 14 After Today 18 & 19 Longmire 20 & 21 Night Lights 22 & 23 Landscape at Dawn 25 Sunday Afternoon 27 & 28 Descent into Dream 28 love letters from the sun (you are the sun) 30 Blue Constructavist 33 Serenity in Siskiyou 34 Point & Shoot 36 Western Gothic 38 & 39 Desert Moonscape 42 Mania 45 Midnight Views of Virginia St. 46 The Sights of Tahoe 48 Turn the page...

49 Remembrance 50 Alien 52 Imperfect Machines 56 Sirin (sadness in the heart) 59 Giant Sequoia 61 Mushrooms in the Sky 63 My Crazy 66 Room with a View 69 Flowing Fire

Table

of

C o n t en t s

poetry

Allison Whittenberg Dan Raphael Carla Carlson Leila Farjami Jaz Ingall-Francis Jolene Christensen Karlie Daly Liam Strong Madeline Gauthier Nichole Zachary

7 8&9 11 13 22 24 26 29 31 32

Carolyn Jabs

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Sandip Saha Nicholas Barnes Dan Raphael Jeanette Shelburne Carla Carlson

47 51 62 64 & 65 Back Cover

creative

Elisa Carlsen

The Conflict, Plus Six Months Untitled In February A Calling Closer Cold Memories in the East Cemetery Behind the Mirror Shade Stamen & Pistil Tin Can Telephone There is a Sink with All My Dishes Inside It On Breaking a Knick Knack I Never Liked You are Absconding Three Caps, Three Stems New, Not News Premature Eulogy A Poetry Book Arrives, Unbidden

non-fiction

15-18

Who Burned Nixon Hall?

prose

Zachary Docter Maria Wickens Sarah Baldyga

37 40-45 53-58

Open House Death is Hiring Roadkill

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Crystal Express Clayton Posey

THE CONFLICT, PLUS SIX MONTHS Allison Whittenberg

each night, the moon had the company of stars… yet you, in basic, inoculated against 1000 afflictions, are back safe (not on of the alphabetized dead as remembered as frogs) but missing something nonetheless you free to acclimate to the reality that camouflage illusions naked

without being heard lost

without being held blind, metaphorically,

without being fed this need leads to invisible disease till you have 50 years left, plus the conflicts

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Untitled

Dan Raphael “the calendars trick us into thinking the future will arrive”

—mark sargent the calendars repeat themselves only 14 possible arrangements so the past keeps coming back into a world that’s progressed and declined in some bell-curved proportion blank pages if every month started on a Sunday if a year had 360 days calendars would be circular, broken into wedges to come across in the land of midnight everything looking up of the looking down roll like i’m in dust, dung, falling leaves when jumping sideways is more important than up

“Through the Car Window” Luke Rizzotto

turn a page, open the next door or window climb like a snake sounds of birds singing in a non-human key maybe H, J, or the Z that comes before A saxophone alphabet, dravidian embouchures are there more audible frequencies or more squiggles to represent sounds that change within seconds a sequence of lights mean when the battery, the metaphorical spring after sleep comes a new day many consecutive days where the sun is just an assumption like the earth’s rotation, like my mind warily orbiting my heart, not sure what the moon is, how in the deepest silences i’m not sure if my ears are performing exceptionally or just feel it safe to speak for themselves 9

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“Mermaid” Irina Novikova

IN FEBRUARY Carla Carlson

I could not sleep. My shoulders hurt. I read Mark Strand.

All the while I wanted it to be over. The buzzing.

On my way to the museum I said to myself think about your objective realities. Your body which brought five children into the world. You who married a big man. You who are so vulgar you think of more worlds. How you stay never sleeping well despite all the pieces arranged.

Sleep has little to do with lavender. Bergamot.

White sound. The props turn out to be a nightmare of daily organization. The rituals.

Jumping up to close the closet’s sliding glass.

Writing thoughts in the dark— fear of extreme feelings. Fear of medication.

Fear of the dream. Fear of losing the dream.

The fraught atmosphere between trees.

I could not stop the parasitic quality of a comment.

How the words, even the efforts to forget them could keep me up. The pills helped but not all night.

The pills linked to dementia. I have been to the memory care unit where my father lives— where over dinner Doris tells me about winning the job at LOOK. Moments later, she tells me the story again. With each telling, it’s new— over and over, I watch her come to life recounting the day she received that offer. Heat rushing to her face. Lips, full and red, edgy expression of someone who barely made the train, not quite looking anyone in the face.

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“Grey Totem on Burlap” Jean Wolff

A CALLING CLOSER Leila Farjami

Figs hang from branches curved as old age, like globes of purple light; their taste of sweet stars lingers for a million light-years inside the mouth, bursts over the tongue like lusty seeds of heaven.

With my hair on fire, I run through the forest of smoke, inhale its wind, hear a god’s voice as it dawns between cracks of clouds, baritone, faint; apple blossoms sway from one universe to another with each breath.

The sun begins to dim above my head, mulberries cool in dusk’s breeze.

Now the weighty night crushes the unborn, the moon cloaks soft fields of ash and tender bones.

We stand by the dark shore, my mother and I; a heron catches a silver perch whose body is stiff as a shard of clay, gobbles it whole.

The horizon unwinds, gathers a stillness.

Death bends everything toward its center.

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“After Today” Edward Lee

WHO BURNED NIXON HALL? Elisa Carlsen

His name could have been Randy, or Ron, or Red. My mom just called him “that asshole who burned down the Nixon.” Probably, but nobody knew for sure. Nobody was charged with a crime or named a suspect. The official records of the investigation were destroyed after six years, and now it’s been nearly thirty. As if time changes the truth. As if the erosional forces of days creeping by in the blistering smallness of a two-stoplight town could ever change the way things went down or the way they will be remembered.

In some ways, I prefer the mystery. Immutable facts depress me. For example, on July 23, 1992, an arsonist broke in (or walked through an open door), doused the first floor of Nixon Hall with gasoline, lit a match, and set fire to one of the most historic buildings in the state of Nevada. At 10:19 pm, the call came in - an anonymous report of flames blowing out leaded glass from the mission-style windows on Melarkey Street. It was already too late. The fire was growing - driving into the historic opera house’s velvet curtains, climbing up from the main stage’s proscenium arch and up into billowing smoke.

Within minutes volunteer firemen arrived, the mayor among them. They hooked their hoses to the hydrant and blasted the building with water. To keep the fire from spreading, they focused on the rear wall. They did not know it then, but using the hoses reduced the pressure for the sprinkler system inside. The fire quickly spread within. At 2:45 am, the building’s heavy timber roof collapsed. The forty-foot-high brick walls remained standing and framed a striking ruin in black charred brick and mortar.

In an otherwise small and dreary town, Nixon Hall stood out. Constructed in 1907 with bricks kilned from Humboldt River clay, each wall had a series of eight-foot high, arched mission-style windows. Double-framed wooden doors opened to the main room, and once inside, patrons walked to a curved gallery overlooking a large, raked stage with hardwood maple floors. Red brick pilasters ran the full height of the front facade, extending to the parapet wall. The gabled roof with rafters on steel trusses capped the building that claimed to be the largest opera house between Denver and San Francisco.

George Stuart Nixon was the one percent of Winnemucca, a U.S. Senator and former banker who made a fortune in goldmines. The Senator loved Winnemucca.

Coming broke from California to work for the railroad, he lived there twenty years and left a millionaire. Winnemucca needed his love. A major fire destroyed most of the downtown in 1905. On July 18, 1908, Senator Nixon stood on the main stage with a full orchestra in the pit and more than a thousand people in front of him. He announced he was deeding the opera house to the citizens. He’d kept his word. The building was a gift to the people. He said his intention was not “... to confer a benefit, but rather to inspire in your hearts kindly thoughts and a sentiment of friendship which shall defy the ravages of

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time... all that (is) asked or expected of the town is that you should care for it....”

For 77 years, the people of Winnemucca took care of Nixon Hall. The community held political rallies, funerals, stage theatre, school plays, magic shows, and masquerade balls. In 1982, Tammy Wynette, the First Lady of Country Music, brought her songs of heartbreak to the town of 5,000 people. The mayor declared the last weekend of April “Tammy Wynette Weekend.” She sold out three nights at two shows per night. She wore a silky gold dress with batwings and rhinestones. Her light blue eye shadow matched the color of the building’s stucco facade.

After Tammy Wynette left town, Nixon Hall faded into reports of seismic instability, foundational issues, and costly repairs. The city council proposed demolishing the building. They wanted something new. In 1984, they permanently closed the hall. A group of citizens immediately made plans to reopen it. Led by Pansilee Larson, the curator of the county museum, they called themselves the Friends of Nixon Hall. The voters overwhelmingly supported them. By 1989, a local ballot initiative proposing to restore the Nixon passed with 74% of the vote. In March of 1992, the state of Nevada awarded a grant for $582,000 to fund the restoration. They might as well have painted a bullseye on it.

My mother was an artist with an eye for light. She painted old, weathered barns in grassy fields, jackrabbits with long ears perfectly lit by the morning sun, and horses of any kind. In the early 1990s, she volunteered her afternoons at the Winnemucca Fine Arts Gallery, a small corner section of Nixon Halls’ basement that remained open. A small space with fluorescent lighting and white pegboard partitions filled with paintings of high desert landscapes and pouting rodeo clowns wrapped in barbed wire. I was her surly teenager, waiting for a ride home, with my Walkman blasting Sex Pistols. I’d sit next to a locked, heavy glass case full of royal crown purple, emerald-green, and pastel pink Faberge-like eggs. The sign on the bottom read Pat Quilici – P.D.Q. Productions – Egg Artistry. Bejeweled, bedazzled, in ornate Russian Imperial style, gold-leafed, and inlaid, I stared at them with wonder. I could not believe anything so delicate could exist in such a harsh and desperate place.

As the ruins of Nixon Hall smoldered, the city council convened an emergency meeting to vote on what to do with the building. They were missing Bonnie, the councilwoman from Ward V, one of the most vocal supporters of restoring the building.

She was out of town. In her absence, the council met with the city manager, who told them they had two choices, shore up the brick walls with timber frames and wait for the architect to arrive or demolish it immediately. The Fire Chief said he thought the building was so unstable that a heavy truck driving by could knock it down. The vote was unanimous. The city awarded the demolition work to Red, the owner of the biggest construction company in town, a man who’d advocated demolishing the Nixon before it burned. He went to work immediately. The Friends of Nixon Hall watched him from

across the street. The original bearing walls were four bricks deep. It took a wrecking ball all afternoon to knock them down.

I was outside when my mother pulled into the driveway. She threw the car door open so hard it swung back on her legs before she could get out. When she opened it again, she was pissed. She walked to the trunk and emerged with a handful of charred red bricks. She was red too; cheeks flushed; eyes bloodshot with tears. Looking at the sky as much as at me, she yelled, “I hate this goddamn fucking town. They burned down the Nixon. Those sons of bitches finally did it.” She looked wounded and messy.

My mother’s anger that morning was nothing new. It raised me as much as she did. For many reasons, things were hard between us, and that’s as much as she’ll admit.

But that morning, the distance between us disappeared because we hated Winnemucca together. I hated it for being redneck and desolate. Heading back to salvage her artwork from the ruins, I watched the car kick up dust on the gravel roads. Finally, I thought. Something actually happened in this stupid town.

After the fire, a big city paper reported, “... what remains from the Nixon are memories, sadness, anger, and fear.” They failed to mention Pat Quilici’s best eggs, miraculously unbroken and carried to safety by the firefighters. What was left unreported was the conspiracy of an old boy’s club to keep the town under their control and be the final say on what developed. Some members of this club wore army green t-shirts with yellow letters that read Bulldoze the Nixon. They didn’t want Pansilee or the Nevada Art Commission telling them what they could do with their building. They knew what was best for Winnemucca.

With evidence of flammable liquid observed among the ruins, the State Fire Marshall officially declared arson. Nobody believed it was a random act. People joked about how fast certain local politicians could run with a gas can. The city focused on money. They’d insured the building for full replacement value, approximately one million dollars. At odds with the insurance company, they refused to submit plans for a new building to replace what was lost; they wanted the money upfront. After many years of lawsuits, the city received a two-million-dollar payout. They did not replace what was lost. At the corner of Main and Melarkey lies a patch of grass the size of an old opera house called Nixon Park.

In the absence of accountability, I’ve conspired . . .

“My mom thinks your grandpa burned down the Nixon,” I say to the only person from high school I still talk to twenty-eight years later. He looks at me quizzically. He can raise one eyebrow at a time and does. “Oh...” he says, thinking, and then with a halfsmile, “I don’t know, maybe. I mean, I don’t think so, but I guess, maybe, I guess he could have.” I keep looking at him but don’t say anything. I’m stupidly waiting for him to confess or say something that will give me a clue. Instead, he says excitedly, “You know, I was there that night. I was downtown at the Winners, in the parking lot. I think Ferd and

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Dev were there too. Yeah, I mean, we all watched it. I don’t know why. You know? I just couldn’t stop looking. I’d never seen a building like that burn before.”

I could feel him get excited remembering that night. He must have been seventeen.

“Oh man,” he says, lighting up, “and this cop saw us from across the street and came over and started acting tough and asking a bunch of questions like he thought maybe we did it! Like we’d be stupid enough to be standing there if we did.” He can’t finish his story because I start laughing. “Oh my God!” I say, rolling my eyes, “The cops in this fucking town. I can’t believe they didn’t arrest you!” We both smiled. We knew those cops. The longer I sit with him, the more I warm to him. I tell him my mom was an artist. She lost some of her work in the fire. He smiles sympathetically, and I change the topic. I’ve moved on to other suspects.

“Longmire” Elsie Childress

“Longmire” Elsie Childress

“Longmire” Elsie Childress

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“Night Lights” Aden Oster

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COLD

Jaz Ingall-Francis if i could paint you a sunset with all the colors of my mind, there’d be pinks and blues and purples splayed against the underbelly of rolling clouds oranges and hues of yellow would cast their glow against the mountainside alight in violet splendor unshaken you look into the sky and see blue you look into my eyes and see green but you always forget that beyond the azure is black and empty. my sun descended long ago the colors i cast are faded now colors that seemed to be lit from within now scattered across the sky bleached into monochrome once, brilliance was all i knew i beamed as the sun did i radiated the same warmth that bathed my skin now i hide like a wintry evening, ending too soon my sun has set and i have been cold for so long.

“Landscape at Dawn” Aden Oster

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MEMORIES IN THE EAST CEMETERY Jolene Christensen

Harrowed by the years you are stone, A statue.

You wielded to no one, That was how you had survived.

I squirmed and snarled and lied to ease my trials, You bore yours as a boulder bears its mountain, Never stooping to anyone’s level As I do to get by.

My bones ache against your frigid marble, yet I will spend my twilight years with you, For you like my gentle warmth And your ivy-wrapped lap is where I rest my head.

“Sunday Afternoon” Eva Shipley

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BEHIND THE MIRROR SHADE Karlie Daly

The nightshades are up, continually on a journey to hide away the light— conceal the voices eliciting outside attempting to peek a vision through /get inside of you/ as the gaze turns elliptical while its breath streams right on without a bought ticket our turning page reflects all that is glorious, but the winding of these blinds refract a sense of urgency their eyes peek right to left, up and down searching for a slither of hope, desiring to drain its driven dignity by the sunset pool of muddled, melancholic, mineshafts I tell myself to run away, bless my heart with the option of leaving this place— truly, its opposition haunts me as the ghost behind the wall continues to corrupt the innocence from within; I whisk all I am out of this mattress frame only to be met with the shards glistening throughout the bathroom floor: an overbearing sink - fervent water mellow lamp - glimmer of light glassy disposition - bloody fingers infringed is the surveillance of a scrutinized girl: hollow like its contents when it comes to being an advocate of belief doe—staring effortlessly across the glassed mirror /wondering when/ she lost all discernment toward the spirit glaring back at her; one little whisper to taint the air one subtle wish to brush an afterthought out of existence only to be met with the peculiar painting once printed a millennia ago: she looked so pure, golden glee’d light brimming from a smile not caked with drought, just a virgin cherub with a pleasant smell growing in the garden.

“Descent into Dream” Jose-Luis Segura

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“love letters from the sun (you are the sun)” Camryn Maher

STAMEN & PISTIL Liam Strong

but daylight only haunts / what hunkers straight up / shade loves itself too / much to care / it peeters out like milk silting / down a glass / during a summer / storm i woke to a dark home / my father called me / said we couldn’t garden till mid-week / i watered my ears / like norwegian poppies / gray talcum dripped / from me / i was more / shower than the shower / even the sun droops down / displays the feathered trusses / of his wings / to burnt hastas & evening primrose / he hopes to mate / & i / stopped eating blood / oranges for a year / when you tell a trans girl they / belong to only to what / the sun doesn’t shine / on / i think that’s supposed to mean / you can shoot / at the sun / as much as you wish / & the gun will still / be worthless / it means that i must trowel / the earth into a symmetry / my father would tell / me roots are more plant / than flower or weed / one summer i had heat / stroke / my father told me i’m still / his son even / if i die from something stupid / but he only meant if die / or if / i was a son /

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“Blue Constructavist” Jean Wolff

TIN CAN TELEPHONE Madeline Gauthier

Is this thing on?

Cut out that racket!

Who said that?

Can anybody hear me?

Who’s there?

You’re breaking up

I’m just on the other side, An argument out of reach In a debate you wish you weren’t having.

You don’t recognize me?

Don’t worry.

I’m not offended.

One flip of the switch will do.

I agree.

The silence seeps through the walls, A peach preserve permeating The paper label of a tin can.

There is nothing so deafening as An onslaught of thoughts in a quiet room.

I can fix that easily.

Don’t tell me you miss the sharks Playing tug-o-war with a diver on TV. It would break my heart.

Aren’t we having fun?

You know I love the way our eyes look In the chemical afterburn of the empty screen.

You’re starting to get it now.

Don’t look so surprised.

I don’t think we’re invited to Thanksgiving this year anyway.

If you were smart, you’d stay away from All those mirrors in the house.

I know how we get around breakable things.

I want you here with me.

Don’t strangle yourself with the thread Connecting us. Walk the tightrope.

Carefully, carefully.

Be careful!

You’re going to— 31

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THERE IS A SINK WITH ALL MY DISHES INSIDE IT Nichole Zachary

Strips of paper curled with safety scissors.

Constructed sold for a quarter apiece. The money spent on more books, more love. “I’ll pay you back this time” I promised Mom only to break it again, and again. A cup fell from a great height left a faded pink scar on my middle finger.

I used to fall asleep on the warm concrete of an empty driveway until a truck’s honk gently nudged me, said it’s time to get up again.

Rolled down ice plant, crashed my bike into the neighbor’s chipped white fence, used band-aids. I scraped my knee on a piece of jagged earth while pulling a California Poppy from the ground. Small moments strung together like the Christmas lights Dad left up year-round, said they were for New Years. Easter. The Fourth of July.

I’m crying. It’s all supposed to add up to something.

Why am I still crying?

“Serenity in Siskiyou” Jason Mennel

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“Point & Shoot” Anna Newman

ON BREAKING A KNICK KNACK I NEVER LIKED Carolyn Jabs

First thought is of repair. Whoever gave me this knew what I collected. Safe choice though more is rarely the point. Still, I examine the fragments.

They could be glued—like the giraffe my father brought me, coming home from a rare trip, part of a miniature family distilled to its essential parts. Father, mother, one phenomenal child. No extraneous siblings.

“Look,” said my Mom. “It’s made of bone china.”

No one had entrusted me with anything so fragile. For a long time, the family survived, nested in tissue. The father’s long neck broke around the time my father’s heart attacked him.

Mostly I remember the yellow scar of aging glue.

Some people claim to treasure cracked things, something about light getting in, or out.

More likely memory seeps through fractures whether things are loved or not. The family that launched this collection is damaged— father missing, mother serene but oblivious, the bone china sticker still affixed to the child.

When I scoop today’s calamity into the trash there are no second thoughts.

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“Western Gothic”Julia Blank

OPEN HOUSE Zachary Docter

Despite present appearances, it’s a fine house. I mean, considering...

Two bedrooms upstairs. Two bedrooms downstairs. Sure, they’re a little small. But small means cozy, doesn’t it?

Okay, so there’s no second story. So what? There’s space for a second story. It’ll be easy to add on. Regulations are lax. Nowhere to build but up, so they say. I mean, despite present appearances, it’s a charming house really, with or without a second story.

So there’s not really a first story. So it’s cramped inside. So the ceiling is, what’s that?

The ceiling is low you say? Well how low is low? Do you have a tape measure? You don’t?

How do you know it’s low if you haven’t measured it? Appearances deceive. For all we know, it could be ten feet high. Don’t worry about it. It’s a nice house, even though...

It’s not a house? Is that what you’re telling me? Well, what do you say it is? A dog house? Are you telling me this is a dog house? Well, despite present appearances, I can assure you this house is for people too. Sure, it’s a little small, maybe a little too small...

So it’s a toy dog house. It’s a toy dog house. I stand corrected. You caught me. I admit it.

But remember, sometimes the line between playthings and real things isn’t so clear. It’s just semantics, you know. We’re talking semantics here. I mean, despite present appearances...

I can assure you this is not a desk ornament shaped like a dog house. What’s that? You brought a tape measure? You say it’s three centimeters tall? Well in the imperial system, three centimeters is...well...I mean...considering...

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“Desert Moonscape” Hillarie Lara

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DEATH IS HIRING Maria Wickens

The Angel of Death did not introduce herself as she approached the restaurant counter. I assumed she was just another goddamn demon who’d escaped the Cuba Street bucket fountain hell mouth across from the restaurant. Whoever signed the lease for the Wellington branch of Y’all Want Fries With That clearly wasn’t local.

The angel was a tiny girl with goth-black hair tied back in a face-tightening bun. Her style was 1980s padded-shouldered Dynasty wannabe crammed into a pinstripe suit. She was sweating with eagerness to be noticed, so I stared out the window, hoping she’d get bored and leave. That was my go-to move dealing with evil.

My indifference prompted her to eject her Angel of Death wings. They were blackfeathered wings with a wide span, which had the effect of diminishing her height even further. She gave them a good hard flap.

“Welcome to Y’all Want Fries With That. Can I help you today?”

“I am here to offer you an opportunity,” she said with a tone of self-importance. “I am an Angel of Death, and my boss is hiring right now.”

Angel of Death was a notch up from the usual clientele we saw in the Wellington restaurant. Demons, werewolves, the vampire regulars, and of course hobbits, so many bloody hobbits, went with the territory. All the same, I wasn’t sure if Death’s intern would necessarily be a good move. I pointed to my Y’all Want Fries With That branded shirt tucked into my Y’all Want Fries With That branded belt.

“I have a job. Y’all Want Fries With That food champion at your service,” I replied.

“Although Angel of Death sounds like a wonderful opportunity...”

“Oh no, no, no,” she said. “We have our full complement of Angels of Death. It takes a long time to work your way up to Angel of Death, and you need a photographic memory for detail.” She puffed out her wings like a pigeon looking for a mate. “For example, in London 1862, twenty-seven people died of worms...”

Like a morbid Google search engine, she went on to list the following:

- Six dead in the street and starved;

- Four hundred seventy killed by bad teeth;

- One killed by a mad dog;

- Ten killed by cancer and wolf;

Did she say cancer AND wolf?

- Eighteen executed and pressed to death;

- Eleven borne away by grief;

- Forty-six killed by several accidents;

That’s somewhat vague.

- And one dead of piles.

Ouch!

Clearly London in 1862 was not a pleasant place to visit.

“So, what were you before you were an Angel of Death?” I asked.

“An accountant.”

She fluttered her wings in irritation at my lack of awe.

“I had a yen for balance—an offset of good and evil to drive a bottom line...” she continued.

I yawned but she still spent some time trying to convince me divine judgment could be managed with T-accounts.

“Still a hard no,” I said when she paused for breath. “Although I covet your stylish raven’s wings. No.” “Well,” she said with a shrug, “it’s your afterlife. Enjoy the eternal void of nothingness.”

“Wait.” Perhaps I had answered too hastily. “What position would I be suited for?”

“Death is recruiting psychopomps,” she stated.

“Psycho what now?”

She jiggled her wings, annoyed at my ignorance. “Psychopomps guide the dead souls to their destination. Death needs more psychopomps because, well, end of days and all.”

Oh sure, end of days. I’d seen that coming.

“I guess it could get busy in an apocalypse,” I mused. “Overtime opportunities.”

“No overtime—most recruits join Death Inc. for the benefits.” She paused for dramatic effect. “Eternal life.”

Immortality. Certainly a deal sweetener.

“Would I have to kill anyone?”

“Only Death decides when and how time runs out. I assess where their journey will end. Raised heavenward or...” Again a dramatic pause and a thumbs-down. “Into the fiery pit. But for most it’s a short hop to limbo. A long, dark night of nothingness. You have limbo slacker written all over you, mister. Psychopomp would be a step up.”

I pictured myself as a Pied Piper for zombies, skipping to the Styx with a trail of wraiths lurching along to the sound of my recorder. All the same, I hesitated. The Angel of Death’s former career choices and her power dressing suggested Death’s realm didn’t have a vibe of an empowering culture.

“I’m interested.” What the heck, a job a few hundred yards away from the Cuba Street fountain hell mouth asked a lot for minimum wage. Keeping the creatures of the night away from the human customers was a full-time job on its own.

Wellington was a town filled with politicians and bureaucrats, and the bloodsucking vamps that swarmed here fitted right in. However, the low-class bogan demons hauling themselves out of the fountain were increasing in number, and as a rule Y’all Want Fries With That was their first stop. What is it with demons and their insane love of crispy

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“Mania” Zoe Malen

chicken strips and a bucket of fries?

“I want to meet Death first,” I said.

“What?” the angel shrieked. “You want to meet Death?”

“In person,” I clarified. “Not my actual death.”

“That will come soon enough,” she murmured. “Happy to bring up that date.”

She griped it wasn’t bureau procedure, Death was too busy to waste his time on would-be psychopomps, but kind of like the Devil in Georgia, she must have been behind on her quota and willing to make a deal. What sealed it, I think, is Death loved a chocodilla, so she hauled out a 1980s brick phone from her briefcase and invited Death to Y’all Want Fries With That Cuba Street.

A chill settled over the restaurant. Death was on the move. An equine neigh heralded the arrival of his carriage as the horses clattered into the Y’all Want Fries With That, his ebony carriage behind them. The citizens of Wellington were immune to the spectacle.

This kind of paranormal shit goes down all the time. He managed to attract the attention of a vampire couple on their way to Courtney Place to tear through a couple of student jugulars at the Enigma Café.

“Yo,” one of them shouted. “We are undead. Can’t touch us, baby.”

Death’s carriage driver opened the door and he stepped out. Ah, Death. How do I begin to describe you? The physical appearance was secondary to the aura surrounding Death. My brain tingled with the sensation of Death’s proximity. The coldness that heralded his arrival was internal, as if my blood turned to the freezing point.

The angel was toadying her way toward him, thanking him profusely for honoring us with his presence. She glared at me, expecting to hear me echo her gratitude.

“Hey, Death,” I said. “How’s business? I hear you’re heading for a boom.”

“You could say that,” he said in a deep, rumbling baritone that was at odds with the skeletal frame. He was an imposing height but slender, as if he had been stretched on a rack. His clothing was black, head to toe. This was contrasted with his sallow pallor, as if all the blood had been drained from him. He was pale as the horse that pulled his carriage. His cheeks were hollow and his eyes bulged... ...until I served him the chocodilla, then his lips peeled into a smile, the hollowed cheeks turned into dimples, and his eyes sparkled. I could almost understand how the goths and Sylvia Plath were in love with the dude.

“On the house,” I said, thinking I’d clear it with management later. They generally comped any celebrities.

“You are considering my offer,” Death said, wiping the crumbs from his mouth.

“Is there a job description?” I asked.

“I thought your generation just Googled everything,” said Death. “Go ahead. Psychopomps. Literally from the Greek meaning ‘guide of the souls.’ Wikipedia it.”

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The empire of Death’s PR machine was very good. He recruited the designers of the

most effective propaganda of all time. The creator of Uncle Sam, the first person to claim “Guinness Is Good For You”, and whoever came up with “Keep Calm and Carry On” now worked for Death.

The warm, cozy nature of the psychopomp description on Wikipedia almost worked.

The guide took many forms—shaman, wise man, death doula. Valkyries were executive level. Career progression. I clearly had not been invested in the notion of a career ever since I got my Bachelor of Arts; however, hanging out with the Valkyries was one hell of a motivation to say yes.

I should have stuck to Wikipedia, but I followed a link to discover psychopomps would tear the flesh away from the dead to release the souls and then feast upon dead meat.

“Perk of the job,” said Death when I asked if this was true.

Some of my best friends are cannibals. Living in Wellington, the most vampire-friendly city in the world, it is tough not to run into a cannibal now and then. I have a low bar, but I draw the line at eating people myself. I could already envisage a conflict arising. My mother had been unwell for some time, and that could lead to some complicated issues.

“Sorry, no,” I said finally.

“No?” shrieked the angel.

Death sighed and banished her. “I loathe shrill beings,” he said apologetically.

“What the actual...” I started. “Where’d she go?”

“Does it matter?” Death said. “The silence, ahhhhhhhhhh.”

“She seemed to take her job seriously,” I said timidly. Death locked eye sockets with me. A chill settled over me.

“There is not an opening for Angel of Mercy,” Death said. “I am not recruiter for that position. If you are aiming in that direction, I have seriously misjudged you, my dude.”

You know that feeling when your 40-year-old youth pastor uncle calls you “my dude”? I shuddered and assured Death I was as merciless as all get-out.

“Is consuming the flesh of the dead a deal breaker? Surely snacking on a couple of hopeless corpses is a small price to avoid the end of days?”

You’d think, but I was grateful to have it spelled out for me anyway.

It’s a countdown to the end of days. The four horsemen don’t have to canter down State Highway 1 to spell it out. You feel it too, right? The temperature is rising. The sound of fabric tearing echoes as chaos washes over this existence we call, with no hint of sarcasm, reality. The undead swarm like ants from the fountain, sensing their time is near as ours draws to a close. The darkness is coming and I cannot deny the evil heralding its arrival is all around us.

I am a shitbag civilian in this struggle for dominance between good and evil, life and

death, and the planet’s survival. But I will not side with the immortal carrion pecking at the weak, tearing the soul out of the goddamn human race for the privilege of being the one percent who live forever. The carnage has begun and I am loathe to join it.

Death waited for my final answer and, reading my thoughts, spoke up.

“There is a vacancy for an Angel of Death if psychopomp is beneath you.”

On the other hand, what did humanity ever do to win my loyalty?

“Does the job come with wings?” I asked.

“Midnight Views of Virginia St.” Aden Oster

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“The Sights of Tahoe” Chase Wixon

YOU ARE ABSCONDING Sandip Saha

I am after you all the time Day night morning evening You are absconding, absconding I cannot sustain myself without you Right from my babyhood You are absconding, absconding I get many things so pleasurable But very soon nectar dries up You are absconding, absconding It seems to me something is missing The real juice is taken away leaving nothing You are absconding, absconding It appears all is glittering everywhere The stupid journey is always on You are absconding, absconding The truth is hidden deliberately Fooling everybody absolutely You are absconding, absconding How long more will you be away?

You will be caught soon though You are absconding, absconding.

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“Turn the page…”

Krystal Carter

“Rememberance” Jordyn Owens

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“Alien” Nelson Lowhim

DISOLUTION Kelly Talbot

You’re shoving fear and rage into circular steel holes as you mutter prayers to the demons you carry.

The impaled sun is dying on the edge of the city skyline, a hundred towering tombstones backlit by the flames of hell, as all that was once blue smolders to black.

Bullets are cast in last chances, melted in a crucible of chaos, poured in molten desperation into a mold of resignation, and cooled to a cold, hard shell that broods in a chamber waiting to shatter the silence in eruptions of blood and screams.

You cannot hear my words, and I will not bear your weight.

I leave you to your searing psyche.

In the street, a robed wraith passes me by, clutching gleaming metallic destiny.

I flee into the dark distance as each wishless star fades, and all that remains is the blinding truth of a youless tomorrow.

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“Imperfect Machines” Eva Elliott

ROADKILL

Sarah Baldyga No more squirrels. Never, ever again. That’s what she’d told herself.

But then.

What made it worse is that it hadn’t been a matter of just stopping the car and bagging it. She’d been out on a long walk, listening to birds, enjoying the early Maine spring, and maybe he wasn’t even on her mind for once.

And she was three miles from home when she saw it in the middle of the road,

splayed on the yellow line. It was such a good one—big and fat, no part of it flattened or bleeding, the round black eyes lifeless but intact. She knew she should just ignore it and keep walking.

Just keep walking.

But the thought of turning around and going back made her feel more alive than she’d felt in weeks. And so she did go back, and using a long twig, she rolled the squirrel to the road shoulder, out of the way of traffic. What was she going to do? She would have to walk all the way home and drive back with a plastic bag. And the eyes were

juicy treats for most creatures who might happen upon this morsel—so she didn’t have much time. She’d have to run.

As she was sprinting down the road to her house, she thought about how much energy she was expending on maybe his behalf. For a hunter-gatherer, that kind of fuel waste could be fatal. But she didn’t slow down.

The first time she’d ever done it, she’d showed up on his doorstep, wearing blacklace panties under her summer dress, and holding a cardboard box containing a dead gray squirrel. He’d smiled as he’d let her inside.

A few weeks prior to that initial squirrel delivery, she had learned during a pillow-talk conversation that he collected roadkill for a fox that regularly passed through his yard. Because he was a six-figure CEO who kept his luxury vehicles spotless inside and out, the thought of him scraping roadkill off the pavement and placing it in his trunk delighted her.

It had always been that way—the gifts, and guys. Whenever she was in gifting

mode with a man, she was bursting with inspiration, feeding off her favorite things about his world, and sometimes getting more into a guy’s interest or activity than he was or had ever been. At some point during her thirties, after she’d repeated her pattern too many times to count, she observed that her man fixations always seem to correlate to a spike in her creativity, as well as to relief from a melancholy which had deepened over the years (maybe an understatement?). And so she’d started thinking of them as

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‘manspirations’. They were never aware of this, of course. The manspiration dynamic required that the catalyst objects be mostly oblivious to her. If a man turned his attention on her and showered her with gifts in return the spell was broken. Hence why a handsome bachelor willing to risk compromising the interior of his Porsche for a visiting fox was so much more interesting as long as he paid her no such attention. He did not. He once walked through her studio and tripped over a stone tool, and still didn’t ask one question about her work.

After that first dead squirrel, she had brought squirrel guy quite a few more, or presented him with one when he came over. And sometimes they were smaller red squirrels, or chipmunks. She also loved that sometimes he sat out on his glorious deck and shot squirrels just so that the fox would have a treat for dinner. It hardly mattered what else he did, or who he was as a man. And though she was so compelled and moved by his relationship with his fox, she had no idea how he felt internally when he spotted

the fox slinking across his property—if his tending to the fox really meant anything to him. She just knew that when she stood at her kitchen window, watching a red fox move

silently through the tall grass in her own field, that the moment seemed bigger if she

thought of him and his fox. The manspirations had always had that power—enhancing the present, her present.

But this manspiration had perhaps a much greater impact than his predecessors.

In the mornings, after an evening with him, she’d hear the ping of her phone. Incoming.

And of course, it would be from him, pictures of the fox, images from his game camera showing the fox coming to fetch her gift squirrel in the middle of the night.

She lived for those messages. Far too much. The moment her eyes peeled open in the morning, she’d enter a limbo state of distracted anticipation. And the arrival of that text - usually by the time she was on her second cup of coffee—would alleviate the discomfort of expectation, but then the high of receiving it would last only so long, and of course, the crash always followed. And so the day would be shot—she’d succumb to torpidity and waste the day in her robe. Drugs are drugs, even if she wasn’t snorting the man through a straw.

She never slept very well after seeing him, and that of course also set her up for the subsequent wasted days. She’d toss and turn, agitated and restless, confused by an attraction that should have been energizing, not draining. She did not believe that her anxiety derived from authentic love, though years ago she did interpret these situations as such. And she knew that the focus and preoccupation would eventually shift onto someone new. It always did. But the novel thing hadn’t made itself known, not yet or quickly enough, and the current thing was so intense and powerful that she was a bit afraid of the next one. And she hated that she was awaiting the next manspiration. Why wasn’t she ever able to be her own inspiration? What was she missing? She would turn fifty in a couple of years—had she reached a threshold of some kind? Was this rock

bottom?

She was out on a run on a muggy summer morning when she spotted what seemed to be another roadkill prospect up ahead. But as she got closer she could see that the

gray squirrel was not dead—it was slowly dragging itself along the road, its hind legs splayed out behind it, paralyzed, its back clearly broken. She felt her eyes well up with tears—she was already hyper-emotional due to lack of sleep—and she moved towards

the injured creature, wanting to help, but it dragged itself rather quickly into the grass along the shoulder and into a neighbor’s yard.

As she pursued the squirrel, the thought occurred to her that she should probably just kill it, put it out of its misery. But who would she be doing that for? She felt instantly uneasy and guilty, picturing herself bashing its head in with a branch. Maybe she really had reached manspiration rock bottom.

Just then the neighbor—a young woman wearing large, purple-framed circle eye-

glasses—appeared on the porch and saw her near the edge of the yard, and asked her what she was looking at or looking for. After being briefed on the injured squirrel, the

woman said Oh no, poor thing! and they both turned their attention to the rustling in the brush. The woman had come out to feed her chickens, and in fact, the squirrel was crawling in the direction of the coop.

They corralled the squirrel toward a cat carrier as the chickens cawed and clucked nervously, and the quick use of a stick to nudge it inside completed the operation. She had never met this very kind and gentle neighbor before, and the spontaneous collaboration with a stranger on a rescue mission made her feel warm and connected to everything, and for a few delicious minutes, the moment was full and enough.

The neighbor sent her home with one dozen fresh eggs. That night, as she cracked two of them open in the skillet, she thought about how squirrel guy’s fox had missed out on a potential feast, and how she’d missed out on a chance to see squirrel guy. Didn’t she feel better after doing what she had done that day? The two eggs spread into each other and fried into one, and as she flipped them over, it occurred to her that ultimately, she hadn’t really done that much—she’d strolled on home with her carton of reward

after the neighbor had offered to tend to the squirrel and call the wildlife sanctuary.

And she’d been relieved to be absolved of any further duties. As she sat down to the meal made possible by a paralyzed squirrel and pierced one of the yolks with her knife, she could feel the last remnants of the day’s beautiful fullness leave her.

The next time she walked through his door, she said nothing about the almost-roadkill, she didn’t even know how to tell a story that had seemed at first about compassion and cooperation, but was just another tale of coming down from a moment. And his eyes would have glazed over long before she reached the end anyway.

But she did bring him a frozen red squirrel in a plastic bag—a score from a friend who shot at squirrels ruining his roof (he kept the carcasses in a freezer pending better ideas

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for disposal).

Together they put the stiff squirrel out for the fox, then shared a beer on the couch until he put his hand on her leg. Up until that moment, she’d had ambitions of avoiding any intimate contact during this visit. But then he touched her, and she forgot about the future and invariable fallout.

There were no other cars on the road as she drove home that night as if the world had ended while she’d been at his house. She got into bed, but she already knew what was going to happen, or more accurately, not happen. She was wide awake until the next morning when her phone pinged with the arrival of her big reward: grainy, black and white pictures of a lucky fox.

Not long after the frozen squirrel delivery, she backed into a shopping cart, crushing it against the wall of the grocery store. She could have sworn she’d looked behind her, but she hadn’t slept for more than two hours for several days, or had it been weeks?

The repairs to the car cost hundreds of dollars, and that the cart could have been a person, maybe a child, haunted her.

And so, the resolution: no more squirrels.

“Sirin (sadness in the heart)” Irina Novikova

It should have been so easy. It was about survival. But a long-term vice is complicated. You might have heard about those smokers who chain smoke for their entire lives, and finally, a doctor or family member gets the smoker to quit, and the person dies within a week.

But she did quit. And during the phase of going cold turkey on squirrel guy, which did actually include passing up a dead turkey on the side of the road (she’d slowed down, almost pulled over to look at it, then had to restrain herself from texting him the

geographical coordinates), she still could not focus on any of her own stuff—her life, work, art, or what the hell she wanted in general. She didn’t feel motivated to do anything and just defaulted to wasting time. Why not? What was the point? Of anything?

At first, she got a few fox pictures from him at first, because usually that’s all he had to do to disarm her, beckon her. But after a couple of weeks, he responded to her silence with silence. She wasn’t surprised. He would have forgotten about her far earlier had it not been for the unsolicited squirrel supply. It was good for her to reflect on that, feel the sting, because it further reduced the risk of backpedaling on the ‘no more squirrels’ resolution. But being so easily forgotten crushed her.

Being forgotten was too close to what she believed death would be like—nothing-

ness, time sealing over her existence. This is why she suspected that the longing which had always crept in—when she was taking in the moment, standing alone and look-

ing out over the field as the sun slipped down behind the tree-lined horizon—was not about a man, or love, or anything she could articulate or hold or define.

Though she wasn’t inspired to do much as she weaned herself, and she had to drag

herself out of bed into the day for a few weeks, eventually—somewhere in that dull, in-

ert flatness—there was a modicum of calm. It was a new thing, and nearly indiscernible.

She wasn’t sure what to make of it. But that she had started being able to sleep again had to be proof that she was on the right path, yes?

And then, the relapse—that big fat, succulent dead squirrel which had interrupted

her pleasant walk and blown her attempt to scrape newfangled meaning from the day.

And she did get back to the trophy roadkill in time before a crow poked out the perfect eyeballs.

It had taken a few prods to get the hefty rodent into the plastic bag, and when she returned home, she put the bagged squirrel in a cardboard box, taped it shut, and set it in a cool corner of her garage.

Oh god. What had she done?

She gave herself a deadline. By the next morning, she would need a decision.

That night, she got into bed reluctantly, feeling too awake. No surprise, because of

what she’d done. She struggled to navigate the conflicting emotions—fear of the point

of no return if she continued her silence with him, and the fear of losing whatever it was that she’d started to gain by roadkill abstinence. The sense of doom, that she was

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doomed to keep doing this, as if there was no other way to exist, suddenly made her angry.

The anger helped her think, and she realized a fallacy in her view of the connection between being forgotten, and death: when you’re dead, you have no idea who is remembering you or who has forgotten you, but even while you’re alive you can’t really know if someone is actively thinking about you, even if you’re looking into their eyes.

Her gift-gifting had always been on her own terms. How hard was it to be giving at whim? What did that demand of her? And the fox might have been the only one benefit-

ting from the dead squirrel affair—all fattened up on byproducts of human desperation.

Once, before she’d left, the fox had tiptoed through squirrel guy’s yard early (according to the game camera clock), and maybe it had seen them through the window, two shapes using each other, emptiness against emptiness, taking what they could get while the fox took its treat.

She slipped out of bed, made her way through the dark, drawn to the window, the need to look out at something, even if it was just at the black night of the new moon.

And yet it wasn’t opaque darkness—there were tiny lights everywhere, blinking on and off. She loved fireflies, but they also always made her chest tighten—delight mixed with dread. Summer was never long enough.

She lay down on the couch and dozed on and off until dawn. Finally, when she heard the hermit thrushes start singing, she got up and went downstairs to the garage, and stared

at the box. It was a reminder—all the ‘gifts’ over the years had been reminders, insist-

ing: think of me, don’t forget me. And the entreaties had always been one-way streets: she couldn’t even remember most of the recipients.

She slit open the box with a knife, and emptied it out at the base of the biggest pine tree on her property, hoping the contents would make a great meal for a neighborhood creature, or just provide some quality fertilizer. Most of the organisms in the soil around the pine had a mutually beneficial relationship with the tree. Of course, a parasite could spring up, such as the energy-stealing ghost pipe plant, a.k.a. the corpse plant. But she wasn’t going to judge how an organism got through the day.

“Giant Sequoia” Bobby Lee

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THREE CAPS, THREE STEMS Nicholas Barnes

her mushroom goggles made everything look weird. sound weird. taste weird. feel weird: candy floss sherbet golden hour caught in a cloud prison; gingerbread cookies the roommate was baking; ancient wood floor grain underneath her wrinkled, scuffed feet. that august eve, she was just a pair of eyes and a body in tow. the old crunchy, rickety abode was clean. no messes about. she’d never seen any big bugs, rats, or bats bumping around. nothing like that. just swirling cotton tapestries that night, like wheels turning on a wagon. alien sounds whooshing out of the bluetooth speaker. acid orange juice, filmy on the palate. the aroma of lavender essential oils permeating every atom. dandelions dancing with the chinook winds. brown peepers welling up with warm manic mood swing tears. and guttural cackling seconds later. but in an instant, there it was, a squashed & flattened cockroach. done in by something heavy—something with hellish force, some awful gravity. and the psychonaut had little choice but to accept the carnal scene: about fifty alabaster couscous eggs scattered in a halo above the mother’s head. exanimate. no more. still. she never saw another roach in that psilocybic house ever again.

“Smoke Day” Eva Shipley

“Mushrooms in the Sky” Olivia Johnson

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NEW, NOT NEWS Dan Raphael

when I think it’s over when I’m worn out & don’t care what comes next let’s get it over with which it are we talking about the thing/ disease/ distraction/ struggle an iteration, an itinerary halfway in, halfway out in the know, out of the woods in too deep, out of range, out of ideas/options, just a minute out of my body done with waiting, beginning to see. starting right now, let it end around the curve, through the fog across the border, outside the cage when I look at my love, at mount hood at butterfly hummingbird monarda and lilies, when I can’t hear the freeway when all I can hear and smell is rain surprised by the light, by a stranger by what’s in the envelope, what’s landing in my yard what’s the quickest way there don’t look back, don’t avoid the first time the window’s not locked, the ground’s not that far away I’m gone before anyone realizes just my laughing chair, my desk about to fly I’ll know it when I’m there, with the first breath a need to roll around naked, my head can’t stay still here it comes

“My Crazy” Kym Griffith

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PREMATURE EULOGY Jeanette Shelburne

She scrubbed the bathtub ‘till it shined like I never knew a bathtub could shine so I could have a fresh start in my new house.

She took on the tidal wave of her parents’ trauma, the drunken sobs, the bloody teeth, the late nights, the screeching cars, the crowding into beds that smelled like dogs and pee.

She let the first wave hit her so it wasn’t so hard by the time it crashed over her brothers and sisters.

She became mother when their mother left.

This is kind of a eulogy to my friend, who once was the generous curmudgeon— all the things you say when someone dies because everyone wants to remember what was worthwhile about their lives.

It’s a premature eulogy to a sad bitter woman lying in a hospital bed like a beached whale.

She hasn’t wanted to be in her life for a long time but she’s afraid to go where there’s no spotlight and because she wants to keep kicking the world in the shin.

I wish I could take her by the hand and make a good plan and help her execute it.

I’m so good at making plans, not so good at chaos.

She’s used to it, the chaos— she knows how to ride its waves, to go with them, fall down, let herself be trampled on, wake up the next day and go find some more.

Chaos is her security.

She lets her life sweep up and away into the sand until she lands in the arms of those who have no choice, and still their arms are no good.

Good things are toxic.

If she can’t have them then no one can.

There’s no helping her, only reruns.

I had to give up.

She finally capsized me.

She dared me to take care of my own life and I took the dare.

Sometimes I’m jealous of younger people their soft hearts their giving hearts their open hearts their kindness.

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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 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.

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Thank you for reading the second volume of Brushfire’s 75th 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, 75 more editions of Brushfire await. We couldn’t be more excited.

—The Spring 2023 Brushfire Staff

“Flowing Fire” Jason Mennel

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SPRING 2023 BRUSHFIRE STAFF The Publication Currently Employs 5 Part-Time Student Workers. Meet the Small Dream Team Below!

Editor In Chief Phoebe Coogle

Hello Brushfire readers! My name is Phoebe Coogle, and I’m an English Literature major, Economics minor here at UNR. Fiction and creative writing are my predominant passions, so I’m extremely excited to serve as Brushfire’s EIC. When I’m not ranting about niche English topics, I enjoy cooking, animation, and, of course, being generally nerdy.

Literary Editor

Abigail MacDiarmid Hello! I’m Abigail MacDiarmid, the Literary Editor at Brushfire. I am an English Literature major and Mathematics minor at the University of Nevada, Reno. My favorite genres are speculative fiction, magical realism, and gothic fiction, but I am open to any and all types of writing.

One thing I love about this position is discovering new perspectives and writing styles. I hope that this journal will inspire all those who submit to not be afraid to experiment because sometimes the weirder, the better.

Visual Arts Director Danian Arguello

Hey everyone! I’m Danian Arguello, the Visual Arts Director at Brushfire. I’m a Fine Arts major and minoring in Entrepreneurship. I absolutely love art, so drawing and creating take up a lot of my time. Besides art, I love listening to music, hanging out with friends, watching anime, and chilling with my dog named Appa.

PR Manager

Sequoya Casey Hey there! I’m Sequoya Casey, the PR Manager at Brushfire. I’m majoring in Political Science and Philosophy with a minor in Spanish. Aside from my love for politics and philosophy, I’m very passionate about the arts— particularly music and literature. When I’m not out and about (as I do love a good adventure!), I’m usually immersing myself in a good book. I also enjoy cooking, horseback riding, and hanging out with friends!

Audiobook Producer Israel Cruz

Greetings everyone! I’m Israel Cruz, Audiobook Producer for Brushfire. I am studying Applied Mathematics while minoring in Music Industry and Japanese. I love sound and anything to do with it and its transformation. When not racking my brain on maths I can barely understand or making some new cacophony I will probably be playing games with friends or trying some new series with my family.

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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

A POETRY BOOK ARRIVES, UNBIDDEN It looks at me. Wants my blood. On the table, disrupting the smooth wood.

A poem can change your life— I could read Baudelaire instead.

I could go to bed.

A moonlit millimeter from the recycle pile I open the book. Dare it to open me.

My sharp nose hawks the leaden sculpture which is the book’s cover.

Two thumbs rip through 52 poems’ letter confetti fiending for words to blaze this mind’s crackling nest.

For the promise of fire, oh I seethe, show me, show me, show me— until I bleed.

—Carla Carlson

unrbrushfire.org