Bullet Quarterly BOOKLET of twenty one non-fiction works and five photographs from students of the College of William & Mary.
VOLUME III WINTER Wednesday, January 15th, 2014
The College of William & Mary Williamsburg, Virginia
Contents
BULLET QUARTERLY
Foreword, Opposite Emma, 4-5 A Southern Man Thinks About The Possibility Of A Northern God, 7 Flu Fears, 8-10 One-Ply, 15 Untitled Poem, 16-17 The Oblivion of Solace, 18 Untitled Poem, 19 Sales Piece, 20 Does Not Follow Dietary Restrictions, 22-23 Bus Plunges!, 25-26 Untitled Poem, 27 The Fisher King, 28-29
Panel Naomi Slack EDITOR-IN-CHIEF LAYOUT Rebecca Moses PRESIDENT of the Untitled Society Thomas Hood Timothy Eklund STANDARDS Daniel Lantz SUBMISSIONS Noah Williams SECRETARY Kemp Pettyjohn PUBLIC RELATIONS Jacob McCollum WEBMASTER
Sex Education, 35-37
EDITORIAL BOARD:
Deltaville, 38
Elizabeth Carman Claire Gillespie Joseph Adam Jack Micah Luedtke David Park Myles Sullivan
Eggs on the Metro, 39 Untitled Poem, 42 A Glass of Water Iin the Early Morning, 43
Untitled Society works: 12-13, 32-33 Photographs: 6, 21, 24, 30, 40-41
Foreword
WEDNESDAY, JANUARY 15, 2014
Bullet Quarterly tells stories. It holds the private, human experiences of a community. It strives to provide an outlet and a safe haven for everyday people to speak. My job is to be a conduit between anonymous writer and anonymous reader. So, please enjoy this winter issue of Bullet. Sincerely,
Naomi Slack
Emma
BULLET QUARTERLY
Emma liked meth. She liked other things as well: Bacardi, anime, video games, sex. But she liked meth so much, she tried to make her own. Fortunately, she stopped trying, realizing she had messed it up before she even started cooking it. Later that same afternoon, she was listless, cracking open batteries with a hammer. I came in through the screen door on her back porch and asked her what the hell she was doing. She didn’t answer, she just grabbed my hair and kissed me. Oh, I see. It was going to be one of those days. Emma was a pretty blonde girl with ripped jeans and black-painted fingernails. She got around, as you might expect, but she didn’t quite come off that way at first. Sure, the Southern Virginia twang in her voice, her awful taste in music, and her vaguely country sensibilities kind of grated on your nerves eventually, but you didn’t notice that at first. What you noticed first wasn’t even her. It was you. She had a way of making it seem like the whole world was interested in you. With Emma, you forgot that you were lonely, because she made your life seem full. I’m sorry, did I say “you”? I meant “me.” I was high on a potent cocktail of Benadryl and Nyquil when I lost my virginity to Emma. Even then, she complimented me on what she considered to be a knack for cunnilingus. She didn’t use that terminology, of course. We had a lot of sweaty, sloppy sex in the basement while we were high. But I never went as far as Emma; meth wasn’t for me. But then that afternoon, Emma said she still had some left over from her last score, and offered me some. Forgetting myself, I accepted.
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WEDNESDAY, JANUARY 15, 2014
The next few hours go by in a bit of a haze. I remember the chill, and the tingling sensation in my veins, I remember seeing Emma’s stupid temporary tattoo as she took off her shirt. I’m pretty sure the part where we were on a cloud surrounded by a purple sky was not real, but I don’t know about everything else. Needless to say, there were some scars from the afternoon’s activities. I woke up at 4:30 pm, covered in sweat. It was hard to believe that only 2 hours had passed. I got up. My back was sticky and sweaty, and I knew that something was wrong. At least, I think I did. I crawled over discarded clothing and Gamecube games and found my way into the bathroom. I turned on the light and waited for the purple and green spots to leave my eyes. Then I saw it. Emma had long, tough nails that hurt like hell if she wasn’t careful. This time she had drawn blood; a fair amount of blood, all over my back. I realized that I needed to get home in about half an hour, so I resolved to do the impossible.That is to say, the painful. I opened the medicine cabinet, grabbed the hydrogen peroxide, and crawled into the bathtub. I thought the container was empty for a second, but I could tell by the sizzling noises that it was there. Methamphetamine, it turns out, is one hell of a pain killer. I went back into her bedroom and pulled my stale, sweat-stained pants on. Emma lay spread eagle on the bed, with a sheet hanging from her left leg. She breathed shallow, but regular breaths. I considered waking her up, but didn’t. Somehow, it didn’t seem appropriate. I turned away, putting my shirt on, and resolved to try to live the rest of the day normally. Emma was asleep, and I was lonely again. 5
WEDNESDAY, JANUARY 15, 2014
A Southern Man Thinks About The Possibility Of A Northern God If I ever made it to beulahland, I have always hoped that my God would talk like me. Long vowels and the faded R’s that take me back to home and hearth, and my grandfather’s knee; And to people, my people, who are just as warm as the floorboards ‘round our old kerosene heater ever were. Tho’ I‘ve always feared that it wouldn’t be so. That maybe my familiar Lord’s voice would sound strange to my ears. That the clipped and changed vowels of those strangers – cold people from a cold place – might withhold welcome. No place for a man who had lived an entire lifetime – with confidence – ‘southern by the grace of God.’ And yet, how often our greatest fears fail to be, or prove to have been Rooted in sandy places in our hearts and minds (that seldom have our own keen scrutiny seen), Or hail from the scars of lingering shades – the memories of wounds never known to me or to my father. Though how quickly do we rise to defend, from the echoes of forgotten sharp edges that they’ve never known either. And how hard it is to forgive the sting of wounds never felt (nor dealt in living memory or that of my father or his) For a people, for whom forgiveness is fundamental – and not-so-secretly anathema. Warm people – as warm as our long-ago hearth or floorboards – come also from cold places, And with open eyes may be found to do so as frequently as another people –my people. Others who would as soon help a stranger as breathe, a proof, Familiar things from strange places may come, And dressed differently may be found similar ‘neath frail cloth and strange manner. If I make it to beaulahland – I suppose – I shall be as happy to have been called, no matter how He calls me. 7
BULLET QUARTERLY
Flu Fears Don't laugh at me. I have allergies. It's not what you think. What if you cough? And I catch your virus? Fever would start, How would I fight it? Acetaminophen allergy, Commonly called Tylenol, triggers migraines. Demerol helps the head but I'm out for three days. Can't do that and live at competitive college. Take aspirin, you say. It's not that easy. Acetic salicylic acid and its friends like Motrin raise hives. Not garden variety. We're talking angioedema to the max. Giant urticaria from wrist to bicep, across belly and back. Can't stand clothes. Can't kill pain without making matters worse. Down for days. So, don't sneeze on me. Please. Don't spread bacteria. Penicillin rash ravages every inch.
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I do mean every one. Puffy and itchy, it laughs at Benadryl. I'm not laughing. I wait it out, hoping my throat won't swell shut. Take Erythromycin, you say. It changes my heart rhythm. Your eyes grow wide as you name antibiotics you know; I describe allergies to nearly all of them. Desperately, I wisht I were mentally ill instead of physically odd. With hope rising, I asked my allergist if I should seek a shrink. He's seen his share of fakers, malingerers, attention junkies. I cried when he said it's not in my head. I've tried every cure he could think of. Finally gave up on drugs, vitamins, health food. Stayed behind locked doors for months, missing 9
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life, fearing things you take for granted. That's no way to live. Now, I walk among you, acting normal, hoping I don't meet a virulent virus or strain of bacteria or food or personal care item or cleaning product or metal in simple things like belt buckles. I live on luck and guts. Perhaps you'll cover your cough now, not sneeze on me, and be glad what I have isn't contagious.
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THE UNTITLED SOCIETY
UNTITLED
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THE UNTITLED SOCIETY
UNTITLED
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WEDNESDAY, JANUARY 15, 2014
One-ply I write this on the toilet, pooping, bored, wondering blithely how we flush So large a portion of ourselves away. But then, is it really "ourselves," per se? Am I alive in what comes out my tush? Is all this shit the kid my mom adored? Either way, same difference.
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Untitled
BULLET QUARTERLY
“A word after a word after a word is power.” –Margaret Atwood The girl in my study is very young, and pleading. It’s no use telling her I’m no witch these days, That I haven’t enough power to climb out of bed every morning, That most nights, like tonight, I lack the will to sleep at all. She wants me to make her into a story; Provide the obligatory sunset and a reliable horse to ride, Subtract boredom and mosquitos, erase years of wrongness and tedium. She’s standing by my desk, eyeing the bookshelves, already detailing her personal legend, “Give me a nice death scene, something with a spark. I want the flames to catch.” She’s saying this like I haven’t heard it all before. She thinks she’s very clever, would like a fast car and a nice boy a leather jacket, a shiny weapon, something passably resembling immortality. She’s a character, I suppose, but I’ve got no room for her. She looks desperate, and I get it, I really do. Does she think I’m not tired of sharp edges and poor lighting? That I haven’t seen what this world does to women like us, That I haven’t felt myself stretching into nothingness at every lonely corner of the earth? Does she think I don’t understand how burning inside someone else’s fictions could seem like relief? But she doesn’t want relief. She wants deliverance, which I can’t do. I have tried, you know, I’ve spent hours staring at these papers, these symbols, my chosen craft. But there’s no magic here, the power’s dried up and gone elsewhere— Spend enough lifetimes scraping the bottom of Pandora’s jar, and eventually you come up empty. I know I’m supposed to be the witch, but you can trust me when I tell you there’s nothing left here.
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WEDNESDAY, JANUARY 15, 2014
“You betrayed me,” she says, understandably upset. She calls me many names and none of them are my own. Witch, siren, temptress, betrayer— All true, any way you slice it, but I’ve made no promises and broken no vows. I’ve told lies, yes. Aren’t I allowed these small comforts, the last faint remnants of power? I have to live in this world too, between the dirt road past and the unenviable bloody future; I have to survive with the ink that won’t ever wash off my hands, with this startling absence of fire. You could have left me here in peace, I tell her.You didn’t have to indulge your morbid curiosity. Even trifling lies fail me now, and I am left speaking the truth: I haven’t the strength or the imagination to build any more worlds. I don’t understand the patterns flashing across the landscape, not now, so you’ll have to acquire your own kingdoms. I’m tired of endings, beginnings and middles; tired of swallowing the past and spitting back magic. Go away, clever girl, you shouldn’t have come to me. If you still want to meet a witch you’ll have to forge her yourself.You’ve already got the necessary raw materials; curiosity, a bit of cruelty, an unfortunate desire for immortality.You’ll need to find a very deep jar and a new name. Some matches.You can have my papers, my books, the inkwell on the desk.
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BULLET QUARTERLY
The Oblivion of Solace These things no longer offer me solace From the contortions of my mind The nights alone, half dreaming in bed The walks out where the trees are tall The old, worn smell of aged books They cease to give me peace and rest The aching they no longer ease Things that no longer offer me solace: The cool slide of whiskey down my throat The maniacal laughter of a high Pressing my lips to her mouth Now its a shrinking sigh As I wish for my home fireplace No more do they calm my mind It just keeps running at quick pace Adventures to have, places to see Buying a coffee in every country Writing a poem for a parisian sunset And love to be finally, finally found These, my old dreams of life to be lived Have been lost, In the things that don’t give me solace
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WEDNESDAY, JANUARY 15, 2014
Untitled You’re the blue Light Streaming through these Eyes When my Phone’s Screen invites My shaking Hands from Rest, Keeping these red Lenses Writhing ‘bout the Night As if the Stars were the Wells Of the Water blurring them. I remain awake tonight Because I can’t will myself to tell You that I want to give You my Stars to keep, Can’t will myself to ask If these Stars would align To the Landscape you show Me in wistful Sketches. Wear me down with the Pieces If they weigh too much, for the Hues I know to wander within your Voice Won’t color in without your Words. 19
Sales Piece
BULLET QUARTERLY
Cut, Breaking, Sliding all along Thinking about living on my own Thinking about living all alone Tired of the charts and the graphs, Tired of the absolute statements and facts, And I’m Tired of the axes getting ground by those who don’t know they’re hacks -But relax, just be sure to cut up our stacks, -Be sure to distribute it to all of us who deserve our clout. Alright, will do, meanwhile I’ll try to earn my own doubts -What do you want from us? Bitter because we won? And are enjoying the luxurious world of life in the sun? No, I’m not sure, but I’m finding it hard to be something, Serving its time simply struggling for green leaves But good luck and good health to me, Trying to break the bank when I’m tethered to such a heavy leash. -C’mon son, you need money to breathe, Not routes to flee from this dark web, Now stand up, no time to feel dread, You’ll have all the needed permissions for rest when you’re dead: Mangled, Broken, and Stumbling till the very end.
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BULLET QUARTERLY
Does Not Follow Dietary Restrictions keeping poisons inside you is scientifically proven to increase the chance of implosion by 73%,
so they said.
it’s so easy to let painfully sweet secrets slip from between your lips when that’s really where you wanted them all along. * I cup my hands together, stretching the dry skin between them to vainly try and hold all of the parts of my heart that I had gingerly handpicked, hoping the slippery blood doesn’t rush between the slits between my fingers and
ruin my white shirt.
I call this hand-shape the Breadbasket.
My doctor says I need to take vitamins, because I’m missing on essential nutrients such as self-confidence and serenity and joy but I’ve always hated drugs anyway, only in my weakest moments of pain do I digress, and really only surprises are painful. the feeling of sinking my nails into my soft parts is simply electric. the vitamin overflowing in my small body is Love, too much Love, because every person I meet
gets a piece of my heart.
(I carefully cut this one out for you. It’s bigger than the rest) * accumulated toxins fester in the fatty tissue surrounding my heart.
the green mold of envy I keep swallowing down like vomit
I feel so guilty, so selfish, but like some sort of beggar I say, 22
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take it, take me please I hate drugs, but I easily get addicted to people.
it’s an electric pain I can’t sweat out.
I’ve stopped eating now. It’s the only way I can control my hunger.
my parents taught me that the only way to get something is to go out and get it.
You give something to get something.
I want too much. So I keep giving to try and get it but I am toxic. I love too much to hurt people, so I hurt myself instead. it’s the only way I make them accept my bloody little pieces of heart. because if I get too thirsty, I can always lick the blood left behind in the Breadbasket. Once, I saw a video of an autopsy. He looked like cheese pizza on the inside. Maybe I will be cheese pizza on the inside.
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Bus Plunges!
WEDNESDAY, JANUARY 15, 2014
Extra, extra, read all about The love poet, as the heart’s journalist, Whose terse scoop, tweeted, will tout: “Unverified Couple starts Vernal Tryst,” Our sources say, “and, for the first time, kissed.” Lips’ presses run, the story’s out. Extra, extra: “Poets Vex Life!” For your spare change, with your French-pressed coffee, You can read about their sex life— One stanza perfect, another off key, Mawkishness sopped by the softy. Rhyme’s presses run, the story’s rife. Extra, Extra, analysts write, Brokering their bonds of love with delight, “Markets are volatile, though prices Soared on word of crashing vices,” Masking that their exchange braces for crisis. Lips’ presses run, the story’s trite. Extra, extra, in interviews There have been hints of serious Developments poems confuse With meter, making love delirious— Making words, not intents, imperious. Rhyme’s presses run, story ensues. Extra, extra, on the front page: “Details of Love are emerging, Scandal spreads; Disagreement converging,” Inked words smeared, like black tears, taunt page Six, where star-crossed lips are seen “diverging.” Lip’s presses run, the stories rage. 25
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Extra, extra, radios blare: “Negotiations hampered,” claim reports “By a lack of savage retorts.” Print lewd photos of Friday night’s affair And leave libel charges to Facebook’s courts. Rhyme’s presses run, the story’s bare. Extra, extra, pen the column: “Lovers Start Talks,” that communication Might halt love’s uglification, Yet by couplets, poets play dumb. “Love Poet Balks at Communication,” Lip’s presses run, story’s solemn. Extra, extra—Wire: “Lovers Rue Their Love Being Unlike Poems.” Official, in the wake of love, condemns Opposition leaders; talks continue To collapse, as fine words fan their problems. Rhyme’s presses run, the story’s true. Extra, extra, some paper says There’s evidence of prisoner torture; With every cute word he coyly brays, There’s evidence feeling’s cocksure; Love like ambush, kindness became forays. Lips’ presses run, the story’s war. Extra, extra, read the headline: “Photos of Fierce Riots; Deformed Protestors; Death Tolls Unconfirmed” Stringer on truth’s frontline infirmed, Editing in blood to meet his deadline. Extra, extra: The Story’s Mine?
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Untitled
WEDNESDAY, JANUARY 15, 2014
Her name is stardust, She travels into the currents of my sky, And she face-paints the grateful boy in my smile, Her colors are so many and so beautiful, I don’t even see their base coat, But I am reminded, Everywhere we walk I can see people mistaking the souls of her feet for the souls in our hearts, People staring because they don’t read newspapers, And they haven’t seen black on white before, People who wonder why I love the woman, Whose skin is a chocolate I cannot stop tasting, I read her palms and see more of her person than any soothesayer, I touch her cheek and we connect in an affection of understanding, But I guess what I’m not understanding is this obsession with the colors of our naturel costumes, Because we did not dress ourselves, And I suppose when we split our hearts and gifted one another the most dangerously fragile parts of ourselves, We weren’t looking on the outside anymore, That’s why when you ask about love I say I believe, When I touch her she smiles, When your eyes prick her she bleeds, She is my greatest gift, Because I don’t love her presence for it’s wrapping paper.
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The Fisher King
Trigger Warning: This piece could be a trigger for those who have experienced sexual or verbal assault, either personally or through secondary trauma. Seven hundred and fifty thousand miles on a Honda Civic that you barely drove and I was in the passenger seat controlling the radio.You liked that, didn’t you? Seven hundred and fifty—or was it more? handjobs and I don’t think you got off once. I swear we’ll get married I swear You’d get off of work late on Friday and Saturday nights. The weekend. It always made me mad that you worked on weekends. I mean so what if you have a car to pay for and your mom maybe isn’t very generous I mean come on you’re gonna be fine college isn’t that expensive I’d buy your coffee every Friday morning It was seven dollars and fifty cents for both of us you owe me You liked that, didn’t you? Our coffee dates. Remember our first date? I forgot my wallet. Oh my god this is embarrassing, you know you’re cute when you’re laughing at me Our first kiss was on the slide at the Burger King playplace This is romantic isn’t it? I touched you for the first time in my room on my twin bed with plaid sheets and my foot knocked your cell phone off the bed our bodies rolling around Ohhh you liked that didn’t you? Alone in my living room with my pants and your shirt on the carpet and the TV on in the background so that my parents couldn’t hear the couch gently bump bump bump against the wall They won’t come in I swear just relax I used to yell at you. Scream at you. Pin you to the wall so that you couldn’t leave. Stay. I’d kiss your neck and move your hand… We noticed the moon was bright, I could see you clearly 28
WEDNESDAY, JANUARY 15, 2014
I’m sorry how I acted. I’m sorry I’m sorry. Just a few more minutes. I’m sorry—I swear to God I’m not just saying that. I love you. I swear to God I’m not just saying that. Mary I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I wish I could stay with you forever I wish I could take it all back and tell you that when we went to church together I know you were an angel the way your white sweater made my hand feel I believed in God for a split second I know it I could see the Virgin in your eyes you owe me I was a kid, I was a kid. That’s an excuse. Is that an excuse? You owe me. Your crying face looked ugly and your mouth whimpering like a dog when I finally told you that I just couldn’t do it anymore, you were going to college and I wanted to lose my— I want to lose it to you everyone else does it come on Why not okay another time maybe I wanted to lose it to you, not some girl I didn’t know You should feel awful.You always put me second. You won’t even have sex with me for christsakes And you say that you trust me. Prove it. Fuck me Sevenfifty pm sevenfifty pm you owe me ten more minutes I wish it had been you. You like dumb movies mary here let me pick one Yeah I know I picked the one last week but oh shut up come on I like better movies than you and you owe me
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THE UNTITLED SOCIETY
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UNTITLED
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WEDNESDAY, JANUARY 15, 2014
Sex Education
And fuck I just wish someone would have told me. I mean, I grew up, yeah, just the same as everyone else and no one ever told me I’d have to really focus on who I was—I mean who I really was—and I’m not talking about the adjectives like “kind, sensible, smart, caring…” all those things we practiced writing on our little white boards in third grade; I mean something else. Something else involving those people you like (you know, the ones you like “in special ways, kids”). I mean, we were taught that those people were normal people and that you should respect the people who are and you should never make fun of them because how would it feel if people made fun of you that way and yeah, I was never made fun of but hell, no one ever told me that I could be one of them. Them. Fuh. Why is it even a category? I mean, how could you group all of them—us (??)—into one category? I don’t dress like the hippies who are, do I? I don’t have twelve piercings. I don’t go to those bars. I don’t dress like a dude. I just wish someone would have clued me in. Well. Okay. Let’s start a little before this. “Yeah, you might be gay. In fact, there might come a time in your life where you will have to figure it out.You’ll be confused.” Figure it out? Confused? I mean, what does all that even mean? “You might like girls.” Okay for my sex, yeah, that part is obvious. That’s kind of the definition. But I wish someone could have just told me straight up, like “I know! So I’m gonna tell you! To save you a whole lot of confusion later in life. You’re welcome!” (Cue overly-joyful smiling older friend giving you a thumbs up…). And let’s talk about the things others don’t talk about. I mean, your whole life everyone always just assumes, I mean, really assumes that you just like boys (because you’re supposed to, aren’t you?) and then when you start dating some of them and people think it’s “omg super cute,” and I mean, what do you say to that? Do you just laugh and ignore the fact that the reason you slept, spooning, in the same bed with your best girl friend from your freshman dorm that one night when you were drunk wasn’t because you missed your boyfriend but because you really 35
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liked her? I mean really liked her? Who tells you those things? And what happens when if she finds out? Well now I know, I guess so it shouldn’t matter. And I guess the hard part is telling people. Telling people that you’ve lied to them for twenty years of your life. I mean, aren’t people supposed to know by then? Your brain matures at 21, doesn’t it? Shouldn’t I know by now? But anyway, the common conversation? >>I haven’t liked guys, well, for a while now but so, um, well I’ve liked, you know, girls. << >>Oh! (*eyebrow raise*) << Yeah, “oh.” No one fucking knows, and is it cuz I hide it so well? No, I don’t think so. I think it’s cuz I don’t even know who if I am. Questions for sexual education (girls) Mon/Thurs 10:00-10:48AM: 1) If you date a guy, are you straight? Is it possible to date a guy and be gay? 2) If you date a girl, will people think you’re a lesbian? If you date a girl, are you a lesbian? Can you date a girl and not be a lesbian? 3) If you date both girls and guys because you’re “not sure,” is it a considered a “phase” or are you bi? 4) When you want to kiss your best girl friend, is that normal?
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…And is bi a thing? Fuck. Shouldn’t we learn these things in sex education? Let’s revise our lives and think about why, when we listen to songs about girls we get more excited that when we listen to songs about sexy Spanish men. Well I guess I’ll just say what I feel, cuz I haven’t admitted it until now: I’m attracted to the female entity because she breathes she breathes and I breathe with her and fuck I just wish someone would have told me why I want to kiss her. 37
Deltaville I think my life changed in 7th or 8th grade and I started seeing things the way they should be seen or maybe it was at 6:30 am and I think in the springtime when both of you walked into the house crying and all I can remember was saying “What’s wrong? What’s wrong?” and I never once heard her say it would be okay because we all knew that it wouldn’t be. Maybe that was when everything became clearer and I realized that what I learned in social studies wasn’t true that the good guy wins and justice is served but that isn’t true and it was never true and that guy in twelve angry men killed that fucking girl and I keep screaming “Guilty! Guilty! Guilty!” and no one not one of you ever listened “you can’t trust anyone” not even your best friend not even your prom date
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Eggs on the Metro On the morning metro, The scent of frying eggs. Like a running yolk, my soul spilling continuously for the membranes of fellow riders. Suspended is my jelly membrane Continuous with all Other eggs cooked severally, Some yellows firm and chalky, The one beside me fast asleep, Yolk-down --who has cracked? They spill and tumble in as I spill unto their coarse shells, absorbed in wombs or pasture. The train rolls in and they roll around and out My egg, soft-boiled 5 minutes, sitting exposed smooth shiny white naked glossy and secure.
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Untitled
BULLET QUARTERLY
My campus is the empty one Hollowed halls hallowed Bustle obsoleted Given to peace and cold orange haze and the insane opera of the sun around tiny Earth Light and dark, complements to nothing Let's take these seats: An overture of stern heterogeneous chirping Gives way to first light's ghosts and noon's Demi-emptiness The evening crescendo into rainbow furor The arrival of the drunks, the procrastinators, the lazy, simply A universe of nothing for a while Finally, the deer, taxed by night movements, food, sex, providence, and the affairs of wild things Plods ungracefully across my alien terrain Slinks into the trees behind the cul-de-sac And so we beat on, the past an impossibility.
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A Glass of Water in the Early Morning Under all the covers, You squirm against cold hands returning to you, And seem to recoil and come to meet me at once. The leaves change into something different for you, Something closer to living than dying, And you help me see it. So I rise up by instinct to the window, Above you, between the broken blinds, To catch a glimpse of all those colors.
But you pull me down to you, Braving the tingling chill We draw a deep, red, autumn pastel From you lips, falling to the rise of your hips, Tracing your ribs with my fingers, Taken with the joy of changing landscape, To bring the cover of heat back to you.
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BULLET QUARTERLY
Credit Plates Bullet Quarterly was founded at the College of William & Mary by Christina Trimarco, Faiz Hussain, Nick Reck, and Rebecca Moses on November 12, 2010. The Untitled Society was founded by Rebecca Moses in the Spring Semester of the 2010-2011 academic year. Following are the credits of the Fall and Winter issues of Volume III in 2013: PAMPHLET of three works Volume III FALL Monday, October 7, 2013
BOOKLET of thirty-three works Volume III WINTER Wednesday, January 15, 2014
under the direction of our staff with Naomi Slack EDITOR-IN-CHIEF LAYOUT
with special gratitude to our publisher Fidelity Printing, Inc.
and with special note to our contributors Anonymous
Emma Aylor Nickolas Reck EDITORS EMERITUS
with special gratitude to our benefactors The Publications Council of the College of William and Mary Bullet Quarterly and the Untitled Society are student-run organizations at the College.Their future hinges on a wealth of submissions, the dedication and sacrifice of its members, and conditional funding from the Student Assembly. Pieces for the future issues may be submitted in the form of photographs, fine-line drawings, and non-fiction to our website, bulletquarterly.com/submit. The Untitled Society can be contacted at untitled@bulletquarterly.com. PAMPHLET Volume IV SPRING February 2014
BOOKLET Volume IV SUMMER April 2014