Brushing 2018 by Brushing Literary Journal

id entity. brushing. art and literary journal 2017-2018

brushing art and literary journal 2017-2018

contents Table of Contents

Editors’ Note

Designer’s Note

I. who i was My Childhood Began in the Trees KIANNA DIEU-

DONNE Thoughts on Sounds EDWIN DAVIS

This, Too, Shall Pass MICHAEL DULMAN

The Condition of the Zombie CATHARINE

LINDER Autumn Wind ALEX LITCHNER

Grass Shrimp GENE MOORE, ESQ.

Space KATHERINE ANDREWS

My Window BARBARA HUGHS

The Greatest Lesson SHELBY PHILLIPS

Memories ALISON WILSON

Never Dreamed MARIAN HERNANDEZ

II. who i am Meat and Other Words for Kill EDWIN DAVIS

(such sanguineus anatomies) LUC LASMAN

The Titan J. DIEGO MEDRANO

43 3

Apollo and Daphne EDWIN DAVIS

I Was You and You Were Me, But I Didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t Know

Very Much About That. All I Knew Was This. RACHEL GOLDENBERG Light as Well as Heat; Or, How Writing From the

Perspective of Frankenstein is a Good Metaphor for My Homosexuality LUC LASMAN Tango CARLA HOSKINS

Spritz KINSLEY GERKS

The Dream MICHAEL DULMAN

(Distance) KENDALL CLARKE

Beneath the Bridge BET TAUSCHER

Limericks ASHLEY CHICO

A Walk in the Shadow of the Woods LEAH DEL-

ISLE

When They Go, SHUMAITA KABIR

III. who i will be

Embers J. DIEGO MEDRANO

Generators Speak KATHY KITE

Heaven for Leo STEPHANIE MACIAS

Women ASHLEY CHICO

Beauty ASHLEY CHICO

I Still Have Time to Learn to Sing Like Neil Young

GENE MOORE, ESQ.

The Riddle of the Sphynx KENDALL CLARKE

Tip Jar ALEX CANDAGE

/Yúyīn/ CAITLIN CHERNIAK

Portrait KATHY KITE

Desire Paths LEA WARREN

Everywhere. ELIZABETH TREPANIER

IV. credits

100

Images Untitled JODY ROUN

Oculus Videre JODY ROUN

Aix 2017 CASON JENKINS

Transference of Souls RICHARD REEP

Materia JODY ROUN

7E RICHARD REEP

Untitled SARAH HAMEER

CYMERA_20171219_105436 ITALIA-RICO

HURTADO The Nutcracker Suite in Pastel NOELLE WURST

Untitled MAISIE HANEY

Beatbox Emergency MAISIE HANEY

Big Cats KARINA BARBESINO

editors’ note As an annual journal, each issue of Brushing has the chance to capture the climate of the Rollins community for that year, immortalizing it in print. During our first meeting as co-editors of the journal, we realized that with our issue, we wanted to hone in on Brushing’s unique ability to document the community climate and explore what Rollins has been feeling this historic and uncertain year. When we sent out the call for submissions, we did not have a theme for the issue. We wanted to take an unfiltered snapshot of Rollins, and the submissions that we received—well over a hundred of them—formed a theme of their own. The pieces in the journal each offer a deep, introspective look into the self, despite the current obsession with external conflict and spectacle. This year, we are extremely pleased to present our issue of Brushing, based around the theme of identity. From the personal perspective of two graduating seniors, we are often faced with the questions of who have we been? Who are we? Who will we become? The answers are often hard to articulate, which is why we hope the following pieces, beautifully designed and organized in these major sections, can help guide the reader, as well as ourselves, to answering these difficult questions. Inspired by this year’s pieces, we hope to face the coming year with the audacity to challenge ourselves, overcome obstacles, try something new, and look at things from a different perspective. This year, we invite the reader to do the same. It has been a pleasure putting together this issue and working with our exceptionally talented team: our designer, writers, artists, editors, readers, and advisors. We hope you enjoy reading our issue of Brushing as much as we enjoyed creating it. Sincerely, Sianna Boschetti & Tyler Vaughan Co-Editors-in-Chief 6

designer’s note The design for the 2017-2018 issue of Brushing came, conceptually, from a number of different places. First and foremost, the content of the pieces themselves drove the design decisions, and each element was included with the intention of emphasizing the works themselves. With a concept as broad as “identity,” however, a clear direction was necessary. Given the primarily serious themes of this issue’s pieces, I wanted design elements that enhanced rather than distracted from the literature. I took inspiration from poetry publications, like Rupi Kaur’s Milk and Honey and The Sun and Her Flowers, as well as the clean but detailed designs of old anatomy textbooks. Finding a balance between detail and simplicity was difficult, especially for an illustrator accustomed to semi-realism and cartoons, like myself. To mediate my style, many of the graphics were done using a single line. With each drawing, I tried to get to the crux of the subject, only including what was absolutely necessary to convey the meaning of the piece. On a more technical level, the design of the book was, again, inspired by traditional poetry books. The font used is Baskerville, a simultaneously classic and modern typeface that is more visually interesting than the commonly-used Times New Roman, but is still recognizable and easy to read. The decision to divide the work into chapters was my own, and it was done with the hope of adding organization to the publication, and maybe to emphasize the meanings of certain pieces. Ultimately, each piece speaks for itself, and my designs exist mainly to decrease the amount of blank space in the final book. It is my hope that the reader can enjoy text and image, both separately, and as singular work of art. Sincerely, Anna Wenzel Head of Design

I. who i was

My Childhood Began in the Trees She ducks underneath the barbed wire fence, careful not to touch it because she knew the horse fences were live in the evening. She would sometimes hold a stick to it just to feel the little ants of electricity crawl up and down her arm. But, for now, she heads off into the fields, over the sticks and stubs of old, cut hay. In the expiring afternoon, the swaying trees of a late autumn day lured her away from the warmth of the blazing wood stove and into the chilling afternoon. She walks down the hill with her bare feet, past the rusted, red bailers nested in patches of overgrown weeds. The sky was deepening from lavender to navy as shadows cascaded down into the tree line. A flock of black wings drifted over the treetops and blocked out the sky for a moment. Her wide, glassy eyes darted back and forth, taking in bits at a time, piecing together the scenery before her. One blackbird perched lonelilly in the branches of a walnut tree, looking down on the small girl, her skin the color of nutmeg pinewood. As the frosted breeze whipped, the creaking of bending trees grinded and snapped like frail bones. The rush of the pulsating wind flooded her ears and she closed her eyes tight, not wanting to see the dark shadows dancing in the branches around her. Goose bumps rose on the girlâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s skin and she wrapped her thin arms tightly around herself. Her childhood began in the trees. The sudden awakening, arising from the dark swaddle of infantile amnesia, dropped her into the world, a second birth in an autumn wood. A lone black bird cawed madly from above, flashing his red-painted flags. I wondered where the winds came from. An unsettling, exciting rush filled my chest like a balloon, shoving at my ribs and crowding my lungs. 10

The forest floor stretched its rolling mounds of giving earth

beneath the brush, carpeted with sunset stained leaves. Chipmunks spiraled up the trunk of a tree, dexterous and swift. Alighted with the buzz of the vibrant blush of fall, the canopies of fiery leaves shuttered the evening sun. I looked through the branches the blackened evening sky airbrushed with clouds the color of Koi fish. Yippy strained hollers of a single coyote drifted over the foothills of the Adirondack Mountains and sank into the valley where it rattled my bones; sent a shiver up my spin. Fear gripped the back of my neck and held me very still. Beneath the steadfast trees that seeded, grew and fell, I marveled at the ephemeral light in my heart, the elevated moment of my little consciousness. Standing on the rich and selfless soils that tended to my family for generations, I felt comforted in my loneliness there among the woods that were my guardians. The fear fired all my nerves at once and my jaw quivered in the cold, but I set myself firmly in protest. by Kianna Dieudonne

Thoughts on Sounds Thoughts on: sounds - look underneath ‘favorites’ find the way my father calls “love you too” down the stairs when he goes to bed. He gets nervous too. I cried when we talked about it in the backyard in Cleveland, the day after we had just won a fourteen-inning game to go up two games on the Yankees (we didn’t win the series though) (“We sure are lucky we went to the game we did,” he’d say weeks later) sitting on the other twin bed and reading, asking me to read, something lighter for once, he didn’t feel right leaving me on my own so he stayed. The next day we hugged in the airport as his plane was boarding. I told him I’d call him later. Over the phone we talk about his mother. (“Memories can be beautiful if you let it stay a merciful space”) Yes, I say, and maybe now can be too. by Edwin Davis 12

This, Too, Shall Pass You considered it your duty, ruling whether I was doing: good, clean, godly work—though truth (in confidence) you barely knew me. Your words did drain my energy; I had no rest, no room to breathe; and, plunging deeper than I knew, I spiraled through the black lagoon. When I complained, you closed your ear. Before your throne, I flushed with fear, and waited for that day (Yes, then!) when I would break the watershed. I’d toil it over in my head, the ways I might expel your mess left floating, soaking, in my soul, so foul, so cold, so ovular. Lo I, your words, could not digest. (They caused me pains below the chest.) Ignore them? Yes, I did my best— yet still, they caused me but distress. These words, I hope, relieve my woes. I wrote them, that, I may be bold, and make you know what I long knew: that yours were always number two. by Michael Dulman

The Condition of the Zombie When I think of zombies, it is always in slow motion. They are supposed to be dead, so they have no energy to store or burn, making them rely on the minuscule incentive of flesh to push through their lifeless machinations. In that sense, zombies are inspiring. They find a purpose to move even when there is no substance within them. Yet with every step a zombie takes, it stays grounded to the earth, an eternal burden to bear, creating a weighted fashion about their movement. Even though we see the slight limp with every step that emulates a bounce of energy and defiance, it is the restriction and boundaries that make the essence of a zombie and their nature compelling. With a constant fight to keep moving, even though the weight of the earth is pulling them down, the moments when we see the zombie surmount over the worlds demands and restrictions surprise us. Imagine a body that can barely move with many physical limitations, catching up to a human and defeating them: it is a heroic story of the underdog. When the zombie is right at the neck of its prey, it finds the energy from somewhere, maybe the prey itself, to attack and feast. This can be seen with the arms of a zombie before an attack. When zombies are limping along, the arms usually swing in a lifeless fashion, mere attachments to the body with no substance. The arms are ultimately dead without any tension or energy; however, when a zombie nears its victim, the arms play a vital role to its success, usually consuming or strangling the prey. This burst of energy and movement in the last seconds give the zombie hope of freeing themselves of the rock constantly on their shoulder. This rock serves as enslavement to an unidentified source that ties them to the earth, yet when the opportunity to fight against this weight arises, they claim it regaining the independence to rest peacefully. In addition to the weighted feel of a zombie, another glimpse of hope that becomes deranged and shatters is the idea of 14

the limp. To me, the opposite of a limp is a bounce. They are functionally the same act, but the difference is that a bounce is the sensation of pushing away from the earth to detach, while a limp is considered a fall that grounds a person down. Zombies may perceive this shift of weight as a bounce, as a shimmer of hope in achieving their goals, where a human would view it as a limp because zombies are lifeless and should not have goals. The perception of purpose for a zombie influences how we recreate and describe their movements. What if we believed zombies bounced in every step, and instead of dragging themselves, they tugged themselves forward? Dragging makes the intentions of a movement more reluctant while tugging involves a sense of dignity and willful intent. Since we see zombies and humans as opposite when comparing living and not living, we create this judgement on their movement that includes descriptions to disassociate them with anything to do with energy and livelihood. However, I believe that any movement coming from a zombie has more energy than any a human could muster, for it defies this lifelessness and inactivity and it becomes action instead. With this opposition of movement, a transfer in energy can resort to a newfound sense of liberty for zombies. Freedom can form in the potential energy a zombie finally exerts before and during an attack. Opposing the vitality of a living human, flesh does not provide energy to zombies. In fact, it returns them to lifelessness. This transition from combat-mode action to a lackluster laborer is the most disappointing factor to the cycle of zombie-hood. It is only here that zombies experience the freedom to defy their fate without becoming trapped into the rhythm of their existence. Even after being shot in the head, there is a pause between stumbling and final collapse, signaling the end of the eternal cycle of searching for life that would not come. It is a story like Sisyphus: pushing a boulder up the mountain only to begin again. This moment of stillness before the zombie densely falls into its peaceful, permanent death serves as an instant of ambiguity. Is this the end of the zombie? Did it actually manage to change its destiny simply by doing the same thing over again? Is persistence the key? 15

When the zombie falls, defeated in an attack, it is like they have finally won, for they get to rest in peace at last. As much as a zombieâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s movement is appreciated and empowering, the stillness of a zombie mesmerizes with ambiguity and catharsis. Whether or not the zombie rests in peace or is doomed to a level in hell, it has finally surmounted the endless struggle. by Catharine Linder

Autumn Wind She howls, she moans, she groans She brushes against me I feel her power on my skin Her strength causes my pulse to race She causes me not to see straight And when she comes to an end She leaves me like a leaf. by Alex Litchner

Grass Shrimp Having lunch, in a restaurant, located on the water in a large public park over-looking busy docks; boat ramps, as very expensive looking fishing boats; trucks with expensive looking trailers attached, backing up and down the ramps, as fishermen come and go off the lake. In the distance, a fluttering beyond the boat ramps; appearing, almost as an afterthought, an old man, standing on the sidewalk, his back to the water, rapidly scaling and gutting fishscaling one-side, then flipping the fish over to rapidly scale the other, then gutting the fishall on top of a municipal wall that separates the park from the lake. A wall upon which also supported an upright, worn bicycle 18

and countless fishing poles. I am distracted from observing the old man, by braggadocious laughter, coming from a nearby table of lunching fishermen, whom were carrying on about their expensive boats, fancy lures, football, golf, the market. The smell of raw fish preceded the old man appearing at the counter in the restaurant, next to me, where he asked for a bag of ice, for which he could pay in two daysâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; time.

A wind-worn, old black face, crowned with the whitest of hair, the old fisherman wore a worn ball cap, worn khaki work clothes, and worn tennis shoes. I commented on his good fortune, asked what he used for bait. Grass shrimp was his reply. I further inquired, where one could purchase grass shrimp? The old fisherman looked at me oddly, then smiled, Donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t know, was his reply. I netted them up this morning. The old fisherman left the restaurant, passing the lunching braggarts, none of whom seemed to notice him. However, as best I could tell, the smell of raw fish quit the building with the old fishermanâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s quiet departure. by Gene Moore, Esq.

Space Spatial awareness isn’t something people really think about or even notice, until another person steps dangerously close to or directly into that spatial bubble. The appreciation for space can dawn almost instantaneously for some people, but for me it is a constant, unending battle for control. I need the socially acceptable number of inches surrounding my body to be maintained at all times. For me, this also involves being extremely uneasy with physical touch by others; I do not wish to be touched by anyone at any time without my explicit consent. Living in a society where touch is part of the day to day, I remain the outlier. I do not think touch itself is detrimental, but being touched by family, friends and strangers alike—again without verbal consent—makes me feel vulnerable and unable to maintain my own space. I honestly detest being touched, and though it is natural to me, its abnormality makes life burdensome. People tend to use touch to get attention, and signal emotion. Many uses of physical touch are positive and designed to create stronger connections. These moments of physical contact may not be negative in nature, but to me the world spins out of control. This extremely unpleasant sensation isn’t within my command. My mind becomes overwhelmed with a chorus of voices screaming their dissent about another’s touch, and all I can think about is breaking the connection to the other person. During this time, I am hyper focused on the physical connection, and my brain shuts down all other functions while hesitantly awaiting the person’s receding hand. I must explain that this sensation happens every single time I am touched, regardless of the welcomed contact of a friend I have had for years or a stranger. Though disconcerting I live through these experiences every day, so they have become almost normalized. To combat how guilty I feel when someone I love touches me and 21

all I can think of is getting away as fast as possible, I’ve spent a lot of time trying to suppress the squeemy feelings. Trying to at least appear normal is something I continually strive for but seldom obtain. I am cognizant enough to understand that I should seek out my own version of happiness, rather than attempt to control the uncontrollable sensations I succumb to when I am touched. I continually tell people that my behavior isn’t something personal they should take offense with; I care deeply for them, but my sensory issues tend to take precedence. It took significant time to create a viable coping mechanism to be able to handle being in close-quarters with other humans, putting up a mental wall and mimicking what other people do when they greet and spend time with each other. Inside I feel robotic and out of sorts, but on the outside, I think I have created a passable facsimile of what a “normal” human is supposed to look like. I’m not saying it is perfect, or even that it is easily maintained, but it does make being in a crowd—where anyone at any time can brush up against or bump into me—somewhat less than terrible. I can at least deal with it during that moment and freak out later, when I am alone and safe. In seeking out coping techniques I’ve noticed that other people handle space differently; some take up a lot of space while others use a minute amount. Some individuals consume space in great heaping gulps through personalities that spread out and stretch thin to fill every nook and cranny. These people suck all the air out of the room, speak too loudly, saturating the air with incessant chatter. Even if they do not physically touch me, their use of space and noise can mentally press into my personal bubble, creating a troublesome, inescapable solidness that saps both my energy and my enjoyment of being around them. The people that pull themselves into little compact balls and take up very little space tend to be quiet and aloof. Their personalities are restrained, and their words whispered in direct opposition to the raucous and overbearing band of people who feel justified in 22

taking up more than the socially acceptable amount of space. At time, these compressed people can pass through the world unseen, disregarded, and neglected. In my observations, these people sometimes don’t feel solid to me, almost as if they are shades of humans rather than solid corporeal bodies, thin and wavering in an amorphous manner. I think I fall somewhere in the middle of the spectrum; I don’t want to be loud and boisterous or quiet and calm, instead using both sides where applicable. In addition, wondering why people take up different amounts of space has been plaguing me for a long time, forcing me to reflect on and become aware of how much or little space I myself take up. Understanding the why of the matter is just as important as good-naturedly teaching others how to respect my boundaries. My mimicry of “normal” humans has never been the same thing as being a normal human, but it does help maintain a sense of sameness with others.

In this quest for normalcy, I have succeeded at taking up plenty of space attempting to appear strong and powerful and have hidden in the proverbial shadows to avoid confrontation and touch. This internal conflict stems from a personally challenging past. When I was a child I wasn’t allowed to take up any space. I was told that nice girls stay small, quiet, and out of sight. I was told I wasn’t worth looking at or talking to, because I was an unwanted waste of space. I honestly believed I was worthless and that space could be wasted. I never thought to question the people who told me these terrible lies nor did I think to question the concepts they were espousing. It has taken decades to start the process of coming to terms with what happened in my childhood and I can truthfully say that I have been able to successfully confront those concepts and being the process of moving forward. The feeling of not being allowed to have or take up space, as well as the belief that I was undeserving of personal space, needed to be acknowledged before I could honestly assess how I was going to cope. Initially, to overcome my corrupt beliefs I discovered manipulative ways to envelop entire rooms with my personality, dominating spaces with my deafening voice and obnoxious tone. Angry about being denied space, I demanded to hold on to it, my own personal space by lashing out at others, being vicious and mean anytime someone came too close and going out of my way to avoid social situations. After a while, I couldn’t avoid people anymore; it became too taxing and I struggled through my exhaustion to ward them off. Eventually, I drank heavily to numb myself from my friends, the strangers of the world, and from my own emotions and feelings. This went on for several years, as I tried to drown out the chorus of voices in my head that scorned being touched, the belief in my own worthlessness, and the overwhelming feeling that my boundaries didn’t matter to anyone. It got abysmally dark for a while, and then one day I just stopped. Just like that, I stopped needing to drink, to be numb, and to pretend. I guess I was just done being in that mental space, so I walked away from drinking and its numb24

ness. I slowly started to look at my own spatial awareness with a newfound perspective. Watching others approach the space they were allotted allowed me to model and mimic the healthy spatial behaviors I saw and taught me how to express aloud as kindly as I could that I did not want to be touched and that I could appreciate the other person from a safe distance. I still struggle daily with touch and having to constantly explain to the people who care about me that I mean them no insult when I shy away from physical contact is still hard and sometimes unpleasant. Although, I have come to a neutral place about other peopleâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s feelings concerning my sensory issues. Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve realized that, no matter what, I still need to be true to myself. Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m still working on those feelings of worthlessness, which may never leave me, but will diminish and eventually vanish completely. I may be able to help others who have dealt with similar situations. I do have this belief that going through awful things and surviving makes me (and any survivor, for that matter) stronger and more attuned to help others. I am sure I will never feel like a normal person, but I think that is okay, as my delusions of grandeur do not involve physical touch but instead being my genuine self. by Katherine Andrews

My Window Sometimes this window has bars that keep me in prison Handprints that become icicles and snowflakes Open to feel the cold rainfall I stick my head out to feel the mist on my face I see the boy I loved in the sixth grade We laughed until we cried, his eyes a clear blue Sparkling like an age-old white Bordeaux I see my reflection, peaceful and innocent you with your shotgun and bible…did you know the gun was loaded? See your body, see you blow yourself away to hell Over there is my father moving towards the window His hand raised, waving—I wave back—he is a ghost a shadow Further out among the pines, I see myself growing up fatherless Holding his hand, callused from years of working in the factory heat running barefoot through the wet morning grass The window is foggy; I’m still looking for something

A path outside this window exists not just memories, but an existence. I open the window yearning to return to life, breathe it in like a babyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s first breath by Barbara Hughs

The Greatest Lesson Becoming a member of People to People Student Ambassadors gave me the opportunity to learn about the world through new and powerful experiences. I was given the rare chance to travel beyond the borders of my country, and visit most of Western Europe as a representative for the United States. As such, my job as an ambassador was to build upon the hopes of President and founder Dwight D. Eisenhower for a more peaceful world. To help accomplish his dreams, I met and spoke to local people and learned about their customs, culture, and history. To attain his goal, Eisenhower felt that if people could meet face to face, or people to people, that misunderstandings and prejudices could be overcome by our nationâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s young people. President Eisenhowerâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s determination to ensure that the horrors of World War II were not repeated meant that I and other students should be taught about the mistakes of past generations. Often the most important lessons, such as the Holocaust, are the greatest and, for some, the most difficult to face. As human beings we have a built-in aversion to unsettling information. My greatest lesson about the Holocaust was taught to me at Mauthausen Concentration Camp in Austria. The road twists and turns along a green country side resembling a Monet painting; however, what awaits at the summit is anything but picturesque. Towering above the town concert walls and guard towers stand at silent attention waiting for the return of escaped ghosts. Built from granite harvested at the nearby quarry and mortared together by a mixture of water and local sand, the camp was conceived by the Nazis in 1938 and designed as a work camp to house political opponents. According to the official Mauthausen Memorial website, ninety thousand people had passed through the camp gates by its liberation in 1945 by the 11th U.S. Armored Division. And in 1999, I had the chance to visit the camp. 28

When visiting a concentration camp, each person has his or her own reactions and experiences. For me it began with the sound of the wind as it whipped and whistled between the buildings. It blew my long hair over my shoulder and back as if someone were tugging at me and saying, “Come here. Come this way. Let me show you where I slept, where I worked. This way. This way.” Our guide through the camp explained the history and pointed out many details. One that has stayed with me over the years is an image of the American flag carved into the inside of a barrack door. I always wondered, was it carved by an American interned in the camp, or by an American solider after liberation? The guide didn’t have an answer. She told our group the SS kept German Shepherds, and they would often sic them on prisoners. Then she led us into the barracks. Before entering, I remember stopping, listening, and hearing dogs. I asked some of the others if they too could hear them, but they didn’t. I was the only one who heard them barking. The barracks were small and cramped places with wooden bunk beds. The beds were meant to hold two people, our guide said; however, when the camp was in full operation overcrowding was an issue, forcing six or more people to share. The wooden planks that made up the floor beneath our feet creaked and cracked and popped as we made our way through single-file. On tours, I was often the last in line not because I was unenthusiastic, but because I wanted the opportunity to look at my own pace, unhindered. Mauthausen was no different. We saw the crematories. A set of double red brick ovens. Their insides were still stained black from constant use, so it was strange to find them filled with lit candles and fresh flowers resting on the gurneys. Peaceful offerings, I thought. Summer flowers bursting with pinks and yellows and greenery. Peaceful offerings, I thought again. To this day I’m not sure if the others noticed or not, but the candles were the single source of light. Adjacent to the crematory is the gas chamber. It’s not large; however, the glossy walls were painted a strange mixture of grey/green, a non-color that reflects misshapen figures back to the viewer. The tile floor 29

beneath my feet had long been scrubbed clean. Still, even with its claim to cleanness and safety, I watched as my fellow travelers scampered through eager to find the exit door open, but I couldn’t help pausing in this space. The room had a feeling of emptiness, yet it threatened to suffocate its occupants. This room was no larger than my nursery when I was a baby. When I looked up the shower heads that had released Zyklon B loomed over me. They were small and had also been scrubbed clean, and I wondered in twisted and fearful fascination at the high silver shine on those disks in the ceiling. Exiting the chamber through a secondary door, I stepped out onto a wooden plank floor and entered a viewing room filled with folding chairs facing a projection screen. The film we as a group viewed was optional due to the strong and graphic nature of the material. The footage had been recorded by the Nazis before the US 11th Armored Division liberated the camp in 1945 as well as additional material documented by the division. The kinescopes captured in black and white, the skeletons in striped rags shuffling, crawling, reaching, grasping at our soldiers for help; the grainy quality could not hide the protruding rib cages, gaping mouths, and sunken eye sockets of the living dead. I took a quick look around in the dim light, and I could see many hiding their eyes, crying, sitting on the floor trying to escape the images. The film continued with images of the liberation intersected with interviews from survivors, and there is one I remember vividly. An older woman dressed in a maroon overcoat and a pale white scarf over her hair recalled what happened when she and her family were herded into the camp: “A guard pointed to the smoking chimney and told me you come in through the gate, but you leave through there.” The chimney puffed dark smoke in the background reminding me of a train’s smokestack. I slide my eyes from the screen again to check on the kids around me. No change. A voice caught my attention and I turned to see a woman from the village nearby recounting the night she and her family encountered escapees from the camp: “They had run into our barn, and they were so 30

hungry that they ate the fat and lard right from the barrels.” Bones pushing through skin, ready to burst at a touch. Her family clothed and hid these people from the search party. Shuffling caught my attention. I glanced at one of my two teacher/adult chaperones and watched him adjust his sunglasses in a nervous gesture. I turned back to the screen and the woman in the maroon overcoat was recalling the night she and the rest of the camp were awakened by screams. The guards had gathered several children and were throwing them, live, into the ovens, two at a time. For some reason, I leaned forward and looked over the shoulder of the boy in front of me; I saw that he was shaking. I turned, looking over my right shoulder, and watched my second chaperon gasp and cover her mouth. Her eyes widened in personal terror. Was I the only person prepared for Mauthausen? There was more of the camp to see, yet the group was ready to leave and we exited out a side door that somehow brought us back to the front. While waiting for the bus I spoke to the boy who had sat in front of me, and he was still nervous. He had been so upset he had torn the yellow plastic band off his watch, and didn’t know until that moment. Strange how it took the sunshine to illuminate an act that was lost in the dark. While we waited, the wind was blowing, sending the long green grass swaying and dancing upon its roots. I stood listening to the leaves rustling and watched the limbs bending in the oncoming storm. The scenery was such a beautiful, strange contrast to the camp. The area was bursting with color and movement, yet it was silent. To this day, I can’t recall hearing a single bird. Perhaps in a strange twist the evil sown and reaped has chased away all God’s creatures, leaving remnants of both worlds. Sitting on the curb of the road leading into Mauthausen, from the corner of my eye, there was movement. There, perched on a tall green weed, was a child’s hat. It was for a small child, a baby perhaps. It was blue with white and light green splashes, and 31

it sat on top of the weed, swaying gently. It occurred to me that it was like so many other objects left by the people who had entered this and other camps. It was still waiting for its owner to return. While writing this it hit me, itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s been almost twenty years since my visit. That day has forever stayed with me as a lesson of just how far hatred can take us. I look and listen to the world around me, and realize this is a lesson so few have learned. In a time of rising violence, groups using words and carrying symbols that trouble me, and those who oppose them using words and symbols of their own to harm them, I canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t help but worry that while I may have learned the lesson that hate and prejudice destroy all, my heart breaks at the thought that others have not and may not learn this lesson. Will we be forced to repeat the sins of our grandparents and great-grandparents to understand what they tried to teach us? When do we finally learn our lesson? by Shelby Pillips Further Reading may be found at: The Mauthausen Memorial website

The United States Holocaust Memorial Museum in Washington, D.C.

Memories (An original song) They say, “There’s no day but today!” or “Focus on tomorrow.” Don’t let the past catch up to you, that only brings up sorrow. Reinvention’s the key to relevance, and still… I rewind and retrace but can never replace the memories I leave behind. I forgive and forget but can never reset the memories I leave behind. Seasons change; the world turns ‘round. People and places get lost and found. The clock on the wall chimes, “A new time has come,” and still… I rewind and retrace but can never replace the memories I leave behind. I forgive and forget but can never reset the memories I leave behind. The memories I leave behind. by Alison Wilson

Never Dreamed I have spent a great amount of time thinking about Dreams. No, this is not quite the equivalent to dreaming. To be able to Dream means you can imagine yourself existing outside of any given moment; to Dream means your mind is able to soar beyond the four walls you are currently confined in; to Dream is to be an American citizen because Dreams are simply not for the poor immigrant family. They are not for the Aliens lured to the United States with promises of opportunity and instead given fear as a tablet to be taken every morning. Instead, the mind of the immigrant only processes the fee of being alive in a country determined to claim their sanity in return for citizenship. As for me, my mind stays imprisoned, inevitably chained to the USCIS office, where I truly understand what it means to be a Dreamer, a DACAmented* student forbidden to actually Dream. The walls of the United States Citizenship and Immigration Service (USCIS) office used to be white. I imagine when its doors first opened, the sterility of the small room seemed fitting. Foreigners being examined under fluorescent lights, faces awash in all that white light, feet planted shakily on even whiter tiles. Now, however, the walls are a bleak beige, the lights are disturbingly yellow, and the tiles covered in skid marks are an unruly black. The coloration of the office, the way it bleeds the immigrant colors, is tantalizing; however, reality reminds me that the gloves the workers use are white, the papers I sign are white, and the backdrop upon which I am photographed is white. I notice these variations as I sit waiting, in my white chair, to be called. My mind begins to drift not up and away, but it sinks. I imagine my body melting into the floor, and how little time it would take to clean the stain my body makes. How little life Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve lived for myself. If only I knew when I was younger that my life would not be my own, maybe I would *DACA (Deferred Action for Childhood Arrivals) is a U.S. immigration policy that allows individuals who entered the country as minors without legal permission to remain there. 34

have willingly put myself on a plane back home to Venezuela. How poorly adaptable the American Dream is that it pushes me towards dictatorship rather than democracy. It’s too bad that I was only five when the choice was made, but DACA was supposed to make up for that, was it not? DACA was supposed to mean Dreamer. Instead, this life feels like an itch I can’t quite scratch, an uncomfortable pain. Except if I were to scratch it, my hand would come away bloodied, the branding of “US property,” not fully healed yet. To be a Dreamer is to be indebted. The USCIS workers seem different too. I imagine when the doors first opened, the crew, now so familiar to me as worn out shells, must have been at the very least sympathetic to the harshness of the white room. I imagine they applied for their positions as young adults, wanting in an abstract way to provide comfort to those in an uncomfortable situation. Maybe some were motivated by activism, but after years of being puppets in charge of scanning fingerprints and snapping mugshots, their eyes have become blank. They motion us one by one, mouths uttering broken Spanish phrases regardless of the face they are shouting at. They do not realize that the family in front of them is from the Republic of the Congo, nor do they notice the family behind them is Vietnamese. Instead it is our job to decipher their words, to speak their language. I will never forget the clouded blue eyes, the paper thin blonde hair, the pursed red lips of the woman who asked me in stilted words “Do yo-u sp-eak En-glish?”. As if not speaking English was a crime, or as if not speaking English was equivalent to a disability, a handicap. I nodded my head in compliance, allowing her ignorance to silence me. Her validation is a trigger for elementary school memories of being thrown in and out of ESOL classes. I was told ESOL stood for English as a Second or Foreign Language, yet I remember being handled as hazardous waste, being carefully displaced into an alternate classroom during standardized testing. I did not yet know that checking the “not a U.S or naturalized citizen” box was an indication of inferiority. Instead, I swallowed the pain of my friends hardened stares as I left my regular classroom. I did not let my eyes wander once in the room of misfits. 35

I feared finding confirmation of leprosy in our shared tongue. To be a Dreamer is to be a subordinate, a stepping stool for the citizens. The USCIS office should be a simple place. A small office in which immigrants have their fingerprints scanned, their pictures taken and a receipt given, a small promise that you will be able to maintain your work permit, the key to your livelihood. Instead, that small office is a stage, a prison, and a courtroom. In this small space, I act as I am expected. I act as if I’ve never spoken coherently, never stood up straight, never held my head up. The audience is a harsh critic, and I must impress them. In this small space, I am a prisoner. I am a number on a paper, a body to be moved. I have no name; I have no story. They do not even allow you to smile for your work permit photo. They showcase our misery instead, stripping away our smiles as if they were weapons. In this small space, my life is on trial. Whether I am able to work another day, sustain my family another week is this small office’s main discourse. It is debilitating to live in someone else’s fantasy, to be a minor character in someone else’s movie. The fantasy is that of the American Dream. This Dream proclaims the United States is a land of equal opportunity; however, they do not ask citizens to showcase their life, to plead to be able to work. They ask us immigrants to start at the bottom rung, the one below sea level, and expect us to be happy to wash up on the shore after years of drowning. They ask us to be happy about being DACAmented; they do not understand why Deferred Action is a death sentence. To be a Dreamer is to live in limbo. To have one foot on dry land and the other slipping on the ocean floor. I have spent a great amount of time trying to Dream, trying to fit myself into the grand scheme of American culture. I still find myself entrapped in this moment — both literally and mentally. Every two years, a biometric notice is sent to my family that informs us it is time to renew our work permits, to start the cycle over. My body is physically ensnared in those four walls. My mind is confined to its ethics. I am not allowed to live an uninterrupted life. The American Dream, as defined by an immigrant, is not a Dream at all. It is a bleach stain on tan skin. It is an ultimately 3636

white room, regardless of the dirt-stained handprints smearing its walls. It is years of prejudice â&#x20AC;&#x201D; an irrational fear of living life the wrong way. It is being shaped and molded into someone you do not recognize, a straight faced, pale version of yourself. To be a Dreamer is to be dreamless. by Marian Hernandez

II. who i am

Meat and Other Words For Kill A friend mentions they are contemplating becoming a vegetarian. I see it as a way to become a more peaceful person she says, and that consumption can mean accepting violence into yourself. Meat must be violence. Arrow means kill which means meat but even animals eat other animals. //ARE THERE MANY LITTLE BOYS WHO THINK THEY ARE A MONSTER? BUT IN MY CASE I AM RIGHT SAID GERYON TO THE DOG//THE DOG REGARDED HIM JOYFULLY// Heracles didn’t just kill Geryon he killed the dog too. How long is it all right as long as it’s someone else’s animal how far away does the killing have to be from where I try and sleep at night I am an animal too, and made of meat, but maybe monster can be a choice. My dog (the animal that lives with me) has a name (something I call him) but people and other animals are here with or without my context to exist within. Satchel (my dog) and I share things. That is to say that there is something in him that is also in me: human but not quite, still animal – alive, though, which we know for sure.

I tell my friend she seems happier recently. She smiles. She bites an apple. Being alive is enough.

by Edwin Davis

(such sanguineus anatomies) lingering, you rose up again in my throat with that familiar viscosity of being a thing unloved but there was very little left-over from eons of ejections so with imprecise strokes i liberated anatomies and with precisely hemmed stitches i rend flesh from flesh from bone by Luc Lasman â&#x20AC;&#x192;

The Titan It was all too often the case that, for all his majesty, the Titan bore his great heart upon his stony sleeve, and when the upstart people below allowed it to fall apart, his was a yearning to settle the score. His boot would split from its mountain base, and his mighty footfalls would shake the earth, besetting dread into every soul, bellowing about regretting their transgressions against him, forgetting it was they who carved his face. He would overshadow their guilty forms and elect to give no quarter, the backs of men shattered, the hearts of women torn, their mighty palaces battered and beaten into the ground, and their glory scattered by hands that once swore an oath to protect. It was so that the Titanâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s fury was first double and then none, sated by token strikes upon the precious, the people spoken of alive, unharmed, yet broken, and he stood proud; the Titan amongst the rubble. by J. Diego Medrano

Apollo and Daphne A voice I haven’t heard before traversing the pillow’s length between our faces We’re no good at knowing who to run from although I’m not sure who says we have to be she loves me, she loves me not slowly running out petals we turn ourselves into flowers because the only danger they face is picking by Edwin Davis

I Was You and You Were Me, But I Didn’t Know Very Much About That. All I Knew Was This. I remember seeing you a few times. Once in the library, behind a stack of textbooks, once sitting at this café near our school; you were staring out the window. I heard people talk about you sometimes, too. They’d say different things, like they did with everyone. I never really paid attention if I’m being honest. Another time... oh yeah, I remember this time, I ran into you in the hallway; like a full on face-down-scrolling-on-my-phoneslam right into you, and we made this split-second eye contact. That was pretty much it though. How was I ever going to understand? ••• An unfamiliar sound startled me awake that morning. My eyes opened, and I felt the adolescent sunlight trickling into the room. I was sandwiched into a mass of pillows and a creamy blanket was melted around my body. I was comfortable, but in a foreign kind of way. It was the kind of comfort you feel when you wake up for the first time after spending the night at a friend’s house, or at a hotel on vacation. You don’t know where you are but you’re okay with it for a moment – that moment between awake and asleep. Comfort is always unquestioned in that first moment, it’s that second moment when reality sets in, regardless of what that reality is. I stretched out my arms and knocked my hands on the wall behind me. Ow. I had never hit the wall before. My bed wasn’t 45

even touching a wall. I curled my toes and allowed a stretch to creep through my whole body, through my feet and into my legs. I twisted my back, and cracked it. It didn’t crack like it normally did. Then I just laid there, breathing. That’s when I had your first memory. He was a large guy, muscular, tan, great smile, at least from what I could remember. I liked him for a while. (You liked him for a while.) But he always seemed like the impossibly-too-cool type. It was the idea of him that got me (you) the most. He was the perfect building block for the imagination. He was just mysterious enough to be made into exactly what I (you) wanted him to be. We were at a party, and after a montage of us locking eyes throughout the night he asked me (you) to dance. I (you) didn’t even think that people did that anymore. But there we were, in the middle of this trashed living room, dense with bodies and loud music and smoke, just dancing. Slowly at first, his hand on my (your) waist, my (your) hand resting on the back of his neck, swaying, swaying, swaying. After a while, he got me (you) a drink and I (you) drank it while he looked me (you) up and down. Then, he got me (you) another drink and I (you) drank it. Then, he got me (you) another drink, and I couldn’t remember what happened to that one. Then we were in a dimly lit hallway kissing – his hand moving down my (your) body like it was his possession. That’s when I (you) tried pulling away. He was stronger, slamming me (you) against the wall, my (your) head hitting the frame of someone’s (yours?) family picture. He held me (you) there and moved his lips down farther. My (your) body seized up and he held on to me (you) tighter. I (you) started to yell but he forced his hand around my (your) mouth and threw me (you) onto the bed in the next room. I don’t remember how I even got from the hallway to the bedroom, I remember everything was spinning and I felt the creamy blanket and the pillows. I felt him force himself into me and I couldn’t even scream, his hand in my mouth, the other holding me down, stifling any chance I had at fighting back. Any chance you had at fighting back.I felt hot tears streaming down my face. I was trembling. The 46

unfamiliar sound started again and I recognized it as a phone, your phone. It was sitting on the bedside table connected to a charger plugged into the wall. I reached for it, pulling out the plug and laid my head back on the pillow, this time on my side, my right cheek pressed up against the pillowcase, my knees tucked in. I tried to unlock your phone. I tried my passcode because I didn’t know yours, but then I did because it was the year that you were born. I saw texts from your friends; I had never met these people in my life. The first message was from Michael. I knew from the way my finger hovered over the text that it was the guy from the memory with the drinks and the hand, and the - I felt tears swell again in your eyes. He had texted, “Hey.” I got up and walked into the bathroom. I knew it was the bathroom because I just did. I looked into the full size mirror attached to the door. You were slender, with dark, long, curly hair. I remember in middle school boys used to stick their gum in it. I didn’t go to middle school with you. I felt the tug at the back of my head where your mom tried to comb it out. I splashed water on my face and that’s when I noticed all of your scars on my wrists. I looked for more and found more. They were splayed haphazardly down both of my upper thighs. I felt the knife, and again I felt the tears. I squeezed my eyes shut and fell to the ground in fetal position. I felt crippled. I felt the shower mat underneath my head, and then I saw your parents fighting. Your dad running towards me and slapping me across the face, ending the night exactly where I was now, on the bathroom floor, shower mat underneath your head. Every place held a memory, every memory encapsulated a feeling, and I was feeling them all. I walked down the staircase into the kitchen, where a woman who I felt was my mother but I knew was not was sitting at the table with a newspaper and a cup of black coffee. My mom didn’t like her coffee black, one cream and two sugars always. She was unconventionally beautiful, like you, like me. She had the same long, dark, curly hair. She gave me a hug and it felt natural but it also felt like I was a stranger taking advantage of the love she was 47

obviously trying to show to me. She looked at me with a look in her eyes; it took me a moment to recognize it as pity. “Good morning honey,” she said. For some reason, her saying that to me in her voice, so sweetly, made me resent her. This woman. My mom. Your mom. I didn’t know why. It seemed like she was making me breakfast, which is a perfectly normal and pleasant thing for a mother to be doing. My mom did it everyday, too. I watched as she spread butter on a piece of toast, she was using her left hand, I guess she was left- handed. The diamond ring on her finger glinted as it caught the light from the window above the kitchen sink, and an image of the same ring glinting on the same left hand caressing the face of a man with no ring on his hand, a man who was not my father, your father, flashed into my mind. I had walked in on them, you had. I (you) had heard the noises they had been making from upstairs, it was like she didn’t even care if I (you) heard. I (you) walked in and saw them and they didn’t even stop. In that same sweet voice she has said: “Close the door, honey.” I think I hated this woman. But I loved this woman. No– you loved her. Who was this woman? I walked out the front door in a daze without saying a word to the woman in the kitchen. She seemed used to it. I saw a beaten up truck in the driveway. I felt a tinge of fondness and ease when I looked at it so I knew that it must be your car. I rifled through the purse that I picked up off of the ground in your room until I found your keys and unlocked the driver’s side door. It was a stick shift, and I didn’t know how to drive a stick shift, but you had learned in a parking lot late at night with a few 48

of your friends when you were 16, so I put the car in first gear and drove out of the neighborhood. As I drove I allowed my mind and your mind to wander. I saw the ocean on one side of me and I smiled at the thought of my family spending long weekends by the seaside, we had watermelon seed-spitting contests and my older brother would always bury me in the sand. I also saw the water. It was kissing my, no they were yours, feet and then pulling away back into the vastness, it was night, maybe a month before. I saw what you saw, I think, sitting on the sand alone. You were contemplating walking into the ocean, and just continuing. Walking farther and farther out until it was too deep. Just like your life, my life. You wanted it to end didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t you? I wanted it to end in that memory, I felt it. How did you escape this?

I hit the brakes, almost running through a red light. I felt this deep sense of helplessness draining my soul, or was it your soul? I had never felt this feeling and yet it was so familiar – it was like seeing a new sunset every day, you know you’ve never seen that specific one before but somehow you know what it’s going to be like. Feeling your feelings was like that, but darker. How did you escape this feeling? You haven’t escaped it. Could I escape it? School looked the same to you as it did to me. Big, brick, and obsolete. I parked in the back of the lot, far away from anyone I knew, or at least that I thought I knew. I grabbed your bag and locked the door of your old truck that you were fond of and I walked towards the entryway. Once I was in the building I instinctively took a right even though my first period was to the left. I went to the French classroom and took a seat in the middle row. The teacher saw me take a seat and asked me how I was. I nodded and said, “Bien.” I didn’t speak French but I guess maybe you did, unless you just knew how to say “fine” but how the hell was I supposed to know? I breathed heavily and picked at the corners of my nails, which is apparently a nervous habit that one or maybe both of us had. And the tips of my (your) fingers started to bleed and I wanted to go home. Not to your home but to my home. My home had a red door that I always liked but it was chipped on the edges from being slammed too many times; I used to hate that. My parents would always be in their room fighting, sometimes for hours, but the thought of my bedroom, covered in dirty clothes and crumpled magazines with no creamy blanket on the bed made me feel calm. It all seemed like a place that I had read about in a book 50

rather than a place that I had lived in my entire life. Because you hadn’t lived there your entire life, I had. You lived in the home with the abusive father and the cheating mother, with the creamy blanket and the bathroom floor and I felt so sorry for you, I felt so sorry for me. I wanted to change your life but I also wanted to change mine. I wanted my whole life back without understanding yours. All of my problems, all of my hurt, I couldn’t handle yours too. But now I had yours and I thought mine were worse than everyone’s, before I was you, but now I just wanted them back, mine back, just mine. How was I so foolish to think I could ever see you? Like really see you. I wished for this I think. I wanted you, or at least something like you, someone else, besides me. But now I wanted just me and I wanted to hug you and tell you it was all going to be okay. But all that looked like was a girl in the middle of a school classroom, head down, face red from holding back enough tears for two, arms wrapped around herself, gripping her shoulders tightly. I knew you hated feeling like this, I felt myself try to push all of the feelings back, hiding them away. But they were both mine and yours and you weren’t strong enough to push them both, And I didn’t know what to think or do because I didn’t know how to be you, but I was, and I didn’t think I even knew how to just be me anymore. Because I had seen you, I had felt what you felt, and I could never go back. I was you and you were me, but I didn’t know very much about that. All I knew was this. I had to leave. I had to get out of this damn French class because this damn teacher didn’t really care how I was or how you were. She didn’t understand you or me and she would never care to because if she did she would be asking for this. And I couldn’t waste time trying to explain you to anyone because they would have to feel it all to know. I was feeling it all and I knew. I (you) got up before class even began and I (you) let the door slam behind me (you). I (you) sprinted down the hallway; 51

if I (you) stopped at the room at the end I (you) could look in the window and see you (me) in American History. Maybe, if you (me) had even made it out of your (my) bed this morning. How was I supposed to know what all you could handle? Well I guess I could. You (me) were probably in the classroom, unless you weren’t. But I didn’t care. I didn’t care where I was, where you were. I didn’t want to see me, I wanted to forget me; this was the whole point. I needed to understand, this was the only way to understand. I walked out of the school and kept walking, your shoes on my feet, your shoes on your feet, my shoes on my feet. I passed the parking lot, the playground, seeing the swing set made me remember falling and hitting my head – I could feel the back of your head pulse. I was having trouble discerning which pains were yours and which ones were mine. I walked faster in your shoes, my shoes. I walked away from the school, away from your house, and my house, and away from you as me. I was me and I was you and I was tired. I couldn’t keep up with your feelings and mine, your memories and mine, your experiences and mine. It was too much. I remembered you (me) sitting at the edge of the water again. I felt every pound of your heartbeat, of my heartbeat, and I understood. I felt the same way. And I was there, at the shore, walking further out into the water, thinking about you thinking about me, and I felt my tears coat your cheeks and for the first time I knew that I knew what it felt like to be you. And I couldn’t handle it. by Rachel Goldenberg

Light as Well as Heat; Or, How Writing From the Perspective of Frankenstein is a Good Metaphor for My Homosexuality because I am a narcissist I see my own face rather than that of my monsterâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s all too familiar is the hollow curve of a jawline that has never been kissed the green-grey-yellow eyes of a washed-up predator the externalized-internalized longing for even a pretense of understanding because I have created life I am learning that all gods are monsters we will know each other better than we know ourselves love in the turns of master and servant live in constant pain and irony because I am not the sculptor I had thought he is condemned to a lonely eternity he rises and lurches like a thing undone sputters like engines yet uninvented speaks in the sensation of mooring by Luc Lasman 53

Tango Tango my love Our hearts go a flutter One foot after another Move from side to side You stalk into my arms As I turn and look away I feel so lonely Tango close For you my heart aches Tango close Please know now my love Tango close Push me then pull me Tango close Turn me then see me Tango close â&#x20AC;ŚStep into (not on) my heart by Carla Hoskins

SPRITZ If my mind-image, then, is greater than the highest raised gravestone with higher raised grasses, (Death can be fresh and new) Then I am set straight. Or am I? Or am I a constant threat to my own realm of sanity, set like a globe in front of, around me? (Truth can be wet and then set like cement) Consistency kicks me to the curb, and in my gratitude I am kicked from comfort’s curb, and from comfort’s curb I am left with asphalt burns still sizzling my pallid skin. (Burning skin is reminiscent of war’s death toll) Heel to toe, back to forth, each knee bend characterized by the flaccid cells left in front of me. (Trauma comes from the highest contrasting outcome to what was asked for) (Melody comes from me traipsing my hanging hide, a trophy of my realization and realization of my realization) (And that I liked it, for death really can smell sweet as honey, vanilla-scented spritz) by Kinsley Gerks 55

The Dream Boring a hole in an orange bores more than one touring a fortress for forces to form with an ordnance for blowing its doors in to pour in its horses and torches and swordsmen, who border on worshipping corpses of those who have forged in before them by going to torture remorseless the old folks enthroned amid roses and stores filled with grain they have stolen from porches of only the poorest of peasants who pleaded in chorus but failed to avert the misfortune of birth in a land that was foreign to all but the first, now resourceless, and live on a shore with no shortage of mouths to feed, hungry and hoarsened, plus threats of their being deported 56

to countries that would not support them; but surely this must be extortion to openly offer employment to those who have almost died for it, have dared to brave deserts and forests, have swum across oceans in torrents, have left behind ones most important, only to add to their torment by making them work for an orange. by Michael Dulman

(Distance) Play hard to get. Snatch his cap and run away, Just out of reach. Fingers grazing the tender edges Of your heart. Don’t say yes Until he begs. Play hard to regret. Dance with him, nose to nose, Just within reach. Hands holding the gentle pulse Of your heart. Don’t say yes Until he begs.

Play hard to forget. Snatch his love and run away, Out of reach. Fingers clawing the tender edges Of your heart. Don’t say yes Until he begs.

Don’t say yes.

by Kendall Clark 58

Beneath the Bridge They were constructing a new bridge over the river that’s supposed to replace the current bridge before it snaps. They got all the framework and bases in, creating a little bank under the bridge already. Great place for teenagers to get away, drink and smoke. During the week, the homeless claim it late night through early morning. We hadn’t been to the bridge in a while, since the police got a tip about marijuana. I’m sure it was Jared. The idiot. He wasn’t wrong, but he could’ve at least asked to come. So we—my buddy Marcus, his girl Sara, her twin Margret, my brother, and me—all go to explore the actual bridge, not the bank below. They just have the framing in. Some concrete and a few metal poles. Lots of discouraging signs like “Do not cross” and “Dead End” and barrels with the blinking lights. Always wondered who Bob was; how he keeps his name on all of them. As we’re goofing off, my brother dares me to walk on one of the beams of the unfinished bridge. I’m not good with heights. But Sam just keeps egging me on, starts saying I’m a wimp, and offering to do my chores for a week. Then Marcus gets in on it, bringing Sara with him, until all of them are now whisper-chanting at me. How can I refuse? I look for the widest red, poop-speckled beam. They are right behind me. I settle on the center beam. It’s spaced farther from its neighbors than some of the other beams. Who knows why? Here I go. I place one foot on the beam, then two, creeping along the beam. It’s a little slick here and there. Probably some of the bird poop hasn’t dried. I can see some of the water below now. Time to turn back. As I turn, my left foot shoots off the beam, courtesy of fresh feces no doubt. Offsetting my balance, I fall to one side. My hands reach out and just barely catch the next beam over. 59

“Chris!” “Yo!” “AHHH!”

“Oh my God!”

I’m dizzy. My brother is coming to get me. I was never on the weight lifting team. The water is coming to get me. The beam of the bridge darkens and fades against the night sky like a dream. My breath left me for the deafening rush of wind resisting my intrusion on its nightly prowl. I land on something. Or in something. Not the water. I think there was a crack, like a tree branch snapping off. I see water coming for me again, but it’s above me, enclosing over me from all sides. The water smacks down on me, ice cold. I don’t want to drown. My head hurts. I’m cold. My head hurts. I’m wet. I’m in water. My head. Something is underneath me. My hea—something is moving! I bolt up. I’m in a boat. Between my feet, a head. A bloody head! I scream so loud I hurt my own ears. Thick, glistening, pale worm-like creatures were relocating from the unknown face to my legs. I can’t tumble out of the little boat fast enough. A new kind of splash as I enter the river, but I hear more splashing. I’m grabbed from behind. I can’t fight my way free. I’m released, land on the sand of the river bank, still below the unfinished bridge. My brother looks down at me. Marcus appears above me too.

“Dude, are you alright? That was one heck of a fall!”

“We called the police; they’re sending an ambulance!”

Sara and Marcus complement each other perfectly. Or was that Margret? Oh well, they’re both here. Sam hugs me, proceeds to yell at me, then at himself. I’m still staring at the rugged little boat with the man. Margret (or Sara) heads for the boat. “Don’t!” I even surprised myself. “M-maggots!” I’m shivering. Sirens on the horizon. They tell me he’s alive. The doctors. Apparently, maggots can clean a wound by eating infected flesh. Yuck. Gross. He was there at least thirty-six hours, judging from some of the maggot’s stages of growth. I can’t imagine. Paralyzed from a bullet hitting the spine, bleeding, knowing what was happening, watching and feeling bugs lay eggs and crawl in the wound. I’m shivering. Sam is with me. The others are waiting. There’s Mom. by Bet Tauscher

Limericks True Art We try to fi gure out the mess age But we get mix ed up wit h all the word age. How lo ng will it take to fig ure o ut That thereâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s no thing to think ab out? Just appreci ate the image. by Ashley Chico

A Walk in the Shadow of the Woods How long have I been walking? A day? A month? A year? No, Far longer than that. Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve become numb. Numb to time and place. Numb to the pain and sorrow Of the unfamiliar face. But still, I keep on walking In search of the place I mean to go, A place full of love And void of hate. A place Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve never seen, Only heard Where fear is nil And no one mourned Where to the unseeing eye Everyone rests in peace. However, such a place is but a blatant fantasy. 63

For a place where all is right And fear is of absence Cannot exist in a world so bleak. A world where new born babes cry as they leave the womb. Where sadness expected And violence encouraged Where the unfamiliar face Laughs and sneers At those whom it has yet to know. Because it, too, Has become numb. by Leah Delisle

WHEN THEY GO, pretend it is fine. Pretend this isnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t the hundredth time you bet everything and lost it. Pretend you are casually calling your mom on the phone because you are bored, not because you are lonely, lonely and tired of it.

You are used to this. You are used to people slicing you open, like a frog pinned down for dissection. Like a lamb offering itself up for sacrifice.

Youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve re-written the story a hundred times, but the end cannot be changed. It is your role.

Always the pity, the pain, the gutted.

Always the one under the knife.

by Shumaita Kabir

Jody Roun Untitled

Jody Roun Oculus Videre

Cason Jenkins Aix 2017

Richard Reep Transference of Souls

Jody Roun Materia

Richard Reep 7E

Sarah Hameer Untitled

Italia-Rico Hurtado CYMERA_20171219_105436

Noelle Wurst The Nutcracker Suite in Pastel

Maisie Haney Untitled

Maisie Haney Beatbox Emergency

Karina Barbesino Big Cats

III. who i will be

Embers born of a night like this burn so good. They glow soft and sweet [like sin] like the kiss of fingertips to snowy skin. They press together, like quickened breaths or bodies with only friction between them. They dance in the palm of my mind, And they come alight again By your lips. by J. Diego Medrano

Generators Speak The power is gone. The only power on Is coming from generators; The difference is heard by the way they speak. The powerlines hum along To a silent song. The generators speak in labored Breaths. An endless breath. The powerlines dangle lightly In the air, posted and perched on poles. The generators squat heavily on the ground, squeezing energy through Gritted teeth, growling Growling Growling to groveling Gasoline for gurgling An encumbered power A lifeless power

The generators sleep. Growling again. Power once more. The cycle continues One day more One day more One day more by Kathy Kite

Heaven For Leo Would be a deep inhale with a constriction-less exhale. The expansion of lungs, breath, and air rolling through the tides of his laughter. It would be respiring that one important element without hesitation. The whirlwinds that flow freely through your lungs giving you the very life in which you liveâ&#x20AC;Ś It would be the warm embrace and grounded steadiness of the world, Held together in the midst of strong appendages. It would be sky, stars, wind, laughter, hugs, tears, dimples, In Everything. But for Leo â&#x20AC;&#x201D; It Would All Be Infinite.

joy.

by Stephanie Macias

Women

Everyday it’s always the same. ‘Rise and Shine,’ please, I’ll go insane. Then I see my dear sweet sis, Laura. Oh how I simply adore her. I wonder when the man will win the game? by Ashley Chico

Beauty

Although she may walk silly She’s always loved her mother’s chili. Then one night there was no more crying Because she was on the dance floor flying. And then they said, “Now she’s Free Willy!”

by Ashley Chico 84

I Still Have Time to Learn to Sing Like Neil Young Side-walk café - Sunday morning brunch, overheard a conversation ‘tween an off-duty police captain and a wine merchant, about - the previous day’s event a suspicious package across the street, hidden, under a large propane tank in the parking lot of a hardware store. The Wine merchant to the police captain, “so, what would have happened, if the thing went off?” “Leveled downtown would have been leveled,” was his reply. In an instant, I knew, among other things, I knew, I still have time to learn to sing, - like Neil Young. by Gene Moore Esq.

The Riddle of the Sphynx When they cannot breathe, we carry them within us

In a place warmed by love.

When they cannot see, we hold them to us

In a swaddle of nurtured down.

And when they cannot walk, we push them before us

In four-wheeled trundles of care.

Yet when they can stand, we drag them behind us

In a line of rhythmed control.

When they can walk, we stride at their side

In a silence muffled by fear.

And when they can run, we anchor them down In hopes they will not But then they can fly, and we finally realize

get too far.

That they already are.

by Kendall Clarke

Tip Jar Molly came home from work so tired that every tendon ached, throwing her keys on the shoe cabinet and her coat on the hook. Whoever thinks waitressing is an easy job is absolutely nuts. Thank God I have the day off tomorrow. Now, if I could just find this goddamn ring. She knew that she didn’t have energy to waste panicking—she did plenty of that this morning three steps out of the doorway when she realized that her left ring finger was bare. One hour. You can do this, Molly. One hour. One hour. As the big hand of the kitchen clock drew nearer, it became her mantra. She felt her body forget all about being tired; energy coursed through her. She knew what would happen when Martin came home if he found out that she lost the engagement ring he had worked so hard to pick out. She retraced her steps, starting in the bedroom, from the moment she woke up until leaving for work at 7 a.m. Molly worked at two establishments: Linda’s and the Hawaii Tiki Hut, where the food and decorations are so cheesy that the only regulars are yearly tourists visiting their second cousins and looking for a laugh. Apparently every restaurant in Louisiana except the Hawaiian Tiki Hut is named after someone or another. She would work Linda’s, a small-town breakfast joint where she knew everyone’s order and the owner loved her, in the morning and brunch, then waitress the Tiki Hut in the evenings, where the manager made it clear that he did not like her or her habit of sneaking leftover food off of finished plates. It wasn’t her fault that she didn’t have time for an elegant dinner. She glanced over at two wedding magazines on her nightstand, mailed to her with highlights and post-its inside. Despite her mother’s crooning over them, it was already almost the end of October; nothing would be ready in time for a spring wedding 88

unless she paid thousands of dollars, and no one wants a sweaty, sticky summer wedding, and she couldn’t plan much until the holiday season was over with the work rush anyway. She told her mother this several times whenever she called. She didn’t even live in the state, but Molly knew her mother would find a way to be as involved as possible. Molly started going through the drawers in her nightstand, bottom to top; she remembered that’s how robbers did it, according to the internet article she read. That way you didn’t have to close and reopen. It is faster, she thought, but no luck. She crawled on the surrounding floor, then the bed. She remembered taking the ring off last night and putting it on in the morning, but she didn’t trust herself. Martin was always saying that she couldn’t remember things. Did she leave it in the bathroom when she took a shower? She rummaged through the hair products and facial cleansers and beautifying creams she used religiously. If she was a thief, at least she wouldn’t care about what state she left the house in.

She emptied out her entire purse, her cut of the tips earned earlier that day spilling onto the floor, and reassembled it. It was tattered from everything she put it through, tossed in greasy corners of the restaurants’ kitchen floors, tucked in sticky baskets of grocery carts, thrown on the couch at the end of a long day. There hadn’t been a night out for her to wish for a nicer bag in a long time. 89

There was only one room left to search: the kitchen. It had to be there. It had to. She risked a glance at the clock—fifteen minutes left until Martin got off of work. It’d only take him a few minutes to drive home, especially with the reckless way he drove. It’s okay. I’m fine. It’ll be alright. It has to be here. She moved everything away from the blue backsplash, scouring every inch of the countertop. She rummaged in the fridge, opened the microwave, even checked the crumb tray of the toaster. Did I swallow the thing?! Oh god, Martin… Wait! Martin had said last night that the dishes needed to be done… Molly rushed to the kitchen sink and dove her arm into the drain. Please, God, if you’re really there… She clutched something hard between the stringy mucks stuck to the sides of the pipe and gasped, pulling out the engagement ring. She cried out in relief, only to notice what sat next to the sink. A lifetime ago, she took the old pickle jar outside to start her lemonade stand; frayed bits of white label still clung to the glass. Her love of travel had started early, but she knew that travel costs money. The jar was about the size of her head at that age, which she figured should be plenty to hold a trip to the bridges of Prague or the riverside of Paris or the beaches of Palma. Her mother said that the most scrumdilliumpshest lemonade would make the most tips, and how could she not make the best summer lemonade in Louisiana, since she was the most scrumdilliumpshest girl? She missed her. There were a few bills in the jar when she had added to it this morning, but it had been mostly a pile of tarnished coins that needed to be rolled. Now, there were only some shards and a handful of coins strewn across the counter. The yellow “Europe Trip” sticky note had flown to the floor. 90

Water brewed behind her eyes as she picked up a few stray

coins from the linoleum and went to the cupboard adjacent to the kitchen. Molly couldn’t hold back the tears anymore as she brushed the broken glass into the dustpan. How could he do this? Suddenly, she jerked the shards into the trash bin with a roar. ••• When Martin got home, the streetlights had been burning for hours. He felt no guilt; he could go out for a beer or three with his buddies and ogle at the waitresses without telling her. She didn’t need to know his every move. “Babe?” He heard a floorboard creak in the bedroom. What was she doing up this late? Alcohol always elevated his anger, but he didn’t care. The closet was open, the middle section of her side empty. He yanked open the garage door to find the old Chevy he had been renovating was missing. The sound of a plane rush overhead made his head throb. He clenched his teeth.

When she comes back, I swear to God, how dare that slut…

He slammed the door shut. •••

32,000 miles above Louisiana, Molly felt fucking elated, a carry-on above her head and a crumpled wad of ones and fives poking out of her old purse.

She was going to see a real beach.

by Alex Candage

/Yúyīn/ “Bright morning stars are rising Day is a-breaking in my soul.” I can hear you singing at night Thinking that I’m still awake You can never fall asleep Forever singing, ever awake You wait until the sun to rest And even then, you are wide awake That simple melody continues to play From your magical voice box “Bright morning stars are rising Day is a-breaking in my soul.” The first time that song was played Was from your father He used to sing to us around the campfire; That was until his military leave Now, we are married, bonded forever And your father’s returns ever so rare So you are his replacement In singing that beautiful melody “Bright morning stars are rising Day is a-breaking in my soul.” You’ll soon sing to our little one When he can’t seem to nap at noon Take him in the rocking chair Swaying and singing hand in hand You return late one night Leaving me alone with the melody Singing to myself has become useless— 92

You are my siren “Bright morning stars are rising… I love you, darling Please be my yúyīn Even when you aren’t always here to stay It, at least, fills my everyday “…Day is a-breaking in my soul.”

by Caitlin Cherniak

*Title is Chinese for “The remnants of sound that stay in the ears after the sound has stopped.”

Portrait Life is like a vacant canvas Like thunder rolls and lightning crashes The sun will rise The sun will set We paint our lives With light as a paletteâ&#x20AC;&#x201D; Lined with lashes around the eyes Are brushes dipping, dripping wet A memory printed, direct, on-site Capturing treasures in our chest, Each unique and held each night. Dreams absorb, not to forget. Renewed once more, a new day alive, Until memories are all thatâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s left. by Kathy Kite

Desire Paths Winding ways through grass and gravel Where invisible fairiesâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; feet travel Each night as we dream Of better tomorrows. Intricate webs that weave Through hidden glens that leave the roads more travelled Far behind. City sounds fade away Only the echoes may stay Of voices turned to whispers Of hidden spirits. Built by the simplest of choices The smallest of wanderings The slightest of whims, These are the desire paths. Where urban meets earth Where dirt brings mirth Where toes touch grass And the pavement ends. Roads of black wait clear and cut But, the calls of the birds Of the fairiesâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; silent words Promise adventure. The path continues Paved for a thousand, for me, for you. Its wide expanse swallows the shade And tempts all who passes. 95

Follow forward? Over grounds beaten and footprint floored? Or stray, stray far away To the desire paths. Follow one through shadows. The breaks in trees a-glow With the light of the spirits Alive in you. Cut cross grass that clings To feet like dew in the spring And leave the start Of a new path. Built by fairies in the dead of night Pressed into earth by you in the light Made by choices, by wishes, by dreams These are the desire paths. Through gardens or bustling streets Created awake or in sleep These are the desire paths Built with every heartbeat. Follow the roads more travelled Follow feet that came before Or dare step away To a path only imagined. To your desired path. by Lea Warren

Everywhere. Chaos and imagination; The whimsy of wonder driven by the love born of sweet escape. Paper and pictures stories and themes Believing in something more, something greater— What commands your heart? Childlike memories, vibrant The rich, far reaching tap-roots of creativity. Those who share your joy in the worlds of our collective mind And in our secret spaces, wraiths of inspiration surround us. A burst of intuition, the rush of exhilaration pours forth Spills from moving hands, painting canvas, scrawling words, framing a face, a thought, the thing In your mind’s eye— The portal to your soul. A sunset, or birdsong The woolen scarf of that first autumn morning, a hint of pine In the air, freshly brewed coffee Bated breath as the deer linger in dappled shade under sun-kissed emeralds. 97

The cultures, the places Ideas and people Motive Intrigue The intense eagerness and desire to beget beauty. Where to begin? Everywhere. by Elizabeth Trepanier

brushing is: Sianna Boschetti, 2018 co-editor-in-chief

Sianna Boschetti is 22, an English major, and a writer. When not focusing on Brushing, Sianna can generally be found writing her thesis or an article for The Independent. Now in her final semester at Rollins, she is looking forward to a summer internship with the National LGBT Chamber of Commerce and applying to graduate programs for Fall 2019. In her free time, Sianna enjoys drinking way too much coffee, relaxing with her girlfriend, and exploring Orlandoâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s eateries.

Tyler Vaughan, 2018 co-editor-in-chief

Tyler Vaughan is 21, an American Studies Major, and a storyteller. Other than Brushing, he spends much of his work week hours with the schoolâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s improv troupe and watching over his hall as a Resident Assistant. After graduating in May 2018, Tyler hopes to work in educational media and help better the lives of the next generation. In his free time, he enjoys making short films with friends, talking politics, and worrying about having too much free time. 100

Anna Wenzel, 2018 head of design

Anna Wenzel, 21, is an Orlando native and History major with two minors in Studio Art and Spanish Lanuage. She enjoys museums, comic books, and musicals. A long-time artist, this is Annaâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s first formal book design. When not drawing or researching, Anna engages in political activism as a campaign intern. She will attend graduate school at New York University or the University of Chicago in the Fall of 2018.

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Editors

Alex Candage Bruno Sato De Oliveira Juan Diego Medrano Elizabeth Trepanier Kathy Kite Melissa Simon Caitlin Cherniak

Readers

Alex Candage Corrine Shoemaker Caitlin Cherniak Maisie Haney Grae Kipping Helena Cabrera Kathy Kite Alex Lichtner

Greg Golden

director of student media

Dr. Matthew Forsythe faculty advisor

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Brushing Art and Literary Journal is a publication of Rollins College, Winter Park, Florida.

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