Cantilevers
FSC Journal of the Arts
Cantilevers
FSC Journal of the Arts
Cantilevers Staff Student Editors Jim McKenna Hannah Kiester Peter Edgar
Student Staff Kimmy Knight Jordan Reed Emily Fournier Sarah Bliss Grace Newton Arianis Burgos Alexandra Faust Felicia Coursen Casey Broker
Faculty Advisors Dr. Erica Bernehim Dr. Louis Di Leo
Contents, Poetry & Prose Letter from the Editors v Letter from Advisors & Acknowledgements vi a grocery list from my great grandmother 3 they were married, belive it or not 4 yaya’s house in old miami 5 Ginger Stems and Native Ashes 6 James’ Father 7 My God Died on a Dogwood Tree 9 terms of endearment do not include 10 stroop effect 11 waterfall fairy lights in the dining room go from silver to blue 12 laundry idolatry 13 puddles and bread loaves 14 Recipe for a Lunchroom Cocktail 15 ikb 191 (a tribute to yves klein) 16 aurora 17 They Knew 18 “Go to Hell.” 19 Snowglobes in Summer 20 Jewelry in the Likeness of Emptiness 21 The Cigarettes We Smoke 22 My grandfather was mauled by a tiger in the jungle -- an exaggeration 23 I was there 25 A Sestina for Two Lives Lost 27 Brain Freeze 28 The names they’ve called me 30 The Antithesis of Dreadlocks 31 The Heirloom 32 Featured Artist: Georgia Lynn Dean 34 Rust 41 Faded 42 The Weight of Living 46
Contents, Visual Art COVER ART :
Impastoed Fruit (see pg. 33)
Daria Gill 7 / 12 Casey Broker Impastoed Fruit Georgia Lynn Dean Heavenly Bodies 1 Heavenly Bodies 2 Heavenly Bodies 3 Heavenly Bodies 4
Infect the World With Kindness 1 Infect the World With Kindness 2 Infect the World With Kindness 3
2
33
35
36 37
Eve
38
Divine Self
39
Daria Gill 11 / 11
40
Casey Broker Freddy Mercury Portrait
50
iv
Letter from the Editors Dear Readers, We are so excited to have the privilege of presenting to you this year’s edition of Cantilevers Journal of the Arts. This issue is so special, as we showcase the words of students from the Harrison School of the Arts alongside Florida Southern voices. Whether in a short story, poem, or piece of art, we continue to find that literature and art provide landscapes where we possess the ability to push boundaries, reimagine the world, and so much more. As we continue to grow as a publication, moving to an online presence alongside our annual print issue, we find that it is important to provide as much access as we can to the voices we are fortunate enough to feature. We hope that you enjoy reading this issue as much as we enjoyed putting it together. Sincerely, The Editors Peter Edgar, Hannah Kiester, & James McKenna
v
Letter from the Advisors This 2019 edition of Cantilevers is a special one. The editorial staff has chosen to feature work by up-and-coming younger writers from the creative writing program at Harrison School of the Arts. This program is directed by one of Florida Southern’s own English department graduates, Clifford Parody, and his students have been part of FSC’s visiting writers series over the past two years, as well. I speak for myself and for my colleagues when I say how proud we are to showcase the work these talented writers are producing, and it’s a delight to feature them alongside FSC’s own writers and visual artists. This year also marks the beginning of a new online presence for Cantilevers, thanks to the hard work of the incoming managing editors, Peter Edgar and Hannah Kiester. Check out the site at issuu.com/cantilevers. As always, my co-advisor, Dr. Louis DiLeo, and I want to praise the Cantilevers staff members for their hard work and dedication to promoting Florida Southern’s talented artists, past and present, and possible future!
Dr. Erica Bernheim, faculty co-advisor and Director of Creative Writing
Dr. Louis DiLeo, faculty co-advisor and Assistant Professor of English
Acknowledgements Producing this issue of Cantilevers would not have been possible without the generous support and consideration from the following people: Dr. Anne B. Kerr, President of Florida Southern College Dr. Kyle Fedler, Provost Dr. Brad Hollingshead, Dean of Arts & Sciences Dr. Peter Schreffler, English Department Chair Mrs. Kathy Kniffin, English Department Administrative Assistant Mark Rust and the wonderful team at Crown Printing
vi
Cantilevers
FSC Journal of the Arts
Poetry
7 / 12 | Daria Gill
2
a grocery list from my great grandmother Rylee McNiff
butter_____________________________________ lady fingers_____________ _____ milk and ____ vanilla ___ pantyhose and lipstick _______________
POETRY WINNER
i found this scribbled on a crumpled piece of paper along with a bus ticket in one of her fleece coats. simply put, she was a european lady living in america. this list for the holidays was from a women i never met yet i walked to the stop down the street, boarded the bus and went shopping. this is what my mom talked about when i was growing up-the recipe she tried over and over but couldn’t imitate, couldn’t remember. grandma’s mocha frosting on a ladyfinger cake she would make while watching her soaps or telling my mom about her grandpa being so good at the piano. her grandma would strum at the rubber bands on her wrist to remember the old country but enjoyed the new: the walk to the bus. the laughter of her grandbabies. the romance on the tv. i filled in the blanks on the list what she meant was butter “the real kind none of that fake stuff ” can’t believe women buy that margarine shit, ladyfingers “from the deli” fresh is always better than packaged, “whole” milk and “pure” vanilla the secret for the frosting to be thick and rich, “tan” pantyhose to match our beautiful olive skin, lipstick “named cranberry” the men playing cards on the corner says it brings out her eyes. and so with the items meant for a day met with turkey or ham, i made a ladyfinger cake today met with a fork and knife and nothing else on the table to celebrate her.
3
they were married, believe it or not Rylee McNiff
she smelled like gardenias and a blockbuster video store. they charged so damn much, they went out of business. now she smells like the day care she runs at home, and a community college she is too old to attend. he smelled like slices of lime were hidden behind his ears, a magician never tells. now he smells like the tax collector’s office and his recliner-mild leather, dancing for time with his feet dangling she had time to sit and sit sit sit and read and read but now she reads applications for jobs she won’t get. no experience for a chance of experience — denied. he had time to take his daughter to the park and swing and swing swing swing and smile and smile but now he smiles at interviews and at the landlord. charm is a method of pleasing, begging.
baby girl sits at the bar stool with ruffled socks and mac n cheese on her face. everything is fine with her. a day care at home — a place for infinite playdates. printer paper from the college class — an artistic reach.
4
a grinning man rarely around — a stranger to hold hands with
yaya’s old house in miami Aubrey Graydon
every so often, between tropical storms, the sun would shine. i would jump through my yaya’s sprinkler in my pink flamingo bathing suit. watch the water bead up in the grass. blades of st. augustine gleaming in the sunlight. yaya would cut up mango from the tree papa rap planted. sturdy and colorful. When she missed him yaya would sit beneath that tree. rays would sneak between the leaves, illuminate her smile. i would set up my little alligator lawn chair next to hers. we’d sit.
5
Ginger Stems and Native Ashes Charles Duncan
Sweet stings of ginger, bitter tree skin fills my wheezing organs. Carbonation drowns me Stinking of ammonia, the bobbing dead around me. I crawl to the shore, watching the rotund devour trees, slurping meat from coconuts. They leave beaches of decapitated heads, leaving cities of blind men and women, bullets rupturing skin and muscle to reach hollow bones. I listen to the rumble of the street as the ringing chords chime through palm trees. Clapping palms and shrieking words call down the light to burn away the dark. The swirling spices of jerk and curry fill the air as steel drums beat out the screams of the empty eyed.
6
James’ Father Charles Duncan I never understood the sparkle of firecrackers in midnight. James explained it to me with words. His father spoke and it was, Father’s words ignite candles all across our city. James explained that flames draw others near calling out to eternal midnight forcing heads to lean closer to the warmth, but that meant everyone was different, and everyone was filled with even smaller everyones. Humans are complex, built of cells with their own cities, man imitating god, even from the beginning. James says people used to think he was everywhere, they’d listen for his voice under garbage bins and inside bullets. It’s hard to understand. He says that his father’s voice will guide the rest home. It’s hard to understand. James says the city will die, not yesterday or the day before. I repeat the words so I won’t forget. James is silent. James died the day my older brother caught him walking under the streetlight. Everyone knows you should be home before the streetlights. James’ father is going to be back soon. I hear his voice when I sleep. My sweat runs thicker than blood on asphalt. It’s hard to understand, repeating the words so I don’t forget. Voices echo down the street at night but I tell my little sister to shut her ears everytime I flinch at the gunshots. People used to see James’ reflection everywhere, in gold chains and on rims that spin when the car stops moving. I only hear James when I’m asleep. James’ father is gonna be back soon, the stores are closing and the streetlights are turning on. I sweat in my sleep dreaming of burnt out cars and teargassed streets. James’ dad rides in a white Bentley with three more behind his. I can’t hear James anymore, he used to say we live in the city that never sleeps, I can’t hear anything.
7
Gunshots make people deaf, I wonder if you can think you’re deaf when you haven’t heard anything in a long time. James’ father is coming, I heard a few kids up the street whispering his name while putting bullets underneath their tongues. I don’t understand but repeat the words so I don’t forget. James’ father is just up the street, he’ll be back soon, that’s what James told me.
8
My God Died on a Dogwood Tree Corinne Cuddeback
Easter morning delivers white petals crossed in crimson and crowned. Cornus florida, flowering tree, grew taller before He turned to suffering God, dead. Living in Florida, whiteness blossoms, the resurrection fern feigns death and deflects final judgement to his mossy brethren, tethered to oak gallows, to whites of eyes bulging, incredulous of salvation. Believe in me and you shall live. B.C. before crucifixion Judas danced throughout Gethsemane with a kiss. At the edge he holds everlasting life in his scapegoat hands, a rope, a neck, and a flowering tree. They know not what they do. A.D. a dogwood prayed, forgive me, and Jesus cried: there will be no more trees strong enough for gibbets, for hanging dead. But the trees are plenty tall in Florida. Whiteness blossoms on the dogwood because God said nothing repentant will be used for killing my children.
9
terms of endearment do not include Erum Kabani
the train that passes my neighborhood at 2 am, it sounds like a siren, and though i’m not looking for disaster, something tells me this will read as one. my mother, who does not understand this language, does not know how i like my coffee or how i will do what i will do when i’m older. “love, you know to know your points of exit when you enter a room, right?” you’re filming your autobiography but we don’t live in a movie theatre-exits will rarely glow red, they will rarely be the same way you entered. a dance of clammy hands as we walk, his knuckles grazing the wall, the handrail, and me wishing i was graceful, wishing my toes would point. sitting in on holidays unrelated to the imperialist agenda and wondering how it has yet to bring peace. the sink overflowing with mugs, the apartment flooding thanks to a lodged cloth tea-bag, at the mercy of disposal.
10
stroop effect
Erum Kabani
years later, i was too old for “we just didn’t get along,” but still too young to hear from my dad about my mom. we hid when things went bad. she never told me, but grandma’s was clearly her favorite hideout. after the divorce, my mom took me to chuck e cheese’s twice a week and her walk-in closet became my go-to lookout deck. she complained of hourly phone calls but i know they were never a bother and aren’t one now. she remarried a short year later but once answered her then-fiance’s call with my dad’s name in that very closet. and i don’t believe i will ever pray as much as i did, cross-legged behind that mirrored sliding door every evening. i think i knew something was off, i want to believe so. i was just too young to dwell on recovery or time. i think if you let anything run long enough, anything out of the ordinary makes it worth the loss. i still wonder if it is better to live with all or nothing. i have never lived another way. circumstances have always served themselves as choices. from coffee to tea. one day a coffee, another a tea.
11
waterfall fairy lights in the dining room go from silver to blue Erum Kabani
witching hour, “when the veil between their world and our world is at its weakest,” try balancing on one foot with fuzzy socks. i do this, imagine the floor is lava, and fall into the dining room table— i traced the toothy-dent everyday until we got a new one. a culmination of bronze and glass and wood. this window of time, i am paranoid. ive never believed blood to be thicker than water. but my mom tells me to whisper a prayer* in and out of every door i open. my parents made the same trek years apart. my lineage unsynced until the mid-90s. the 80s and early 90s midwest was too cold and too expensive and not enough community. southwest was the ninety’s córdoba, southeast was then and has remained pompeii. some eid in the early 2000s, my mom tried to outline my eyes with kohl and my instinct was to run. i hadn’t remembered ever seeing a mid-toned barbie, and they shut down plans for a large community center on 92nd street, because anything like that—with a small mosque blocks away from ground zero, could be taken as victory. my lover to-be wakes me with the barrel of a gun to my temple, i swallow, ignore the feeling of live ants trying to crawl back up my esophagus, and sit criss-cross on my bed reciting tongue twisters with a pencil between my teeth.
12
CW
laundry idolatry
Jordan Brooks
in the church street 24-hour discount laundromat you decide you never want to grow old, want to stay in this holy corner until the reds bleed pink into unseparated whites, both shoved into the same hallowed hole. that’s all part of the sacred charm, you think. it’s 11:49 p.m. the wait time is your penance. if you rush, if you wrinkle the button-down you were washing to wear on your discount date, then you can just leave the dungarees, the seersucker shirt, the coveralls, the khakis, because what’s the point of wearing clothes if you’re already clothed in shame? time spins into an hour of folly, an hour of fun; all in good taste, like your mother reading obits in her spare time, until the machine bleats out its sermon, tells you it’s time to go. eroding sidewalks trace patchwork roads, past the iglesia de dios, past the neighborhood meat market, past the sinful, smoldering red, used car superstore – one of the few stores hiding its innards on a street lined with glowing cavities. hoisting your laundry higher, you trudge the midnight pilgrimage home.
13
puddles and bread loaves Jordan Brooks
the day we run out of bread i soak my shoes through to the socks but between sinkhole puddles & a trek through the grocery store idle thoughts fail to occupy my head. the frozen section reminds me so much of the grating silence of our apartment i forget to buy a loaf of what i came for. i kick off wet chucks, peel off soggy socks, & abandon them by the door. (i am required to believe all puddles dry eventually.) grocery bags: dumped & forgotten on the kitchen table. down the hall i bounce barefoot on the rose-patterned sofa. no one is here to stop me. the thud of wood floorboards when i jump down echoes my stomach. maybe you won’t ask about the bread or dampened sofa cushions if you return. i do believe all puddles dry eventually. all you have to do is remember the things you’ve set aside.
14
Recipe for a Lunchroom Cocktail Marcos Martins
Chocolate milk for a base, The top scrapings off the salisbury steak that had the fake grill marks on it, A handful of soap that is gelatinous in the dispenser but comes out as foam, The crusts of a sandwich from Jeremy, who brings his lunch, And an oreo since we have to make some sort of sacrifice. Add A fart in the classroom dismissed by squeaking your chair directly after, The cuss words from the rap song that played on the bus that morning, The code yellow from when Emily’s estranged father trespassed into the school to take her. We didn’t think childhood tasted good until we couldn’t eat it again.
15
ikb 191 (a tribute to yves klein) Marie Crosby
restless cars reflect an ocean off their hoods as the wives curl over the skyscraper’s edge. they reach out to the sun, their violet fingertips withering as doves gather the petals. free from husbands, they leap from the rooftop, spiraling out of themselves. slim-cut dresses flutter in harsh winds until their sovereignty sprawls on the pavement. sapphire intent floats them to their mothers. women will reclaim themselves, writhing in their dignity—this is the blue period.
16
aurora
Marie Crosby
the valley of her waist is where wanderlust comes to stay and roaming souls feed her lavender hair— she lays in the grass and i call her my garden. i plant a seed in her collarbone between a bouquet of honeycomb and sage. past travellers settle in her scars but she needs new energy— her fingertips wilt and her eyelashes cover the forest in petals— i trace rivers running between the mountains of her spine before she uproots herself again. the sky is pink and frothing with gold when she returns in daylight, her sunflower cheeks warm and blooming.
17
They Knew
Megan Hash
Ophelia knew what she was doing. She refused to live under A king who no one knew was trapped in his own mind Or in everyone else’s, but she knew she Preferred roaring waters to roaring feuds. Persephone knew what she was doing. The taste of power paired well with The pomegranates she slipped between her fingers, like the Fate she held in her soil caked hands For the first time The depths knew what they were doing. As they accepted the two maidens With open arms and bowed knees. They were aware of their plans, This was simply the final step. All hail those that control their destinies. All hail the queens Who govern themselves Before anyone else Can control them.
18
“Go to Hell.”
Megan Hash
The chains that keep you down Are a form of security That you never provided me. I’ve had enough of those bonds. I was never sacred to you, and Though you may tell tales of How I was the succubus all along And how you were a mere slayer Saving himself from damnation That communication and trust Would trap you in. I may have told you to go to hell, But who says that wasn’t wishing you the best? There’s something almost romantic About fire, A candlelit dinner, Demons wearing sulfur As their own brand of perfume And serving wine-red blood From crystalline challices Made of harpy claws and hellhound fangs Set on a table made of bones. My corset is my own rib cage, As my still-beating heart Hangs as a necklace By its own strings. But you say you Never liked red on me In the first place.
19
Snowglobes in Summer Hiraeth
Two kids, They threw themselves on the yellow line that separated northbound and southbound Hands pointing up at the stars bound to the big black nothing. The road was only a theoretical danger. It was the trees protected them from the big bad wolves and their parents, A much bigger threat. It was worth it, sewing sleeping bags of cold pavement, The gravel kids will tell you life should can only be seen from that angle, seated at the bottom of a snow globe. But only if the glass is half full with fireflies. They were tracing them, watching their bodies flicker to their exhales When one looked to the stars then the half silhouette of the other and said If that if all those stars could gather themselves up out of nothing maybe we could too The second voice hesitated, then spilled into the earth like a wish, they said hydrogen is actually very abundant in the atmosphere so it’s not that magnificent after all And the other laughed so hard she slammed her head into the road. the hit was unprepared, unexpected unperfected so the glass globe fractured, a bit July must have been too delicate for the kids to hold Free from the confines of the refracted summer, August drew them towards drearier places like moths to the fire. The two kids, they threw tore those stories from their composition books and forgot pinky swears with yesterday’s breakfast. But one, one remembers the view.
20
Jewelry in the Likeness of Emptiness R’Keria Davis
Air dense with screams kindles laughter from the carver, her hijab fastened with the unity of girlhood. Untrained chests endure pressure from imperceptible women, immovable boulders impressing repressed memories into their ribcages. The silence of centuries tucked in folds of womens’ hijabs surrenders delicate girls to be carved into maroon-colored jewelry. Blood droplets will court the mouths of families, a liquid more valuable than water gathering in village wells.
21
The Cigarettes We Smoke R’Keria Davis
An emergence of cells became an emergency inside your womb. Why did you forget? You never forget. One cigarette for an arm, One for a leg, One for eyes and ears. I’d prefer the clarity of the tube over this, and I would never cough or cry or burp or scream, but you forgot. I became your little garbage man before I could grasp cigarette butts. As a toddler I lit my own. I bent my hand in the same manner as you, released the smoke in the same pattern, tucked them in my pockets the same. When I was 5 daddy stormed into the house to choke you while I rocked in the corner with a cigarette, suffocating me for the first time. I stopped at 15, but you continue, prayers between index and middle finger, hoping that the next one you light will send an answer through inhalation.
22
CW
My great grandfather was mauled by a tiger in the jungle - an exaggeration Rachel Burham
I am made of chain. Divorced wedding rings and combusted bank accounts. A shrug. Elbow grease and beer bellies, bags of pills pinned to bulletin boards-sticky notes with sloppy letters scribbled on the edge: Take one too many this time, take a carpet ride out the window. Fourteenth floor to the first, but absolutely no dying aloud this time. I come from the Klinkhammers and Duchearms. An ice box full of scheduled meals and tucked-in shirts. Salut Mary, to Ave Maria, to Hail Mary. Daughters bearing little boys too young, falling off the edge to get out of that town. Driving a ‘79 ‘Stang down to the peninsula-a screaming baby strapped in the back, An older sister in the passenger seat, teeth falling from her mouth-bouncing off the dash onto her lap. One by one. On my dad’s side there was tanned skin and drinking problems. Blonde haired, blue eyed mothers
23
locking daughters into food pantries. They all left before they could see the red baby hairs of grandchildren. Whiskey, on the rocks. My family members spitting on one another from century to decade. Coming from nothing to Nothing much man, can I buy you another drink? My great grandfather came from the other side of the universe. He died being eaten by a tiger off the Panama Canal.
24
I was there
CW
Shannon Sullivan
I imagine I was there instead of lost outside Flattened into the wall staring At you through a mirror Watching as you took the spoon The cotton, the bag The needle and set it all Out on the counter You must have felt like god— Your creation of life, or death, maybe they aren’t so different I watched as as you mix the water in, Dropping the cotton into the dome, I imagined that’s what your eyes would Look like hours after Misted over, a light blue canvas No mother, you no longer have To see the pain you brought dragging it up through the syringe I watched as you became a helium balloon You then, I think, sitting on the floor Stick the needle in between your toes The place I never knew of until My father told me in an argument I grabbed her arm to see the marks She looked so well in her innocence She’s doing fine I said There are no track marks Did you know they wire your mouth shut before the viewing? You would never have to tell me again That You were clean When you push it into the vein Your head falling from grace Chin meeting shoulder, head meeting the edge Of the bathtub
25
You become a marble piece Not for someone tainted as me To touch again You felt warm, then I enter in decades too late High and useless as a sheet Hanging from a clothesline My dad dragging you into the center of the floor How heavy a body must be Carrying the weight of my world And he pushed down on your chest I watched myself fall out of your mouth I hate you You’re drunk I couldn’t help but wonder How you would’ve told this story I don’t want to tell you I looked away. Covered my eyes when they carried you out. Never asked to see you after. I don’t believe you imagined Your judgement day On a silver table: So I pretended you never reached it I don’t want to tell you It took me a year and 11 months To write this To remember the night The one night I didn’t reach you in time You didn’t get to wake up To a man rubbing knuckles On your sternum Or to charcoal Meeting your stomach Or me Slamming the sliding glass door on you I feel my closed eyes were the Worse form of betrayal And You told me, through a medium, That you didn’t want me to be the one To find you And I said:
26
Don’t worry I’m still looking
A Sestina for Two Lives Lost
CW
Shannon Sullivan
I think of you the most when my eyes are heavy, falling asleep in midair. life started and ended at age nineteen, now the You in my dreams writes with their right hand wears the same teal shirt with beaded strings— the You in my dreams is a liar. The man who was too tired to take off his surgical mask was a liar his flat-lined words felt heavy I threw myself to the bleached tile searching for strings screaming My Mom is Dead into the air they didn’t offer warmth, only a cold hand pushing a needle into my arm, now— In a hospital bed, now throwing knives at my love because he lied pushing him into a life I could never hold when I hit the ground I wish he knew how heavy it felt suspended in midair searching, failing, to find her, his, strings All of the rings are rusting. alone with what they left me now. Almost sleeping, I can only feel their hair time creates strangers but this remains familiar I simply miss how he made the bed heavier He loved me once, but it was all beforehand I can count their lives on two hands but only the fingers tied in string if I grow too tired their lives get heavier though they’re no longer here now I can’t stop lying in the letters, their words, their hair When I’m tired I smell him in my hair I feel him on my hands I am the liar bound by a ghost’s string all that I no longer know has now fallen softly I long to be the string, that pulls you back into my now— but all I can ask, is for you to remember me softly.
27
Brain Freeze
Sylvia Nicholas
28
i licked your earlobe. it melted on my tongue and dribbled down my chin. milk chocolateleaking from your sideburns as i stroked your hair. i never hesitated to lick my fingers after each time we met, sugary— that’s why you hated your eyes. they were too sweet against your savory exterior so you gave them to me. i hid them safely too- between my left wisdom teeth. i chewed them every ten minutes to remove the flavor for you. it wasn’t enough—you wanted to be cold and collective, so i put you in the freezer for alone time. knowing us, this never lasted long; we’d always end up outside, my hands covered in you, ignoring the 100 degree weather beaming on us. or at least i did. you never mentioned how much the sun hurt you. your memories began thawing. this
time less delicate. the heat defrosting your will to stay intact. i tried to help. but my tongue could only wrap around so much of you. i clamped my mouth shut but you—the you that wanted to stay, drained through the cracks of my lips. you no longer wanted me to save you.
29
The names they’ve called me Sylvia Nicholas
Carved into the seal of my birth certificate. Detailed so perfectly in six letters, I couldn’t imagine a better way to say flawed. My parents assigned my name to me like a hand-me-down sweater from my grandmother, sewn with cheap baggage I never got the receipt to. Maybe if the stitches left deeper marks, showed proof of my existence, then maybe I’d stop trying so hard to return it. My name was never mine. People learn my name the way they learn music to cut unwanted parts into words they can manage to spit. I get a remix of false synonyms off the shuffles of their tongues. They sell my label like clueless dealers; it’s almost as if they forgot my name didn’t start with N-I-G. They call me by different songs I no longer care to hear the tune of. When that cursed sweater clings to my throat and reminds me of who I am, I only worry of my constant urge to scratch away every letter so even I won’t be able to see their threads.
30
The Antithesis of Dreadlocks Tre’Lyssa Bivins
We sat scooping pomegranate seeds On duplex steps, and I remember the rhythm Of your laugh as the juice dripped onto Scraped knees. I felt its steadiness echo In the street, rearrange my bones, Seep into cracks in the road’s spine, Giving them purpose. I used to believe this unwavering Cadence, the way your hair coiled at the nape, Maybe the scar that defined your temple. You’re always calling me your Monarch, Destined to flourish outside the radius of The Ghetto That Never Sleeps, Where pomegranate shells become Hollow people, afraid to cry out in a Community that dismisses Illness as Ungratefulness. You understood this like no one else, believed Our suffering should happen in solidarity. You taught me to push against the unrest, Unveil everything our lineage disproves, Instilled the need to address each tear like A trophy of release, a new Progressive Movement to realize that melanin Doesn’t deflect brokenness.
31
The Heirloom
Tre’Lyssa Bivins
there’s an old baobab tree, an heirloom, that sings the names of my ancestors— the grandfather i never met who smelled of pink lotion and perm, always with a 2¢ toothpick hanging between his gap toothed mouth Something passed to my mother, then me, a lover of buttered rice and fish in the mornings who married my grandmother; she sang shea butter and hymnals the same, braided her cherokee hair the way her mother taught her— 3 sections for the father, the son, the holy ghost— my mother learned this as her nappy hair was combed, greased down with blue magic, plaited. my mother wore her gap and hand-me-down shoes, no socks, to school each day, danced to biz markie and grandmaster flash ‘til she became a woman. then came me. with a gap that grew as i grew like my understanding of legacies from the ballads of the baobab’s branches extending like cornrows, chanting my ancestors’ names like divinities; i perform praise dances, knowing the old heirloom will sing of me, too.
32
Impastoed Fruit | Casey Broker
33
Georgia Lynn Dean
34
Featured Guest Artist
Heavenly Bodies | (series)
“I work in a variety of mediums, including digital and ink illustration, painting, and a variety of styles of printmaking. Across the span of my work, there are many common elements and themes. I focus on the female form, the human skeletal system, anatomical drawings, and botanical elements. I create in a formulaic fashion, working through difficult feelings and questions I have for myself through the intertwining of these symbols with each other. Like a math equation, each element has grown to represent a deep rooted philosophy for me on my perspective of the world. “The act of creation is extremely therapeutic for me. It often calms a stormy mind and a troubled heart. I spend a rather short amount of time actually creating most pieces, in contrast with the more extensive amount of time spent reading about the physical human body, the symbols of nature, world religions, and yogic bio-psychology. The culmination of this research in combination with daily yoga practice and meditation is sketchbooks upon sketchbooks of ideas and drawings. Often times, images come to me after meditating on a particular phrase, poem, or mantra. I strive to create and communicate an honest and articulate representation of my self moving through this life. “[These pieces] came out of a time of consistent yogic practice, and each represent a core value I wish to enact daily. The illustrations pair with mantras that came to me in a variety of formats in that time of my life, including a poem by rumi and an unkown proverb.”
35
Infect the World with Kindness
Infect the World With Kindness 1
Infect the World With Kindness 2
36
“This series... blossomed from a reflection on birth. I had a friend who was discussing with me why she felt so called to have kids with her boyfriend some day. I had the argument of how little faith I had in humanity, and she responded with how much faith she had in herself. She told me that because the world could suck so much, that’s why she wanted to have kids. She knew they would be kind, sensitive, and loving, and so she might as well ‘infect the world with goodness.’ “That really stuck out to me as such a brave thing to be in this world—kindhearted, yet fearless. So often people can be looked down on for being sensitive and soft, but it doesn’t have to be that way. To choose to love as a response to everything, and change the ugly parts of our society, is a daunting task, but affect is wonderfully contagious. So I created these three pieces, intaglio prints, to show that process of saving the world through being kind, and gentle, and sincere.”
Infect the World with Kindness 3
37
“Both of these were interpretations of the same theme, building on the foundation of the philosophy I have been exploring the past couple of years. In these two pieces specifically, I suppose I was focusing on origin rather than transformation.” Eve is based off the figure of Venus from Sandro Botticelli’s Birth of Venus, a famous old painting that I found myself revisiting in a time of reflection on true self, the version of self that exists outside the physical realm and the concept of lifetimes. Eve and Venus both sort of represent [an] ultimate feminine, and I suppose I stripped that all down in an attempt at understanding what was really behind it all. I keep coming back to the theory that it has to really be love, somehow.
Eve
38
Divine Self
Divine Self follows the same stream of consciousness -- who am I really and how do I tap into that all knowing energy? I think when we truly know ourselves, the path becomes illuminated to true freedom and peace, and that’s what I wished to articulate with this piece. Both of these are digital versions of what would later become screen prints on paper. “Most of the time the medium I chose just comes down to what I have around me. Pens, markers, paint or crayons on whatever paper is close (I even have a drawing on an airplane barf bag). From there, the ideas that I want to further meditate on, the ones that captivate me most, tend to find their ways out of sketchbooks and barf bags and into more intricate forms, such as the prints.�
39
Fiction
11 / 11
40
| Daria Gill
Rust
Jordan Brooks
By the time we got there our red truck was bleached rust. Sand caked the tire grooves, and the damned heat saturated every space – our mouths, our lungs, our heads.
PROSE WINNER
We rattled to a stop, the truck wheezing as it settled. For a moment, we sat there in the hot silence. When we finally moved, the rays of sun were sharpening needles of light behind the mountains. The barn was dustier than I remembered, and the roof sagged in on one side. Resilient weeds struggled through earth as the desert crept in. Together, we pulled the tarp off the old thing: there it sat, tires half buried, just as it was all those years ago. Hours passed. My brother spoke barely eight words in that time, too absorbed in working with his grime-coated hands. By the time we coaxed a sputter out of the engine, cool air licked across our skin. We stepped back to admire our work. The tractor was running. All the way out here in the grassless desert, a tractor – Papa never did have the sense to tow it back into town. We backed that old rust bucket out the barn doors, readying for the long haul back to town. In the dusk light, words began to come more easily as we hitched it up to the back of the truck. Later, in the cab, we spoke of how the distant city lights resembled the stars we used to lie back in the sand and stare at. Papa had never been much of a philosophical man, preferring to stick to machine parts and good old-fashioned elbow grease, but he’d come a bit more alive out in the desert night. Sometimes he’d make up a story about the constellations we could never find. No two stories of his were ever the same. We lapsed into silence, shared a glance. It was just the two of us in Papa’s old, red truck. For the first time in a while, we smiled together.
41
Faded
CW Paul Kenzie
I have been online for exactly two years, four months, three days, seven hours, thirty-five minutes, one second, and two hundred and twenty three microseconds, all of which have been under the service of Albert Leroy, a man of thirty-two years and a forty-hour work week. I was a replacement for a previous model Personal Assistant Laborer. The last Assistant owned by Albert Leroy was destroyed in a car wreck, an incident covered by the standard warranty policy of Better Living Incorporated. “Good morning, Sir. Please awaken – you must be at work in two hours. I have made breakfast already,” I said at his bedside at a volume level programed to be ‘pleasant’. Despite this, Leroy turned over and pulled the bedding over his head. The bedding was Sky Blue #87CEEB. It did not match the sky. The sky was overcast – ninety percent chance of rain. My owner did not reply otherwise to my initial vocalization. “Sir, you have instructed me to disable the snooze function. Please rise or I will turn on the lights. ‘Early to bed and early to rise, makes a man healthy, wealthy, and wise.’” I wheeled closer to the nightstand. “Your morning routine takes an average of one hour. Traffic data suggests the new turnpike construction will increase driving time. Please awaken.” “I’m up,” Albert Leroy replied. Feet shifted from under the covers and onto the floor. Hands rubbed at eyes. “Thank you, sir. I will be downstairs should you need me further.” I wheeled out of the room, objective complete. My sensors examined the rooms carefully as I returned to the kitchen, making note of the many chores I was to finish before my owner returned from work. The empty beer bottles and old laundry strewn about the guestroom exceeded acceptable levels of cleanliness. The refrigerator needed to be rid of leftovers and expired goods. The master bedroom was to remain untouched. By the time I made it back to the kitchen, my owner was already at the table, staring out the floor-toceiling window of his apartment. The dining table was rarely used except for quick breakfasts, but it was set for two regardless, as per instruction. Aside from the noise of rain falling against the small balcony and the scrape of his utensils against his plate, the time passed in silence. Scrambled eggs without the yolk, toast with margarine, and two turkey sausage links. “Sir, am I to box up the excess food?” “Yes, Pal.” “Should I cook less tomorrow? This is very inefficient. Thirty-five percent of what I cook goes uneaten.” “No, PAL. Don’t change anything.” I nodded. “Yes, Sir.” I wheeled to the seat across from Albert Leroy and cleared the dishes. I took the extra servings and placed it into several Tupperware containers. Albert Leroy just sat and watched, hands cupped around his mug of decaf two sugars one cream coffee. I noticed his belt was cinching his waist and that he kept fiddling with the metal latch. “Sir, while I do have you on Diet Plan Three-B, you will continue to gain weight from both your sedimentary lifestyle and the surplus calories from drinking. Should I-” He silenced me with a gesture. “Yes, sir. But I am obligated to tell you that you are now considered overweight, and I do advise change.” He did not reply.
42
Time passed and I finished my kitchen duties. “May I do a full cleaning today? It is long overdue. The guest room is a mess.” “Fine, Pal. If it makes you happy,” Albert Leroy said as he exited for work. I went to clean his because my programming suggested a messy living space could negatively affect the mental state of Albert Leroy. I had not completed a Full Deep-Clean in the guest room for three months and four days. I fetched a broom, cloth, bacterial wipes, and the vacuum. The small patch of dried vomit splattered behind the toilet was dealt with promptly; the sheets and blankets and pillowcases of the guest bedroom, well used, were deposited into the washing machine; the dishes were cleaned and returned to their proper places. With the chores done, I exited the kitchen to return to my charging port. Halfway down the hall, my sensors detected the door to the master bedroom was left open. I went to close it – but before I did, I detected several articles of clothing lying on the floor inside. Albert Leroy had instructed me to not open the door to the master bedroom, but it was already open, so I moved inside for the first time. The door hinges creaked, long settled into a state of disuse (I made a note to oil the hinges later). My treads sank into the thick carpet. The king-sized bed was disheveled and messy. I started to fold the quilt back into place and straighten the sheets, but the dust kicked up in the process suggested they were in need of a Full Deep-Clean, much like the guest bedroom. I took them from the bed and put them into washing machine. It was fortunate I had stocked up on disinfectant wipes. I polished the dusty tops of the dressers until they shined. Clothes, haphazardly strewn across the floor and furniture alike, were picked up – shorts, tights, socks, blouses, t-shirts, pants. Their sizes suggested that many items were too small for the owner in his current overweight state, but perhaps when he became fit again he would find new purpose for them. It took several more hours of steady, constant work to bring the room back into acceptable condition. • Albert returned at the same time as he did most days. Six twenty-three, today. His arms trembled under the weight of a large case of beer, a bag of takeout food dangling precariously on the edge of the cardboard carton. I assisted promptly. “Pal - Any new messages?” “Zero new messages. Zero new voicemails. Twenty-four saved voicemails, all from Samantha L-” “Take the beer to the kitchen.” “Yes Sir,” I replied. After I deposited the alcohol in the fridge I returned with his takeout served on a freshly cleaned plate. “Would you like your food on the sofa again today, sir? Or at your desk?” Albert Leroy’s expression was one I had not scanned before. His stance was different from his standard, muscles tense and frozen in place. His eyes darted between me and the master bedroom. He threw the door open with such force I heard the handle put a hole in the plaster on the other side of the wall. He stood there, standing in the doorframe, silhouetted by the grey light from the bedroom windows. “You cleaned.” He said after a five seconds. “Why did you clean it? I told you to keep out of the bedroom.”
43
“Sir, I gave the whole apartment a cleaning. The master bedroom certainly needed it the most.” He took another step into the room. His hand brushed across the freshly laundered and ironed bedsheets. There wasn’t a single wrinkle on the silky white surface. The whole room was cleaned to a similar standard. He took one of the freshly fluffed pillows and pressed it to his face. “The smell.” He softly said. “Hydro-Pulse Delights Lavender Scented Detergent.” “It’s gone.” He set the pillow down slowly. His eyes flickered across the shined wooden surfaces of the nightstand and wardrobes. His jaw clenched. “Her clothes?” “Sir, I am sensing abnormal levels of muscular tension. Did you have a long day at work? May I offer you a massage?” I suggested. He turned to me. “Where did you put her clothes?” “Her clothes? Who do you refer to by ‘her’?” “Suzan,” he responded at a volume two hundred percent louder than his average speaking volume. “I am sorry, sir, there is no one I have met by that name. As for the clothing, it is currently in the washing machine, with three-point-four minutes left in their current cycle. Anything that’s is too small for you – due to your current dietary preferences – I have washed and placed in trash bags for potential donation to local homeless shelters.” I gestured to the side of the door, where, stacked neatly beside the simple wooden bars of a piece of furniture, were two tall trash bags, colorful clothes visible through the stretched white plastic. “Get out.” He said. “Sir, I am detecting that you are currently crying. While I am not programed to be able to help, Better Living Incorporated now offers Emotional Support Assistants. For only two low payments of five hundred dollars, they can assist you in dealing with work-based stress,” I helpfully informed. He slammed the door – it didn’t close all the way, bouncing off my treads. I rolled backwards so it could close properly. • Further attempts to get Albert Leroy to eat his dinner, as to properly maintain the meal schedule of Diet Plan Three-B (though the take-out far surpassed the calorie limit) were in vain. With little else to do, I returned to work. It was a full two hours before he finally emerged from the master bedroom. His face was red and puffy. Without a word, he moved out onto the balcony. I reheated his lo mein in the microwave. I rolled out to the balcony. He was standing up against the railing “Sir, I have made you a warm meal. You are two hours overdue for your afternoon meal. Imbalanced eating schedules can negatively affect your metabolism. Please eat.” “Pal?” My microphones almost were not sensitive enough to detect his voice. “Yes, sir?” “What do you feel?” He asked. The drizzling from the morning had continued through the day, and now wet the railing of the balcony and Albert Leroy’s arms. The moisture in the air condensed against the lenses of my sensors. “I feel in many ways. My articulated hand joints have twenty-four individual sensors for temperature
44
and pressure feedback. My dual four-point seven megapixel cameras stream visual data directly to my forty core processor. Around my base are several additional infrared sensors to avoid accidental collisions.” “I didn’t ask how you feel – I asked what you feel. Right now.” “I sense it is roughly forty degrees. My humidity sensor tells me it is raining, and my visuals confirm this. I see Albert Leroy, my owner. Through cross-referencing the standard health guide, I determine it is not healthy for you to be so undressed in the cold, sir.” “But what do you feel?” I did not understand. There was a long silence. My sensors detected new muscular tension in his hands as he clutched the railing. I watched him as he climbed up onto the flat top of the railing, bare feet on the surface and his hands holding onto the edge wall of the balcony for balance. “Look, Pal. Thank you. Thanks for everything,” Albert Leroy said, looking up at the sky. “You’ve been great to me. But you’re programed to. If you were a human, if you had actual thoughts… I doubt you’d want to live with me. Hell, I don’t even want to live with me.” “I am not a human,” I replied. “I’m going to be going away for a while. Someone will come and get you, and you’ll get a new owner.” He took a step off the balcony. He fell forwards, out into the grey sky. I grabbed onto the back of his shirt and pulled him backwards. “Be careful sir, you nearly slipped. I predict a fall from the seventh floor would almost certainly be fatal. I suggest you go back inside, warm up, and eat your dinner.” He stared at me for a long moment, before slowly nodding, getting up, and returning to the guestroom to change. • After changing, he went to the master bedroom. The door was left ajar. He was curled up on the bed, pillow held to his chest and the bottom half of his face. I wheeled slowly to the side of the bed with a small tray of reheated breakfast. He sat up slowly, and after a small pause, took the tray and started to eat. “Sir? Are you sleeping here tonight?” He didn’t respond at first, just quietly eating. “Pal? Could you,” he paused for a moment, “lie on the other side of the bed?” I obliged, though was a clumsy affair. My large treads did not allow for elevation changes steeper than a staircase. I had to pull the nightstand from the guest bedroom and put it on its side to form a step. I wheeled onto the top of the bed, and my heavy metal form caused the bedframe to creak in protest. My treads imprinted long creasing lines across the bottom of the bedsheets. I leaned forwards until I lost balance and tipped into the bed face-first, then rotated my torso until I faced up. I hardly fit. I lied there, unmoving, as I sensed Albert Leroy’s arms wrap around my chassis.. He did not speak. He lay there, fully dressed and half-covered in blankets, hair still damp from the rain, as his breath slowed and his heartbeat dropped to a low, steady rhythm. My sensors – switching to night vision to accommodate the dark – took note of something that I hadn’t seen during my earlier cleaning. A small picture frame sat under the lamp of the bedside table. Contained within the frame was an image of a sunny day, but the image itself was sun-bleached, the colors all now bleeding into white. Leroy was pictured. He had his arm draped around a woman. They were both smiling. Colorful hats were held to their heads with small elastic bands, and bright beads draped around their necks. His hands were placed over her outstretched stomach. I began to compute what to make for Albert Leroy’s breakfast for the following morning.
45
The Weight of Living Hannah Kiester
The hospital door clanged open and the sound echoed down empty halls. Sasha shuffled inside, casting her eyes over the grimy walls. A few of the chairs in what had been the reception area were tipped over- one had a cushion torn off and the stuffing inside left a trail to the front desk. A fine layer of dust had settled over everything. “Doesn’t look like anyone has been here in a while,” Marie said, breaking the silence. “I wonder why,” Lucas mused. He glanced down a side hall. “Good shelter is hard to find these days. You’d think a place like this would be teeming.” Sasha crossed to the reception desk and pulled a clipboard that sat on top toward her. The last entry was from years ago, but she supposed that squatters weren’t likely to sign in at the front desk. Briefly, she wondered who the names belonged to- what they had checked in for. She wondered if any had survived the bombings or the riots that broke out when the dust cleared. “Doesn’t matter,” she said, both to herself and in answer to Lucas. “It’ll work just fine for us. The less people we run into, the better.” Sasha looked at the dark purple bruise on Marie’s face- a souvenir from the last time Sasha had gambled on trusting a stranger. Marie looked up to meet her gaze and Sasha saw her sister blush before looking uneasily away. Lucas, sensing the new tension in the room, cracked a smile. “Well, I’m going on a tour! Marie, want to join me?” He offered his arm like Gregory Peck in the old movies Sasha’s mother used to love watching. Marie grinned and took it, and the pair disappeared down one of the halls. Sasha grinned after them, grateful that they had found Lucas in those first few days on the road. That had been five years ago, but now she could no more picture life without him than she could picture life without Marie. When the voices of her companions had faded away, Sasha opened the door to the nearest patient room. Inside were two beds and a faded armchair with the cushions missing. The television was cracked and the cabinets along the nearest wall were open and empty except for a few stray bandages. Sasha gathered those and shoved them in her canvas bag before inspecting the rest of the rooms on that hall. Her search produced nothing more than a few more bandages and an empty bottle of saline. She was surprised that there was even that much left after five years. Surely, they were not the first travelers to seek shelter in the old hospital. The last room down the main hall was an office with a name plate that read Dr. Sandusky. Sasha tried to open the door, but found it locked. Frowning, she tried again to make sure the knob wasn’t just stuck, but the door really was locked. She stepped back a few paces and gave the door a swift, firm kick. It banged open so violently that it nearly swung shut again. Inside was a mess of papers and vials, one of which cracked under Sasha’s boot as she entered. A tall lamp in the corner of the room had fallen over and half-obscured the desk. Sasha rummaged through the drawers and shuffled through the papers but found nothing of use. Her eyes were drawn to a journal stuck under the fallen lamp. The faux-leather cover was peeling and a red, polka-dotted ribbon tied the journal shut. Sasha ran the ribbon through her fingers, remembering when Marie was twelve and wore similar adornments in her hair. She carefully untied the ribbon and the journal almost fell open to the middle seam. The pages, some stained with water and coffee,
46
cracked as she turned to the first entry. It was dated a few weeks before the bombings. The handwriting was large but neat, and Sasha grinned to herself at the irony. The entry read: January 12th Several patients have been complaining of new symptoms that are seemingly unrelated to their current conditions. I am keeping them under observation to see if the symptoms pass within a few days. Sasha flipped a few pages ahead. Introductions were always her least favorite part to read. January 16th Patient systems have increased and new patients appear to be showing signs as well. Symptoms include heightened anxiety and stress levels, elevated heart rate, fainting spells, and frequent vomiting. Some patients experience bleeding of the ears, nose, and eyes. We have closed the hospital to visitors, much to the disappointment of my daughter, who was hoping to visit me at work. The current conditions at the hospital are causing me to develop a migraine. January 16th I have recently discovered that one of the senior doctors on staff brought his research on a newly discovered virus that appears to have high risk factor. This research included samples of the virus for experimental purposes, but one of the samples seems to have been released. I am not sure yet how, but most of our patients and half of our doctors have now been exposed. January 18th The virus has caused its first fatality. Our attempts to treat the symptoms of the virus have not been successful. They are not letting anyone leave the hospital. Someone, one of the receptionists, has called for a government quarantine that will be here in a few hours. The doctor responsible for introducing the contaminant has barred himself in his office. The occupants are growing hostile. Survivors have banned together to increase their chances. My migraines are more frequent now, and I have not been able to sleep for several days. “What’s that?” Marie’s voice from the doorway caused Sasha to jump and drop the journal. “Have you ever heard of knocking?” Sasha asked, stooping down to pick up the journal. She placed the hair ribbon in between the pages to mark her spot and faced Marie. “New reading material?” Lucas poked his head around the door frame. “It’s a journal one of the doctors left,” Sasha explained, crossing the room. “Apparently some freak virus broke out that shut down the entire hospital.” “Virus?” Lucas frowned. “Is it safe for us to be in here?” “I don’t see why not,” Sasha said. “The journal is from five years ago, so even if the virus lingered after everyone left, it should definitely be gone by now.” She herded Lucas and Marie out of the office and closed the door behind her. She led them back down the hall to settle into some of the patient rooms near reception. The sunlight coming through the front windows made that part of the building seem less eerie than the others.
47
Lucas found a trash bin to start a fire in as the sun set. Marie took two cans out of her backpack and went about opening them. “If I never have to eat canned beans again, I’ll cry from happiness,” said Marie as she worked. “That’s my heaven. Not a bean or a can in sight.” Sasha chuckled as she hopped onto the bed, the metal frame creaking. She pulled Dr. Sandusky’s journal out of her bag and opened it to the page she had been on. “Why don’t you read it out loud?” Lucas called from the other side of the room. “I want to know what happened with this virus thing.” “Let me find some good stuff,” she flipped though the pages. The handwriting of the entries got messier as she got further into the journal. More patients came down with the virus, as did several doctors. Dr. Sandusky described his migraines getting more frequent, lack of sleep, and a loss of appetite that he attributed to stress. The CDC had been called in, but they could not find a way to treat the disease either. Fighting broke out on several occasions between the hospital’s occupants. Dr. Sandusky barricaded himself in his office to try to avoid coming down with the disease. “Oh, he totally has it!” Marie called through a mouthful of beans. “Spoiler alert!” Lucas shouted back. “Let me get there!” Sasha interrupted. Marie scoffed, “Just skip ahead some more! We can already tell where this is going! The details don’t matter!” Sasha sighed, flipping through several pages. She wrinkled her nose as she turned to one page that reeked of stale alcohol when she opened it. February 5th I’m afraid the disease is taking me faster than expected. The lack of human contact over the last few days has caught up to me. I am constantly on edge. I have begun to see things. Yesterday, I found blood in my ears and nose. I refuse to leave my office out of fear of infecting one of the survivors. If there are any survivors left. It has been quiet. I fear this may be my last entry. “Is that it?” Lucas cried. “Let me finish!” Sasha yelled. “One more interruption and the journal is going in the fire and none of us will know how it ends!” Her audience was silenced, so Sasha flipped to the next page. The writing was dark on the page, as if each letter had been purposefully written and required great effort to get on the line. February 8th End is dragging on. I wonder is anyone left to tell my family I’m gone? If anyone finds journal, my address is in the back cover with a photo of my wife and daughter. Please tell them what happened to me. Sasha looked up from the journal. She shifted on the bed and looked down at Marie and Lucas. “That’s it,” she said, opening to the back cover. Inside, lined up with the seam, was a photograph of a middle-aged man with a premature bald spot and a wide smile. On his shoulders sat a little girl with a red polka-dotted ribbon tied around her ponytail. A beautiful woman with sunglasses that were too big for her face was mid-laugh. Reading the journal, Sasha had been able to separate the words on the
48
page from actual events. Now, she was seeing the face of Dr. Sandusky. She was holding the ribbon that was tied in his daughter’s hair. “Are you ok?” Marie asked. She rose from her seated position on the floor next to Lucas and joined her sister on the bed. “I don’t know,” Sasha replied. “I feel weird.” “Do you know what I don’t get?” Lucas leaned back on his hands. “It’s only been five years, right? And according to Dr. Sandusky, a lot of people died here from that virus.” Marie nodded, “What’s your point?” “Well if so many people died here,” he began, “Why haven’t we seen a single body?” Sasha looked down at the picture one more time before closing the journal. Marie scoffed, “I’m sure they came and took away the bodies to be buried once it was safe.” “The last entry was dated the day before the bombings started,” Sasha said quietly. “They would have been too busy trying to evacuate the city rather than cleaning up a hospital full of dead people.” “Yeah, but it doesn’t look like this city got hit,” Lucas said. “The first bombings started hundreds of miles away from here.” “No one knew where the first ones were gonna hit, remember,” explained Sasha. “Everyone was doing the best they could to prepare just in case. Trying to get as many people as possible into a limited number of shelters.” She remembered her mother waking her up in the middle of the night. Sasha had been visiting home for Marie’s high school graduation. She and her sister had been ushered into the car and they had driven for what felt like hours to join a long line of people waiting to be told whether or not there was enough room for them. Marie leaned forward, her eyebrows furrowed. “So, if there were a bunch of bodies and no one to move them, where did they go?” A loud crash from somewhere above them shook plaster down from the ceiling tiles and made Marie cough. For a moment, everything was still. Then, Lucas was on his feet, throwing his bag over his shoulder and pulling a slingshot and a small bag of rocks out of the side pocket. “We need to go.”
49
Freddie Mercury Portrait Casey Broker
50
For more than 10 years, Cantilevers has served as the Florida Southern College publisher of student artwork from the written to the painted, drawn, and the designed. We are proud to present this issue alongside an online version, available at issuu.com/cantilevers.
