From my rooftop, looking east, the moon is rising with a pitbull’s chalk-white moonface, huge and staring through the vinelike steel cables of the bridge, reflecting light so bright it’s like looking into the sun.
Each full moon bears its own totem name: Wolf Moon, Snow Moon, Flower Moon, Worm Moon. This is Mountain Phlox Moon, the color of plum.
If I could fly up with the red-tailed hawks and soar above the city I could see all twenty bridges and the train tracks, a spaghetti nest, connecting the rest of the world to me; or I might fly higher still, to the apogee, for a moon’s-eye view of me looking up at me.
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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.
E ditor ’ s N ot E
Remember the change you can make through art–the worlds you can build, the doors you can open. Every story and image has the power to become a landscape for others to explore. And as they explore, people often find parts of themselves they thought were lost–even parts they never knew were there.
Through these worlds within this magazine, you can reconnect with different pieces of yourself. You might rediscover something or uncover something entirely new–something you’ve been looking for.
So step into the stories and spaces. Enjoy the worlds that were imagined and brought to life by these authors and artists–worlds we’ve carefully gathered for you. Let yourself fall into them. Allow yourself to observe and develop not only a deeper understanding of these works, but also a deeper understanding of yourself. And after that, take the time with what you found to imagine entirely new worlds of your very own. Ones you can share with others, helping them in ways you couldn’t even imagine.
— Paige Krueger Executive Editor
t abl E of C o N t EN ts
visual
Skylar Jory
Mikayla Fershin
Eva Elliott
Lindy Giusta
Carolyn McSorley
Rita Foster
Skylar Jory
Lindy Giusta
William Crawford
Scott Carnahan
William Crawford
Caesar Ababneh
Alfredo Plascencia
Christina Miranda
Mikayla Fershin
Keilani Swift
Skylar Jory
Christine Wilson
Keilani Swift
William Crawford
Scott Carnahan
Eva Elliott
Mikayla Fershin
Susan Pollet
Kelsey Overstreet
Keilani Swift
Lindy Giusta
Claire Blackham
Hypnosis
Lucero
Regurgitate (cereal)
Melancholy Madness
Untitled What Reveals
Vanquished
Raw Listeners
Untitled
Curious Sun
Untitled It’s 3 AM, where are your thoughts?
Jeff Big Bend
Florence Bones
Hunter
City Living
Digital Skull Art
Untitled
Mystic Coast
Laid Bare
los insectos de la noche
Emotive Renderings
Untitled
Cat Napping
Sassy and Proud
Feast
t able of c ontents
poetry
Diane Webster
Don Farrell
JM Huck
Maria Diaz
William Lento
Blake Kilgore
Jan Wiezorek
Chris Lee
Jan Wiezorek
Matthew J. Spireng
Shauna Gammons Lotte Mitchell
Robert Sumner
Rebecca Gilchrist
Danyl Doyle
Rachel Remick
Ai Ana Richmond
Glove Lies
walking our dogs
Brown Bones on Red Bones
Ghastly
All Best
The Diplomat
What’s Faced
Summer Shut In I Want You to Know
Trigger Thumb
A Dead Breed
I wrote this poem at the beach, but the world is still ending The Symphony of My Soul and The Moon
Summer (Wilting)
From My Rooftop, Looking East, the Moon
Patrol Vehicle Baptism
It’s Only Hair
I Killed My Landlord 6212 Churchill Rd // Quwʼutsun Land
Glove Lies
Diane Webster
Looking like an upside-down turtle the glove lies palm up on the sidewalk; a puff of air as its hand and fingers still curled in resting position. It jumped like a paratrooper from someone’s coat pocket, now lies stunned on the cement runway.
I want to poke it with a stick to see if it’s alive, to see if a giant spider creeps out finding the glove can’t accommodate its eight legs unless it folds into a fist.
I change my straight path to widen my distance away from the glove. Did it move? As if sensing my presence? Did a finger twitch? Did the thumb stretch?
I lengthen my stride and listen for running leather fingers scritching against cement. It’s coming! It’s sprinting for my ankle! Soon fingers will squeeze around my leg, and I will fall; the glove will crawl up my body and grip my neck in blackout strength.
My arms and legs flail back and forth as I wrestle with the glove as my hand fits inside mixing DNA with the owner before I can’t gasp any longer, and my last sight is the glove with cockroach speed scuttling under the evergreen bushes and drumming its fingers over pine needle bed awaiting another pedestrian.
Lucero Mikayla Fershin
walking our dogs
Don Farrell
what amount of sky is there in emptiness. is it the sum of deer tracks in the snow. i found an agate in the gravel, i could feel you found the same one when you were here. do you remember how you could almost see into its center, even though that’s not possible. you know how genny doesn’t want to be petted when she’s free to run in the woods. is that why you tossed the agate, didn’t keep it for the windowsill above the sink...left it to the sun on the side of the road instead of the sun in our kitchen.
there is some melting, very slow, not enough for skunks and racoons to unfurl from sleep and slip out into the night, just enough for yesterday’s tracks to sag. somewhat like yesterday’s perfume or cigarette smoke and beer spilt on the bar. do you remember those days. is that where you are now or are you on a branch leaning over the river, waiting for cracks in the ice. we know your spirit is a kingfisher. still, if you want to come home you’ll have to walk. maybe we’ll just have to meditate on the sound snow makes when you squeeze it into a ball, hold that in our wet mittens for a while.
Eva Elliott
Melancholy Madness
Lindy Giusta
Patrol Vehicle
Robert Sumner
Dressed in mini-camouflage outfits and carrying plastic toy guns, the boys leaped back and forth using trees as cover. They shouted gunfire noises. Steve threw a pine cone at Albion.
“That was a hand grenade,” Steve shouted as he poked his head out to look. “Yer dead.”
“Aw, man.” Albion lied down to play dead.
Michael pointed his toy Uzi at Steve. “Eh - eh - eh! I got you.”
“No, you didn’t.”
“Yes, I did. I shot you when you leaned out to look.”
“Bullshit. You shot him.”
Albion got up and stepped out from behind the tree. “I’m nowhere near you.”
Mike stepped out from behind his tree. “I was looking at you through the gun sights. It was you.”
“Shut up, you idiots,” Steve said and pointed his toy M-16 at Mike. “Eh - eh - eh. Eh - eh- eh. There, now yer both dead.
“That’s not fair,” Albion said. “We were on a time out.”
“No one called time out. I win.” Steve turned and walked away. Mike followed. Albion hesitated, then followed.
A turtle rested in a creek bed they crossed. The boys stood around it and stared until it retracted its head and legs and they lost interest. They climbed up the muddy side. Flora presented constant imaginary enemies which they decapitated with swings of their toy guns.
They reached the crest of a low ridge and stopped. A brown car with yellow Sheriff’s Department markings was parked on a back road below. The boys dropped to the ground and reconnoitered from behind a patch of bushes. A man wearing a beige uniform, probably about fifty but it was hard to tell- definitely a bit older than any of their dads- sat sideways in the driver’s seat. Mike could see him giving a stern lecture to a prisoner, a man who looked about twenty years younger and scruffy like the dirty hippies Mike’s dad had warned him about. The prisoner sat in the back seat with his arms held behind him, apparently handcuffed. Mike could not hear the angry words but he could see the sheriff’s lips move beneath a mustache that reminded him of the weird tufts of hair he saw on naked
ladies in a batch of magazines he found in a grocery bag the older boy next door had hidden in a small patch of trees behind his house. A few weeks earlier Mike had observed Craig sneak out his back door and lay the bag on the ground, cover it with some of the crispy golden leaves that littered the ground every autumn, look around to make sure no one had seen him (Mike was hiding behind his dad’s shed due to an ongoing toy gun battle), and hurried back inside. Mike was intensely curious to see what was in the bag but knew better than to intrude with Craig inside, having been caught a few months earlier trying to steal the garter snake Craig had trapped in a white bucket by the cellar door. A half hour later, Craig rode away on his bicycle and Mike ran around the house to retrieve the treasure. The garter snake would’ve been more fun but much harder to hide in his room.
“Whadda you think he got arrested for?” Albion whispered.
“Maybe he’s a terrorist,” Mike whispered back.
“Don’t be stupid,” Steve said. “If he were a terrorist, there’d be a whole army of special forces around.”
The sheriff’s hand gestures became more emphatic. His head bobbed as he appeared to scream at his prisoner while jabbing his finger in the man’s hairy face.
“He’s interrogating him,” Albion said.
“Oh, really? I thought they were having a friendly chat,” Steve said with the sarcasm he had recently perfected.
The sheriff opened his door, got out, shut it. From the trunk he produced a black semi-auto pistol sealed in a plastic Ziploc bag. He closed the trunk and set the pistol on top. The prisoner frantically shook his head “no”. The sheriff opened the back door on the side away from the three boys and reached in. The prisoner slid back and kicked his feet frantically. The sheriff swatted the feet down, grabbed onto both of the prisoner’s calves and yanked him out and onto the ground.
“Ya think he’s gonna let him go?” Albion asked.
The sheriff flipped the prisoner over and dragged him a few paces by the handcuffs that bound his wrists.
“Oh, God, no, please don’t!” The prisoner screamed.
“Maybe he’s gonna search him for weapons,” Mike said. “Or for drugs.” He didn’t see why teenagers think guys like that are so cool.
“He would’ve done that already, shithead,” Steve said.
The sheriff grabbed the prisoner’s elbows and lifted him up onto his
knees. A quart of vomit gushed out of the prisoner’s quivering mouth. Mike thought of his family’s trip to Niagara Falls the previous summer. They had ridden on a ferry boat into the round bowl where the river falls over the cliff. He had asked his dad if any of those boats ever crash into the water. His dad said, Yeah, I think one crashed a few years ago. His mother grimaced and said, Bob, don’t tell him that. His dad laughed. Mike wasn’t sure what was funny about that but the idea excited him. He was terrified by the massive wall of water crashing into the boulders below, and desperately hoped their boat didn’t lose control and drift into the lethal curtain. Still, it would’ve been pretty awesome to see another boat get crushed.
The sheriff stood rigidly over the prisoner. His right middle finger tapped on his holstered chrome revolver.
“I swear to God it wasn’t me,” the prisoner shrieked between staccato sobs. “Cody is the one who ratted.”
The sheriff slid his meaty hands into a pair of gloves. He stepped back to the patrol vehicle, removed the pistol from the bag and looked at it for a moment.
“Is it Dawndee?” the prisoner asked. “Is that what yer pissed about? If I’d known you was fuckin ’er I would never’ve...”
The deputy held the gun to the prisoner’s head. The prisoner heaved out one last sob, the best one yet. “Oh Jesus please save me Jesus I’m a good person...”
A shot to the back of the head. Blood and skull fragments exploded out like the time Steve shot a sparrow with his dad’s pellet gun, but worse. Albion had been feeding the bird bits of bread, luring it closer for Steve without even knowing it. Albion had been so angry he almost started crying but probably knew that would’ve been one more thing for the other boys to taunt him over. Mike wouldn’t have shot it, but he didn’t really care about a little sparrow enough to get angry over it. It wasn’t dangerous and cool like a hawk.
“Holy shit,” Mike gasped.
The sheriff tossed the pistol onto the ground next to the body and took the gloves off. The boys ducked when he turned around to scan the area. He took off the handcuffs, put them in the plastic bag, and zipped it shut. He got back behind the wheel of his patrol vehicle, started the engine, and backed away.
It reminded Mike of when the Wolverines executed a Russian prisoner they had captured during an ambush high in the Rockies. He
didn’t blame Jed for not wanting to shoot Darryl even though Darryl had led the Russians to them with the homing device they had made him swallow, but he understood why Robert stepped up and fired his AK into Darryl’s chest. Steve always insisted that Rambo was the better movie, but Mike’s dad laughed when he watched it with him one Saturday afternoon. Wow, this guy must be bullet proof, his dad said. He’s using a bow and arrow? There’s a reason we stopped using those a long time ago. His dad said the movie was cheesy, although the female indigenous agent was pretty hot. When they watched Red Dawn together he told him- although the battle scenes were fairly realistic- not to worry about a Russian invasion of America, that it was extremely unlikely. Mike had felt reassured, but resented that reassurance. He wanted the Russians to invade. He wanted to join the Wolverines and fight from a secret mountain camp and not have to go to school anymore.
The boys got up off the ground and, after a few hesitant steps, descended the slope at an eager run. They slowed at the spot where the patrol vehicle had been parked and approached the prisoner’s corpse as if fearing he might suddenly spring back to life and attack.
“He must’ve been a really bad guy,” Mike said in his regular voice, no longer whispering, his mission no longer covert in the absence of the executioner. He picked up a stick and poked at the exit wound. “Maybe he was a communist.” He imagined the hippie colluding with Russian invaders to betray his friends. The sheriff must have smoked out that traitor. He could see Albion doing that to him and Steve. Albion was a lousy tattletale- he told on him when he cut in line, told on him when he dumped too much fish food in Ms. Coleman’s fish tank she kept in their classroom, told on him when he accidentally shot Albion in the arm with his BB gun. It had only made a little purple patch on his skin but Albion cried like a sissy. Mike had even offered to let him shoot him back but Albion preferred to cry to his mommy. She told Mike’s mom who took his BB gun away. His dad never would have taken it away. His dad told him people who try to take our guns away are communists.
Steve reached into the dead man’s pocket and pulled out his wallet. He read the driver’s license, then put it back in the sleeve. In the fold, he found a twenty dollar bill. “Oh, wow, I can’t believe that cop missed this.” He showed the bill to Mike and Albion, stuffed it into his pocket, and tossed the wallet on the ground.
“You have to share that,” Mike said. The last time Steve got a twenty
dollar bill off a hippie lying by the side of the road, he bought nachos, slurpees, candy bars, and several plays on an arcade game for them. Mike’s mouth watered at the prospect of another free visit to 7-Eleven.
“Bullshit.”
“You have to.”
“Why?”
“Because we’re here, too.”
“So?”
“So we should split it evenly.”
“What are you, a commie?”
“Shouldn’t we call the police?” Albion asked.
“The police were just here,” Steve said. “What’re they gonna do, come back and kill him a second time?”
“Well then, should we call an ambulance?”
“He’s already dead, dummy.”
Albion picked up the discarded pistol and turned it over in his hand, admiring both sides. “Lemme see it,” Mike said and held his hand out. Albion handed him the pistol.
Steve jabbed a chunk of brain on the ground with the end of the stick and picked it up.
“Gnarly.” He flicked the chunk at Albion. A slime trail marked Albion’s chest as the brain rolled down his shirt. “Gross!”
Mike ran several yards back toward the woods, spun, and pretended to shoot them with the pistol. “I’m Rambo this time. You two are the Vietnamese.”
“Fuck that.” Steve ran after him and raised his toy gun. “I’m one of the Russian special forces.
“Spetsnaz.”
“Yeah, Spetsnaz.”
“It’s not fair.” Albion slowly followed. “I never get to be Rambo.”
Mike smirked. Albion would never get to be Rambo.
Carolyn McSorley
Untitled
Brown Bones on Red Bones
JM Huck
I will die in a flash flood somewhere in the Southwest though not here in the Mojave where I live now perhaps in the Sonoran swept up and snagged by a saw-toothed Saguaro
perhaps clawed and clutched by south-curving Compass Barrels in the Chihuahuan
perhaps in the Four Corners floating days-on-end until finally fetched by a family of Fish Hooks
I hope my body makes it to the Rio Grande in the gang ly grip of a Queen of the Night bronze skin quilted in orchid-like blossoms
What Reveals
Rita Foster
Baptism
Rebecca Gilchrist
God cried when he died. The downpour of rain against thin window glass outshined the sobs of a now fatherless boy. His body shook with each suffering as he heaved over his secondhand bedsheets. Clasped prayer hands stayed solid in faith. In this moment of woe, the promise of a Plan did not soothe a single tear. Practiced prayers were now curses of deterrence. The signing at the end wasn’t even worth the effort. If he could, he’d spit in the face of his Creator to sign off his hateful letter. It didn’t matter if He was eternal; no Father could replace the previous.
Withered wood floorboards nagged at the boy’s bony knees, and the teasing tapping outside reminded him that there was no escape. He could run away and scream, slam a door if he wanted, but supper would make him face his Father daily. There was no room to hide away in, no privacy. There was still a funeral to be held, and it would be at His house. The suffocating embrace of this loving figure while burying another made him choke more on stifled sobs. A new sound entered the hallway, making all further thoughts halt.
“Son.” The ache in her voice made her sound foreign. The soft creak outside the hall and the narrow light separating his door from the doorframe let him know exactly where his mother was. “I have to go to the hospital. Please, watch your brother.” Her tender plea moved the boy to his feet. If she had asked him to move a mountain, he would have.
“Of course.”
It had only been a few hours since that telephone rang, and since then, the entire house had been plunged into silence. The only unifying presence was the storm that pounded against each windowsill. His father had not been home for months. His side of the bed had already regained its firmness as if it knew it would no longer serve a purpose. The vastness of hearing his father’s voice or footsteps loomed large. Yet, for some reason, the boy now longed for the way that quiet felt before. There was an unspoken hope for change. At the top of the staircase, the boy stared down the steps
and the framed view of the front door. The day he would walk off monitor cords and hospital dressings and stroll through that archway was such a bright fantasy that it unknowingly burned. All he could do was clench a fist around the banister and quietly tread down, keeping his eyesight away from that shattered dream. The fireplace was the only sanctuary of warmth in the cold, dead air that hung in the house. The crackling of the blaze fought off the banging sound of misfortune outside.
Theo’s age was less than a handful. Toy cars and building blocks were the only concern for someone like him. For some reason, there was jealousy in the boy’s heart seeing his brother exist in bliss. Too young to understand the impact of this loss and old enough to hold on to faint memories of his father’s existence. The boy had more time with his father, but was that truly a blessing when it only brought pain? Sitting down near his sibling, the boy joined in his play like it would help distract himself. Tiny wheels got stuck on the rug, and wooden cubes lay chaotically on the uneven ground. Theo didn’t notice his guardian until his legs crossed and the wool under his hands shifted. A round cherub face looked up at a sullen face with tear stains. The boy couldn’t suffer alone.
“Father died.”
“Is he coming home?”
“No.”
“Where is he going?”
As if He heard, the insufferable tapping insisted. There was a hesitation in his belief and breath at the same moment. Where would he go? A land of milk and honey was fictional. But to defy Him would mean denying His home. Clenching the piece of carpentry in his hand, he didn’t know what lie or truth to share. Silence was the only answer he could provide. Theo didn’t budge; he wasn’t the type of child to always ask “Why?” and that made things easier. He opened his arms and took the younger into his embrace. The boy rested his wet cheek on the warm hair of his brother and sat in that answer. Everything was unknown, and nothing mattered. For now, he closed his eyes and gave up his thoughts in that familiar habit.
Ghastly
Maria Diaz
Who am I if not a ghost. Memories of lives before me hidden in the wrinkles of my face. An imprint so vivid I can’t escape them. But I’ve been made to accept I’ll never be them. Unshackle me from this turmoil.
Disillusionment, my sweetest compliment. Was I made to cast a shadow but never shine? If I was anything but a phantom, Would you see me?
The plethora of stars in the sky, A beautiful sight no one can resist. A glow worthy of admiration. Could I ever be one of them?
Naiveness so acute it’s a talent only a few can bare.
And I’ve wondered, if I ceased to exist Will my rotting flesh be hidden with beautiful flowers? The thought gnaws at my weakened soul. Even in absolute death, I’ll only be a shadow to them. Delirium plagues me, Surrounded by beauty in death, will you see me?
Consume the flesh off my bones. Strip me of everything. Love me in my rawest form. And then, you’ll see a ghost.
Raw Listeners
Lindy Giusta
It’s Only Hair
Danyl Doyle
Stormy called Devyn, “Since you came to our church, Mom said you can visit our house when she or Dove is here.”
“Cool.”
Stormy warned, “Mom’s off at times. I hope she’s okay when you come down. If she isn’t, I’ll come outside and wave at you not to come in - I never know.”
“To see you, I can handle anything. I’ll ask Dad if I can come right now.”
Stormy greeted him at the open door. “She’s good, come on in.”
“Should I take off my cowboy boots?”
Stormy felt jittery, one hand-picked at her eyebrows and she bit her lower lip. “No, we don’t worry about shoes; Mom does hair – just come in.”
He clomped into their living room as Mrs. Knutson walked out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on a towel. It smelled like baked brownies.
“Hello, Mrs. Knutson. My name is Devyn; I’m pleased to meet you.” He stood at attention.
She had a perfect 1950’s chin-length hairstyle, fluffy and heavily sprayed - not a hair moved. It was light brown, somewhere between Dove’s blonde and Alayna’s red locks. A toothpaste smile plastered her face like a commercial for the Molly Mormon Bakery. “Hello, Devyn. I’ve heard a lot about you,” her eyelids narrowed.
“Thank you, ma’am, I’ve heard a lot about you, too.”
“I hope it was good.”
“Yes Ma’am, it was.”
“Well, aren’t you a nice young man?” She ran her hands over Devyn’s head, touching his locks. “You’d be handsome if you got a haircut.”
His face went pink.
Stormy rolled her eyes. “Mom!”
“Now Stormy, you know I’m a professional hairstylist, and with a proper haircut, he’d be a good-looking missionary.”
Devyn brushed Beatle-length hair from his eyes. “Guess I haven’t seen a barber in awhile.”
Stormy said, “Mom, I like his long hair. It’s the style.”
“Why don’t I do it for you? I cut both men’s and women’s. Come, I insist.” She took him by the arm, leading him to a small room where her shop chair sat.
“Mother please, don’t cut his hair, I like it the way it is, it’s cool and in style.” She pushed up her glasses as she followed her mother.
“Have a seat young man, I’ll fix you up, no charge since you are my daughter’s friend. I know she likes you.”
He gave Stormy a frightened grin but sat in the chair. “I like Stormy too. She’s funny and bright.”
Stormy stood near the door watching as Mom proceeded to put on her hairstylist apron and covered Devyn with a sheet. She bit her lower lip as Mom snipped away.
Mrs. Knutson stopped cutting with scissors. “I think I need the clippers.” Switching tools, she buzzed his head, asking questions. “Are you related to the McDowells who run the fuel delivery company?”
“Yeah, he’s our cousin. We have lots of relatives in the valley.”
“Mother please...” Stormy couldn’t keep from picking at her eyebrows. She twisted around, rocking up and down on her toes.
“What do your parents do?”
“My dad’s a farmer, we have 135 acres of apples and some peaches near Eckert.”
“How about your mother, does she work outside of the home?”
“She’s the secretary at Cedaredge Elementary.”
“That’s nice. Do you have brothers and sisters?” Blonde locks fell.
“An older sister. She recently married.”
“Where do they live?”
“Mother please, stop with all the personal questions.” She pulled off her glasses, cleaned them, and jammed them back on.
“Out on 25 Mesa.” Devyn popped the knuckles on one hand.
“I’m making conversation while I cut his hair, getting to know Devyn.” It was a hair blizzard.
“Do you go to church with your parents?”
“Sometimes, my mom teaches Sunday School.”
“Only sometimes? Where?”
“The Eckert Presbyterian Church.” He popped the knuckles on his other hand.
“What do you believe?” Huge locks fell.
“I’m a follower of Jesus.”
Stormy stomped one foot, glaring at her mother, and pinched her lips together.
Looking at her, Devyn chuckled.
“So you’re a Christian.” The toothpaste smile on her face.
“I’d rather say that I try to live my life the way that Jesus taught– he wanted us to love one another and have the compassion to remove suffering.”
“Mom, don’t give him the third degree. You just met him.” Stormy swung her long straight hair in a wave, wishing she could rope her mother in.
“I’m trying to get to know your Devyn, he’s a polite young man. I see why you like him.”
She cut the power to the shaver. “Are you interested in learning how Christian teachings were lost and had to be restored?” Her smile never changed. “I have angels who teach me the truth.”
Mortified Mom brought up her angels, Stormy said, “Mother don’t go there. Devyn is entitled to his own beliefs.”
He shrugged. “I’m interested in history and philosophy. I read a lot.”
“Very good, I’d like to tell you about our church and what the angels tell me.”
Stormy’s face felt hot with embarrassment. “Mother, this isn’t the time, you just met him.” Involuntarily, her fingers picked at her eyebrows. She pushed her heavy glasses up and rubbed her nose with two fingers.
Tipping up his chin and winking, Devyn waved Stormy off. “Sure, I’m interested in learning.”
She went back to snipping as she told him about the Mormon Church and how Joseph Smith received the golden tablets from the angel. “I have angels that also talk to me.”
“Mother, don’t cut off all of his hair! That isn’t the style. You’re making him look like a nerd.”
His eyes widened. Hair flew. Devyn took a deep breath. “It’s okay Stormy, my dad will be happy, especially ‘cause it’s free.” Long blond chunks of hair dropped in his lap. He clenched his jaws.
“How do you plan to support your wife?”
“MOTHER STOP IT!” Stormy balled up her fists with her arms straight down. She could smack Mom. She caught Devyn’s eyes.
He grinned and nodded. “In whatever way, my wife would feel satisfied with her life. That’s my dream, to make her happy. I’m going to college
next year. I’m working on getting an academic and athletic scholarship to C.S.U. in Fort Collins or maybe Mesa College in Grand Junction.”
With a wide smile, Mrs. Knutson leaned to look directly into Devyn’s face. “That’s admirable. Stormy wants to be a doctor, but she should be a nurse.” She listened to a voice. “What do you plan to be?”
Devyn said quietly, “A good man, a good provider, and a friend to my wife.” He looked at Stormy.
Snipping and clipping, she said, “Do you have a career in mind?”
“Not for sure. Maybe something in science or the social sciences. I’ve thought about the law, but I enjoy being outdoors. I’m also a musician and like to write fiction. I’m interested in so many things that I’m not sure about a specific career.”
Mom held the point of the scissors at his chin. “The angels want to know – will you keep your hands to yourself around my daughter until you’re married?”
“MOTHER! Don’t put scissors in his face!” She turned to Devyn. “She is so inappropriate at times.”
Devyn glanced at the point of the scissors and her mom’s oddly blank eyes. “Yes, ma’am I am honorable to her now and will be after we’re married.”
Stormy smiled because he said it like he had decided they would get married.
“You’ll need to get baptized and go on a mission to marry Stormy in the Temple.” She talked about the church, the true church, the only true church as she snipped and smiled. At last, she said, “There you go, dear, all done. Now you look clean like a good missionary.” She expertly pulled off the sheet and dumped his blonde hair in the trash.
“MOM! You cut it all off. He hasn’t got any hair left. Now he looks stupid!”
Devyn winced. He stood to look in a mirror. His face turned bright red. In less than twenty minutes, her mom made him look like a marine. His ears stood out like a bat. They’d get sunburned. He headed out the shop door. Turning around, he forced a smile and put his hand out. “Thank you, Mrs. Knutson. It’s nice meeting you. My dad will appreciate the haircut.” He strode across the front room, his cowboy boots clomping loudly, and the back of his neck flushed pink.
“You’re leaving?” Stormy followed him.
Mrs. Knutson came after them, carrying the scissors. “Oh, you’re to
stay, I made brownies for you kids, and I haven’t told you about everything about the Mormon Church.”
He took a deep breath. “I don’t want to be rude but my dad told me one hour and it’s twenty minutes back home. Time for me to skedaddle.”
Mrs. Knutson rushed to the kitchen for the plate of brownies.
Stormy walked out to the car with him. She grabbed his hand, bouncing up and down, pleading, “Please Devyn, I’m so sorry, I didn’t know she was going to do this. I know she’s weird, please, stay and have a brownie. It’s important.”
He stopped with the car door open, his voice even and his body stiff. “Don’t worry, I’ll get over this – it’s only hair.” He waved her away. “I’ve learned that everyone is better off if I get cooled down or I’ll say something mean.”
She felt her eyebrows crunch down tightly as she fought the horrible emotions rushing from her chest. Hot tears ran down her cheeks. “I’m so sorry I invited you down. I didn’t mean to say you look stupid. I meant my mom was being stupid. She has a mental problem. I’m so embarrassed by her. Please, I’m so sorry, please forgive me.”
Her mother stood at the open door holding a dish of fresh brownies, her eyes narrowing.
Devyn got in the car and rolled down the window. After taking a deep breath, he said, “I’ll always forgive you, no matter what. Tell your mother I appreciate the haircut and my dad will be extremely pleased.”
Stormy crumbled, her eyebrows turning into black caterpillars that crawled across her wrinkled forehead, “Oh, I’m so ashamed of my life.” Huge tears sprang from her eyes, splattering her glasses like rain on a windshield.
“Stormy, I... I... Your Mom did what she thought was best. Maybe I can come back another time. Everything’s cool.” He peeled out.
Reluctantly, Stormy walked back to the house, staring at the ground. Mom was livid. “He left! He didn’t eat my brownies. The angels will punish him for this!”
Stormy ran to her room.
Mom followed her. “I’m sick of you throwing a fit every time something happens. Keep it up and I’ll cancel your birth certificate.”
At least she didn’t pull her hair like usual. Stormy couldn’t help crying.
All Best
William Lento
Hello again,
It’s nice to talk to you, to know you’re there, to know that one day you can hear my words, drifting along the gentle breeze of the passing years, and feel their lightness. You don’t have to feel how heavy they are, because right now they belong to me; I hope to give them to you.
I want you to know that you are everything I’ve ever wanted and hoped to be. Does she know about us? Is she still there? I told her the other day about how I wanted so to meet you, to see what you’ve accomplished. Of course, there’s no way for me to know, I can only hope,
I hope that you see blue. The blue of the endless skies across the globe and of the seas you’ll cross.
I hope that the four winds blow your hair (assuming you still have hair) about, sending all those small fibers--endless pieces of you--to the corners of this bouncing ball.
I hope that this cloud passes and that each day you see life as a gift, that those things that stop you and bring you fear have crept away, far away.
I hope you will love. I know you have so much to give, I have felt it myself. Felt almost that you have too much to know what to do with. Does she know of it? I know you’ve given her so much, but surely you can spare a bit more? Let her know. Let it be.
I hope that it’s bright where you are, and that the sun gives you life, and that the sunsets are plentiful and abounding. I hope that you remember what it was like, or do I?
To fear the sun and the sky and stay in the dark of the cloud when you can see the light on the far hills unmoving and mocking.
If you’re there, you deserve so much...the battles fought to get there still bleed me endlessly.
I know it’s impossible but do write back. I’d be glad to hear from you, to know you’re there.
To know you made it.
To know we made it.
All best, Us.
Untitled William Crawford
The Diplomat Blake
Kilgore
A small delicate hand remains watchful along the borderland for crossings, to meet blue wanderings with grace, firmness, subtle redirection.
Once there was brisk trade between these two, intercourse of some magnitude, profitable to both, for joy and comfort, and the fruit of their labors were exquisite new ones, bright-eyed beacons of hope, refreshers of others and also these strangers. Occasionally, yearning compels searching sad fingers destined for capture, extradition back to cold, alone. Always with a soft haunting on skin, pressed palm, then- stoic retreat.
It’s 3 AM, where are your thoughts?
Caesar Ababneh
What’s Faced Jan Wiezorek
I look at you, facing memory on a pedestal. These backyard interiors are somehow freer than American anthems. Falling from a slide, breaking an arm. Celebrating no more braces.
Times we ate mother’s lemon meringue. I wonder if you are paging back or raging back to the stories within? Who hasn’t hidden someone behind their eyes, tucked within lips those we ignored or betrayed. It’s happening now: a starlight realignment, with a full moon. Our faces are facing wrongs and righting all of us—from the inside —and then out to you and yours, mine and ours. That’s how I remember it.
How can we sit here blank, unseeing? All the ancient sculptures are handing us their eyes.
Summer Shut In
Chris Lee
Everyday it spoke but these days with machismo, Unprovoked nor empathetic
Of the many few
It kept up late to influence its peers, Or those it hatched prematurely.
Its chatter bred conversations, It brought swarms of footsteps, That marched
And flattened blades of grass
Which shattered like a forgotten battlefield.
I have half a mind to brandish my skin
Risk what harm may come to it
Watch the benevolent run by And remind the sun
That it, too, is mortal, as is all.
Though, trapped in the sea of sweat
An unwilling participant in their persuasion
Fortified ears
Nor shielded eyes can bless you the absences Of its ensnaring incantations.
Its vicarious laughter can be heard, Its telepathic jeering can be heard, Its blistering caress can be heard, Its grandiose reincarnation can be heard, As many know, it doesn’t need a mouth to speak.
It can talk, but it can heave It can walk through goosed skin
It can shake, it can command
Through your senses it bellows
And, to my dismay, push as well.
Jeff Alfredo Plascencia
Big Bend
Christina Miranda
When it takes center stage
It centers the world around it
Marching ants and rolling steel
All moving with intention
A passion unbeknownst to me.
So I do wonder what drives them
How they move with purpose,
With intent even with the whispers abundant, With the sun at their side
Will that fire ever ignite me?
I Want You to Know
Jan Wiezorek
I want you to know how loneliness feels. I want you to know how poverty feels—but the word is filled with frills—sitting on a step on a stoop on a dusty hillside outside your block of cement—your loud rooster telling you Sunday morning is a unit of stairs—a climb with plastic bags of potatoes and water. Winter is dry, even the canopy is gnarled by lack of facial movement —your tense shoulders, sitting in shade—how this world turns shade upon you. This cement bridge, a simple, curved-arch walkway, aligns a path from stairs to you— I could take it, but you would find it missing—seven syllables that tell us nearly everything that is lost inside us—loneliness and poverty—follow those stairs to the Virgin’s stars that light syllables with prayer.
Bones
Keilani Swift
Trigger Thumb
Matthew J. Spireng
One afternoon I awoke from a nap to find a snap whenever I bent my thumb, a click inaudible but felt through my being as if I were pulling back the hammer of an old gun as quietly as I could until it clicked into place and I was ready to pull the trigger and fire a round—at beast? At man? I don’t know which, just ready to fire, and for days, then weeks and months my thumb has snapped like that—trigger thumb it’s called, or trigger finger if another finger acts that way, an impingement of the tendon the cause. But why suddenly, no injury to bring it on, just a tetanus shot in that shoulder, a rabies shot in the other, gamma globulin around the tiny bat bite marks on my lower leg?
A doctor said the shots weren’t the cause, just coincidence, though I don’t know if that’s the truth, or maybe the bat bites touched off an immune response that caused the swelling of the tendon so each time I bend my left thumb it snaps into place and out—or just another change as I age, a target for whatever gun was cocked when I was born.
A Dead Breed
Shauna Gammons
I dream about men - of writing about them I mean. Trapping them between lines and drowning them in raven hued ink. I think, evermore, about caging them with punctuation- handcuffing them to ellipses, to let them dangle from commas. Leave them penned in wafer-thin papery hell - The latest edition of unglued characters to be processed and bleached, then edited and revised until they are a finished shade, desirable for printing.
Like Darcy and Heathcliff, I’ll write them to dress sharp and break hearts, (the right way). I’ll make gentlemen out of Pips, teach them of war, and Rhett, and petticoats. Split Jeckles from Hydes, spread warnings about Vronsky’s on the wings of paper airplanes - their red flags surrendering, already gone with the wind.
I’ll teach them a lesson, “Behave or be put back into coffee stained pages; sketched into fairy tales where you belong.” Shit, even Zhivago can be taught to write poetry. I’ll force them to stay true - I’ll force them to be brave - To be kind. To wink. To smirk and tip their hats. “If you won’t behave,” I say, “I’ll put you with the others - With the Knightelys and Willoughbys; Dashing and handsome, splendid but dwindling.”
Digital Skull Art
Keilani Swift
I Killed My Landlord
Rachel Remick
It started with my pug’s poop being left on the landing outside my back door and ended with Mr. Shattenstein dead on his living room floor, a Harry Potter book splayed face down beside the body. It was one of his pre-teen piano students who found him this way. By this time I was long gone, having relocated to Las Vegas six months ago. I learned about Shattenstein’s passing from my former neighbor Brent. I quickly slapped a horrified hand over my mouth after letting out a cry of both nervous relief and jubilation upon hearing the news. The man had terrorized me and I couldn’t deny my feelings of justification that there was one less evil person in the world.
As unflattering a light it may shed on me to admit it, if concentrated thoughts were all it took to send someone to a place of nonexistence, Mr. Shattenstein would have been on the express train to an altered state within the first year he leased the house attached to his to me and my friend Layla. I have no idea how we even lived there as long as we did—a little over two years—the easiest explanation lying somewhere between desperation and the self-imposed inertia a woman experiences after life has beaten her down one too many times. The decomposing rowhome at 1037 Jenkins Place was the perfect Petrie dish in which to grow viral strains of failure and hopelessness.
If the rundown condition of the house wasn’t blaringly obvious the day Layla and I took up residence, the appearance of its owner—while not what I would necessarily consider charming—wasn’t something I would have been quick to label as sinister, either (even though I did point out to Layla at our initial meeting that he looked like a cross between Ira Einhorn and Santa Claus). As we reviewed the rental application he directed our
attention to the section concerning the building’s upkeep. He informed us that as he also owned and resided in the property next door, he uniformly decorated both houses for all major holidays, thus prohibiting us from enhancing or altering such displays in any way. We also would not have access to the two-car garage, as he used it for storage. While the decorating thing seemed a little control freakish and a tad obsessive-compulsive, and the inability to use to the garage inconvenient, neither stipulation seemed unreasonable enough to deter us from renting. Considering Layla and I had to be out of our current residence in less than three weeks and the only other space available for immediate rental was an attic apartment with half-closets suitable for hanging a doll’s wardrobe (our tour of the property saw us ducking through the rooms murmuring “Malkovich, Malkovich”), we returned to Shattenstein that night and signed the lease agreement. Within our first full week of habitation, our tenant/landlord relationship had already begun to show signs of deterioration.
The poop incident occurred just three days after moving in. Lord Sciante mainly conducted his business on the back lawn and I was doing my best to pick it up right after it was dumped, but in the sweltering August heat his excrement had the consistency of taffy against the brittle, brown overgrown dead blades of grass, tall enough to conceal the casts of the entire Children of the Corn movie franchise. I decided to leave it there overnight, wait for it to harden and pick it up the next day. It was a good plan until Sciante crapped again just before bedtime, now leaving two piles for me to collect in the morning.
When I let myself out the back door around noon the following day to clean the yard, I discovered Mr. Shattenstein had already done it for me. He kindly left the clumps of my pug’s feces on the back stairs, right in front of my door, where I promptly stepped on it and slid down the concrete steps, skinning the backs of my legs. When I confronted him about the immature way he’d handled the situation, he threatened to evict me. I
reminded him I had a lease that precluded him from doing that, as I had paid a non-refundable pet deposit of two hundred dollars, and the yard was listed nowhere within the documents as part of the rental property, nor was the removal of excrement. I could fertilize the entire yard with dog shit and there wasn’t an actionable thing he could do about it.
With time I would eventually come to understand his fixation with the backyard, and witness his bizarre practices of tending to it. On several occasions I spotted him through the kitchen window “maintaining” his rotting vegetable garden. Sporting a makeshift headband constructed from folded paper towels and secured with stapled rubber bands that he wrapped around his ears, he’d kneel on his bloated and blotchy knees, adding dirt, sprinkling the brown and wilted leaves with a watering can, plucking dead tomatoes and squishy, skinny cucumbers from their plants and replanting them in the dry, dusty earth.
Rancid vegetables weren’t the only backyard treasures. Mr. Shattenstein’s pets of choice were cats, and when they died, he buried them out there too.
Another of his oddities was the block of cheese he hung from a tree branch that swung wildly in the wind and rain, resembling the quintessential light bulb that dangled from the ceiling in mafia-movie interrogation rooms. Random birds would come and peck at it, some of them so ferocious that both Layla and I temporarily stopped parking in the driveway, opting instead to leave our cars on the street outside the front of the house. In response, Mr. Shattenstein applied for a handicapped parking space, ultimately preventing the two of us from ever parking in front of the house again.
Although he made both Layla and I uncomfortable and we tried to keep our interaction with him to a minimum, he seemed determined to strike up a personal relationship with us. We found greeting cards in our mailbox on every religious holiday, he made us soup and baked goods,
which we only half-heartedly suspected he was somehow poisoning. At the very least the ingredients were more than likely well past their expiration; any food he insisted we take was tossed in the garbage or down the sink the moment we brought it into the house, all the while joking to each other that the old man was probably wondering why we weren’t dead yet or at least gravely ill.
Several times when I came home from work I’d find him at our front door, hanging up decorations or fiddling with what he explained was a busted light bulb or loose address number. To an outsider his actions may have earned him the lesser status of a nuisance, his behavior labeled intrusive at its worst, but I considered his constant presence not so much neighborly as it was threatening, both his actions and intentions borderline harassment. Our porches were separated only by a railing that did nothing to act as boundary between the two properties. Mr. Shattenstein believed both homes were his to enter and walk about at whim, regardless of time of day or respect for privacy. Sometimes when he would see me outside, he’d talk about things that had been topics of discussion between Layla and me while we were alone in the house. I was starting to feel like he was spying on me. We’d changed the locks when we moved in; I knew he wasn’t gaining access. But I could find no logical explanation for what I had to constantly convince myself were coincidental occurrences.
Layla and I wanted to move out after the first year, but finances were tight and prevented us from immediate action. Over the course of the next eighteen months, we mapped out a plan for relocating to Las Vegas, saving up enough money to finance the move. Part of that plan relied on the eight hundred dollar security deposit we feared Shattenstein would never return. Although the contract we’d signed clearly stated we were not permitted to use any portion of it to cover the last month’s rent, we constructed a letter informing of him of our intention to vacate the premises in ninety days, which was several days shy of the expiration of the lease. We included a
check to cover two months’ rent, stating we intended the security to be used for the remaining twenty-nine days, explaining we were moving out of state and would appreciate it if we could handle things this way. A week later, before we were even in violation of our lease, Shattenstein served us with court documents citing non-payment of rent.
In the days leading up to the trial, in a bizarre twist of fate that afforded me ample cause to file a countersuit, the crack in the roof of my bedroom that I’d been requesting Mr. Shattenstein repair for the past four months fell victim to six consecutive days of heavy downpour; the roof cracked in four more places, sending torrents of rain into the room that saturated my furniture. Although there was no dry place to now move my bed during a thunderstorm, I could stand sleeping on the couch for a few weeks if it meant that bastard wouldn’t get a judgment against me.
He didn’t. Although at first the judge was sympathetic to Mr. Shattenstein’s claim that we’d violated the lease by stating we were not going to pay the last month’s rent, his mind was quickly changed when he saw the photographs and videos I’d taken of the ceiling and my drenched furniture and bed linens. Clearly appalled, he declared our cases a wash.
Having not been vindicated by the courts, Shattenstein continued with his petty and bullying behavior, even amping it up. One morning he parked in the driveway behind Layla’s car, penning her in. No longer comfortable with approaching him ourselves, Layla called the police to resolve the matter. After several minutes Shattenstein opened his door wearing nothing but a towel tied around his waist, explaining he’d been in the shower and hadn’t heard the doorbell or their repeated knocking. He also defiantly told them he’d move his vehicle when he was good and ready. The police informed him if it wasn’t moved in fifteen minutes, Layla was within her rights to have it towed. He moved it in exactly fifteen minutes.
We moved out the last week in December, surprisingly without
incident. Shattenstein sat on his porch, wearing a heavy nylon-stuffed, faux fur lined coat, his neck and head wrapped in a scarf, sipping hot chocolate as he watched the movers loading our belongings into their truck. When it was time to turn over the keys, Layla climbed the steps of his residence for the final time. He wished her well, requesting that she pass the same message on to me. I didn’t even cast him a second glance as I climbed into my car, loaded with the personal possessions I wanted to travel across the country with, turned the key in the ignition and drove away.
Six months later I received an email from a former neighbor with whom I’d kept in touch informing me of Mr. Shattenstein’s death. It happened shortly after we moved, a heart attack in his living room.
I wasn’t sure how to feel after receiving the news. My instant reaction was one of relief. Joy, almost, if I were to go by the laughter that bubbled from deep within, unbidden. I felt guilty. More than that, I felt somehow indirectly responsible for his passing. Had I somehow mistreated his property? Had I cheated him financially? Had I misconstrued a lonely old man’s kind overtures as unsolicited intrusion? Would it have killed me to take one bite of the cake he baked me for my first birthday living next door? I’ll never know.
What I eventually concluded was that what ultimately made Mr. Shattenstein thrive was tormenting the two young women who, for a brief moment in his life’s denouement, were attached to him. For the two years that Layla and I resided next to him, he had something to occupy his time, something that gave him purpose. It was his lifeline. And when we left, we took it with us.
Untitled
William Crawford
I wrote this poem at the beach, but the world is still ending
Lotte Mitchell Reford
Smoking cigarette after cigarette on the beach at night, I want to go home. I want to go to some glimmering cold place that sits over the horizon, where the sun is setting stubbornly like it does evening after evening at almost exactly the same time. On the shore, just above the creep of the waves, the morning glories, purple here, open and close and open as if each day might be different. I want to go home, where my winter jumpers are packed away, and my friends and lovers are packed away or more accurately, refuse to be, rude in their continued change. In the last of the light, there are three men with a marlin. Its long pin-sharp nose is dragging in the sand, its back fin unfurled like a sail as though if it were just alive maybe it could take me where I want to go. Its long, pin-sharp nose is dragging in the sand, drawing a line, drawing a path somewhere, a road that takes the easiest route– curling around obstacles– weaving its way to an ending. Its long pin-sharp nose is drawing the contour lines of a mountain that doesn’t exist. Is drawing a new border: here and there. If only it were just alive. The three men are laughing loudly. I stub my final cigarette out in the sand, and for a second there are little orange stars. I think they match the sunset, but I look up and it is finally gone. On the beach, there is applause for its disappearance– as if this shit doesn’t happen every fucking day– the sun, taking the easiest route down through the empty sky and past the edge of the horizon to light the other side of the world, which really, is just like this side. There are, for instance, morning glories everywhere. Over 1,000 species, waiting for the sun to come and pry them open.
Mystic Coast
Scott Carnahan
The Symphony of My Soul and The Moon
Keilani Swift
the stars hum with a frequency that i feel deep in the hollows of my bones. it takes my organs and places them inside each other with a feeling that follows me and sleeps when i sleep. i can feel my veins retreating from their places like a tree growing in reverse. i wonder if this is the sound that was mistaken for a choir of angels. i follow it like a sailor to a siren and i do not know where to step. i place my footing in the holes of my father’s and his father’s before him. my feet only fill half and that’s okay. my legs quiver; if i miss the step will i sink into the earth? will this soil hold me or will it plant me in this spot and call it my grave?
my soul is tied to the moon by a silver ribbon. i am pulled with the tide; i know how to swim but i am small and the waves refuse to cradle me. i beg the moon to pull me up but the ribbon only stretches. must i wade in the water and wait for the next wave? wait, or rather, i must climb the ribbon and inhabit the moon instead.
i hum with the frequency of a thousand strings. the orchestra of my soul takes up all of the air in my lungs. with each breath i grasp the ribbon and i exhale a symphony. my strong lungs only last this one time but i know i will thank them in the end. i pledge to use them as much as i can even though i do not want to let them go. however, the power to stop that is not mine. maybe it is the moon’s, or the stars that hum with me. i don’t know, i only know that my footing is held here, in the crater of this orbiting rock. i do not trace the ghost of my ancestors, but here my feet fill all of the hole. and that is more than okay.
Laid Bare
Eva Elliott
Mikayla Fershin
Emotive Renderings
Susan Pollet
6212 Churchill Rd // Quwʼutsun Land
Ai Ana Richmond
The family has been on this land for six generations now, coming to this damp, dreary island from a different one across the Atlantic. My grandmothers, aunties, second cousins have all told me stories about these ancestors, the resilience that runs bone-deep in this family. I see it. I breathe it.
The plot is two acres, five minutes from the bay where I spent my childhood diving off the dock and spotting otters in the lazy summer evenings full of halflight and sleepy promises. The house would sell for a fortune, now: split level, lake view, six bedrooms, whatever the real estate agents say in their neon plastic. It’s nothing grand, though: far more important are the rabbit-warrens of forts that my cousins have built, following the brambled deer paths my father and my aunties had carved out decades before.
My great-grandmother served on the city council in the 80s, making sure to pass an ordinance protecting the water. As such, we can’t subdivide the property because of the little stream running through it. I thank her for this often. There’s something magic about this home, the grassy field with the old donkey pen we used to perform plays on as children. The cherry tree yawns wide. The swing I pushed my littlest cousin on is now used by the next generation of children.
My cousin was born in the room downstairs. My greatgrandmother passed into the next world in the bedroom I slept in for a year. My grandparents were married under the apple trees out front. I think of the thousands of meals cooked on the worn blue linoleum, the cords of wood split and shoved into the fireplace’s maw, the cups of tea watching the sunrise on the deck, the prayers whispered and imbued into the very bones of this house.
The field holds a tent or two come summer: there are so many
of us, in a tumble of long limbs and red hair and vivacious joy, that we often sleep under the stars. The moonlight presses gentle kisses to our foreheads, caressing our salt-pressed, sundried hair along the rocky ocean shores. The days trickle by in a tangle of morning prayers, tea and flats of sweet berries, trips to the river and the ocean and back again, with someone’s child on my hip and the press of love caught in the summer light slipping through the towering cedar.
I know this land. I tend to it, steward it as best I know how. Noticing its beauty is a different sort of prayer than what’s found inside these settler churches carved of damp stone. I practice the Hul’qumi’num words: the scrape of the mountains, the tart sweetness of salaal, the nourishment of salmon glinting silver-quick in the streams come fall. I am lost in the vastness of it, a comforting stillness as I am wrapped up in the green-grey hills and the salt-sprinkled night sky. My ancestors are close, here on this island not too different from our ancestral home. I make them proud in my resilience. I make them proud in my gentleness.
Cat Napping
Keilani Swift
Summer (Wilting)
James Croal Jackson
The wind I seek may not exist. That’s why I sit in Friendship Park on a cool summer day. Three days this week without a drink. I don’t know who to watch for. I do. Anyone. Because when I was with you I was lonely. Now? A leaf. All these petals float by in circles. I land in a surprise of birds and they want nothing to do with me.
Thank you for reading the second volume of Brushfire’s 77th 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 the University of Nevada, Reno’s literature and arts. We’ve brought the Brushfire to you for 77 years and the fire continues blazing thanks to passionate readers like you.
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