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Founded in 1948 P U B L I S H E D AT T H E U N I V E R S I T Y O F N O RT H C A R O L I N A – C H A P E L H I L L


Fall 2013

V O L U M E 63.2

E D I TO R- I N - C H I E F

Ma!hew Hotham MA N AG I N G E DI TOR

Katie Walker F I C T I O N E DI TO R

Lindsay Starck P O E T RY E DI TO R

Lee Norton N O N - F I C T I O N E D ITO R S

Andrew Aghapour Nick Anderman A RT E DI TO R

Chloey Accardi C OV E R DE SI G N

Philip McFee WE B E DI TO R

Adam Engel A SSI STA N T E DI TOR S

Joshua Bradley

MO RE O N L I N E AT

www.thecarolinaquarterly.com


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ON THE COVER

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Reading

year at the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill.

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Contents

FALL 2013 | VOLUME 63. 2

FICTION MANUEL MARTINEZ What Presses Against Your Bones 19 LESLIE BAZZET T Preludes 65 R. JESS LAVOLET TE Leave Luck to Heaven 111

POETRY JULIA KOETS Plumage 12

Bullfrog Drawl 13 LIZZIE HARRIS Living Now 14

When Linear 16 A Man Is Begging, So I Think of You 21 DAVID KOEHN

Manes Gossiping, Overheard 44

JUAN RAMIREZ Homestead 53 BRANDON AMICO The Word Worried Is the Word Straw 58

Poem Beginning with a Line from Eugenio Montale 80 CARLA PANCIERA In the Movie of My Dreams of You 89

Phantom 94 REBECCA STARKS Out of Many, One

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DAVE HARDIN Chapman’s Piloting, Seamanship and Small Boat Handling 108

NONFICTION AARON APPS Barbecue Catharsis 9 ALEXANDRA REISNER Nerve Damage 46 DAVID BERSELL Reptiles and Other Creatures 96


REVIEW MEGAN HARLEY Remembering Wonder 132 The Latest from Daniel Wallace

ART CHRISTINE WU Tuberose 8

Remember When We Used to Play 18 With Grace 52 Sea 64 Dreaming as the Days Go By 104 Float 105 She Hit the Ground 110 Little One 131 AMY FRI EN D from Dare Alla Luce OLAF HAJE K Portfolio

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Tuberose

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AARON APPS

Barbecue Catharsis “Not to be devoured is the secret objective of a whole existence.” —Clarice Lispector There must have been twenty hacked and bu!erflied pig carcasses rotating in the massive metal lung filled with wood smoke, ash and pig grease—the edges of the meat burnished to black, sheets of their exposed flesh gone cordovan. A few select hunks adorned our plates, garnished with sides smacked on in half-spherical blobs. We ate the strands of meat from the bones. We ate silver fat. We ate gray-pink animal. We ate vegetable ma!er. We ate like we were eating each other. Sauce on our lips and cheeks, sauce on our fingers, sauce on our soiled napkins, sauce on us like we are wounds. Sides on our fronts. Dingy foaming all in our guts and enlarging drips on our shirts. Osmosis. Lovers feasting together. Later, a department store. I say I am satisfied. You say you are satisfied. I fill the cart with dry goods. You fill the cart with dry goods. Everything is square, familiar. Everyone is square, familiar. I say I have to shit, bad. You say, okay. I walk with the cart to steady myself. I leave the cart for you by the end cap of overripe cantaloupes covered with humming fruit flies. I say it is urgent. You say, hurry. You say I’ll check out. I walk fast. Not too fast, I keep my anus pinched. I’m frantic. There, the bathroom. I enter. I see a line of square stalls. They look odd. I rush to the last one. I latch the door. I shit. Explosively relief comes. And comes. And comes. My bowel movement gives me post-coital melancholy. When I li" my ass from the seat, I can feel the thick fluid peeling up from the surface of my skin, like pulling my hand off a table coated in the dye-flushed fluid that surrounds blackberries in pie filling. It’s sticky on my skin. AARON APPS

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LIZZIE HARRIS

Living Now I have many devices, most of which help me to love people from further away. It isn’t easy living now, or it’s becoming more efficient. Maybe I live two years per second. Maybe I am learning this from very far away. Today our love is monitored. Those brave enough must do so in the context of embarrassing clarity. I do. I do not have vision for the fine print. I do not have patience for small talk this small. Living now is trying to communicate, but we’re lacking

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in reception. It’s exact in the way you can’t put your fingers on.

LIZZIE HARRIS

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CHRISTINE WU

Remember When We Used to Play

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MANUEL MARTINEZ

What Presses Against Your Bones This all happened at the end of the Golden Time, those first few months in Florida when things were good enough that I almost don’t remember them. This was a"er we’d hitchhiked from Greenville to get away from Bill Number One, and a"er Gracie was pregnant enough that I swear I could see her ge!ing bigger. Whenever she was taking off her clothes and her shirt was tangled up around her face, I’d sneak a look at how her belly was sticking out farther than I’d ever seen it do before. I can remember racing to save every penny and can remember too what it felt like to keep my mouth shut about what I was seeing because she’d said that nothing could make her get rid of it once she started to show. She said that if she did have to keep Bill Number One’s baby, then she’d go back to Dalton to live with her mother, and because my own mother wouldn’t even look at me if I walked in the door, I didn’t know where I would go if she did. I can remember making a list of all the places I knew I didn’t want to go by myself, and can remember too waking up in the motel room we’d go!en with the boy who’d driven us to Asheville and seeing Gracie with her legs up over his shoulders. I watched them while I touched myself beneath my panties, picturing myself as both of them at the same time, and when they were finished, I remember hoping that she was right about not being able to get pregnant twice. The bad things get stuck and won’t leave, so I can see the nurse wheelchairing her out into the waiting room the next day, hunched over like they’d taken more out of her than they had. When I saw her like that, I thought that I’d never want to be her again. But the next day, when we were scrounging for beer and cigare!es on the corner, she was shaking a plastic cup with one hand while she held her skirt away from her legs with the other, dancing to the sounds of the cars and to the jingling of the change in the cup, telling everyone who passed that they’d seen the show and now they had to pay, her feet moving along with the flashing red light that warned people not to walk, and I was back to wanting to be anything besides me. MANUEL MARTINEZ

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AMY FRIEND

Latent Light

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Lake Rousseau, 1931

AMY FRIEND

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BRANDON AMICO

The Word Worried Is the Word Straw In that the camel’s back broke with worry and my stress-eating. In that we are / I am defined by stuffing, content or lack thereof (my brain fell out of touch a"er it went on strike and never came back. I see it walk through the flatlands and I wonder if it wears a hat). I wash my hands on auto. Check the non-calls, see that the inbox is still empty and well-dark and violently open. In that I throw those few seconds away, a desert piling up on the other side of the glass. In that I am / we are museums of scarecrows, diagnosis another word for stitching: when I speak I am rebuilding pathways one neuron at a time, patching diction where faces once were. There is nothing you cannot be: just ask for a name. A new poll suggests 100% of all time is wasted. Then a story about a local woman arrested for stealing a truck of apples. For dinner someone will enjoy a steamed crab, its shell like a bright Gobi dust. Back in my living room the commercial asks Who are you and suggests three alternatives. I am someone who drew my skin myself since I moonlight as a ta#oo artist every third Wednesday of summer months in odd-numbered years when I feel like it and Mars is in the House of Crows where rent is due. Someone once bought me a crab but I wouldn’t eat it, didn’t have it in me to break it open, I kept drawing eyes on the shell:

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googly eyes, the ones that spin when gravity is off-center. I blinked with a brush-stroke and declined politely. Hunger is the hard thing in my gut that spins when I think too much, feeding on scraps I drop from above.

BRANDON AMICO

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OLAF HAJEK

Reading

OLAF HAJEK

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Sorrow

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DAVID BERSELL

Reptiles and Other Creatures Iggy is dying. He won’t eat his iceberg le!uce, and the crickets I bought for ten cents each, like candy at the pet store, bounce around his tank as if they’re trying to rub it in his face. My iguana is dying. I don’t know how I know this, but I do. I am ten. I li" the screen off the top of the glass tank and pick up Iggy and hold him in the crook of my elbow. He’s a warm beanbag against my forearm. He blinks, and I look into his black marble eye. Lizards blink, but snakes do not. Kevin owns eight snakes. They sleep in two tanks above Iggy’s. “Santa” gave us a black iron stand to house all our pets. Kevin and I sleep in bunk beds next to the cages. Karen gets her own room. I say, “Why are you not eating?” Iggy doesn’t answer. Nose to tail, he is five-feet-long. He’s mostly tail. It hangs off my arm and curls up towards my bellybu!on. Iggy was the size of a Snickers when I picked him out two birthdays ago. He cost eight dollars. Kevin says iguanas are cheap here because there’s so many in the wild and when Cubans get off the boat in Miami they make money by catching reptiles. We’re regulars at the exotic pet store, so the men with sun-bleached tanks and jerky skin take us out back and show us the good stuff, the komodo dragons and baby gators and anacondas. “Iggy,” I say. “I love you. Please don’t die.” I set him back in his cage, on his favorite rock under the heat lamp. My hand still feels warm as I walk out the door. I am an outside boy, skin browned by sun. I kick cinderblocks in the empty lot next to my house, and then circle the cul-de-sac on foot. A"er the empty lot, it’s the Christian family and then the family without a dad and then the black family. The family without a dad has a nephew. He doesn’t live in the house but sits out front in his pickup with the windows down and a key in the ignition. He smokes cigare!es and listens to music. Country or gangster rap. All the houses

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on my street are new and made of chalk-colored stone with painted trim and matching driveways the colors of Easter eggs, key-lime or periwinkle or cupcake yellow. My driveway is pink. The neighborhood, Cobblestone Oaks, is only one road. It’s called a gated community, at the entrance there’s a gate with a callbox for visitors. Mom and Dad tap clickers clipped to the visors above their steering wheels to enter. When my parents talk to other adults they say we live in Ft. Lauderdale, because it’s close enough and no one has heard of Davie, Florida. My dad calls me “Davie from Davie.” I toe the canal behind the cul-de-sac, eyeing the brown surface for water moccasins, fat with venom. I squint to see the minnows swimming near the muddy shore. Last summer the girls who don’t have a dad got ducks for pets, but the ducks escaped their wire pen and waddled to the canal. A snapping turtle shredded them like a couple of pillows. I didn’t see the violence, but I can picture it. At the end of the canal where a rusty drainage pipe leads the water underground, I slip through the fence to the park. Nobody uses its playground, and my parents say that I can’t come to the park a"er the sun goes down because of the new graffiti on the handball court. The park runs behind one side of Cobblestone Oaks. Behind my side of the street is a dairy farm. A half dozen cows speckle the green expanse. Kevin and I like to sneak through the hedges and barbed wire to explore the field. We dare each other to touch the cows and chuck rocks at their pies, watching for the brown bull in the distance. ———— When we are home alone Kevin and I race up the stairs to our parents’ bedroom. Dad keeps a stack of Playboys in the bo!om drawer of his nightstand. The inside of the drawer smells like cologne. We pick an issue and lie belly-down on the carpet flipping through the glossy pages—the few small photos in the front, the celebrity pictorial, the centerfold. Sometimes we get so anxious to see the

DAVID BERSELL

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CHRISTINE WU

She Hit the Ground

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R. JESS LAVOLET TE

Leave Luck to Heaven In this demo for Hanafuda Home Computer Extreme Emulators, you control famous video game designer Daisuke Minamoto as you play through the first level of his posthumously released autobiographical adventure game. Press start to begin

Level 1—Hanafuda Corporate Apartment (Late May 2010)

The game will begin with a wide view of metropolitan Tokyo, zooming down toward Tokyo Bay then up the Sumida river to the Shinkawa district, the boardwalks and quays on either bank shaded by the green boughs of cherry trees, their pink petals gone only a few months ago. The view will focus in on one luxury condominium building overlooking the river, all glass and steel, speeding up the river-facing side only to hover in front of a balcony near the top floor before floating inside. In the condo’s spacious living/dining room, stacks of moving boxes and suitcases will cover the floor, tables, and chairs, their bulk forming walls and barriers, directing foot traffic through narrow paths between key locations: the kitchen, the living room couch, the hallway to the bedrooms and the toilet. You’ll navigate these paths later, but for now, the view will take you down the hallway and into the large master bedroom. In the bedroom, from Pro Tip: Press start to see a blueprint of the Hanafuda Corporate beneath the twisted blue Apartment. sheets of a king-sized bed, a hand will stir. Fingers will flicker across the corner of a pillow, pressing imaginary bu!ons on a dream controller. The action of the dreamed game will become furious as the fingers dance and spasm, combinations of bu!ons mashed in a desperate drive to succeed. And yet the dreamer will seem to fail, for in a fit, the hand will first clench, then grab the pillow, flinging it across the room. Game over! Or is it? Control of the hand will shi" to you as play begins. R. JESS LAVOLET TE

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The fingers will animate again, now the arms and legs of a tiny man traversing the satin landscape. Hop Pro Tip: The basic controls for moving the hand around will mirror over wrinkles in the those used for moving the main character, Minamoto, later in the sheets, then begin game. Play around with them now if to sprint toward the you’re unfamiliar. edge of the ma!ress and leap. As you kick the air, diving across the deep pit, you’ll land among loose change upon the nearby nightstand. The fingers will change again: no longer a tiny simulacrum of a man, they will wiggle, squid-like, stretching and searching through the tiny henge of watch, wallet, and keys. Locate the smooth case of a cellphone and li" it, turning its screen back toward the bed. As you do this, a tectonic shi" of blankets will give rise to a cave, two bloodshot eyes struggling to open from within the subterranean depths. The phone will display the time, 11:23 AM. A puff of rancid air and a groan will rise up from the cave, and with a great upheaval, a man, Daisuke Minamoto, head video game designer for Fun Fact! Hanafuda Corporation, The century-old Hanafuda Corporation will rise from the conbegan as a manufacturer of playing cards and toys, moving into the fines of the bed. You burgeoning arena of electronic games in the late 1970s. Mr. Minamoto began will control this “hero” working there after university. for the remainder of the game. A speech menu will appear with options for Minamoto’s first u!erance of the day. Select “Damn, I’m late.” Except he won’t be late, not today. Men on forced “vacations” Pro Tip: Turn on English subtitles in the Language can’t be late for work. Men whose Menu so you can understand the Japanese dialog. wives have kicked them out can’t be running a li!le behind for family gatherings. Men hiding from the media can’t be delayed for a public appearance. The only appointment Minamoto could claim to be late for is his morning exercise routine (weigh-in, stretching, sit-ups and push-ups, a jog on his treadmill, and a protein shake), which he mined

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for gameplay in Hanafuda Fitness Suite. But you, the hung-over shade of Minamoto that haunts Pro Tip: Consult your doctor before this place, you can only adding Hanafuda Fitness Suite to your exercise regimen. Eat a well remember this morning balanced diet. Don’t drink as much ritual, can participate only whiskey as Mr. Minamoto did. in echo. Open the Inventory menu and you’ll see you’re carrying one item: Minamoto’s cellphone. Select it and check his email. His inbox will be empty. Hanafuda’s IT department will have temporarily blocked the stream of messages from journalists requesting interviews and statements regarding your now-public infidelity, and none of your co-workers or subordinates will have contacted you since your boss, Mr. Okada, the president of Hanafuda, told you that you’d be on “vacation” while the company PR department went to work on making your problem disappear. Unfortunately, you’ll also have no messages from your son, Masahiro, or your wife, Junko, though the la!er shouldn’t surprise you. Find and pull on Minamoto’s clothes from the floor (chinos, a wrinkled t-shirt with a logo from the latest installment of Monster Monkey), and take a moment to explore the condo, wandering down the box-lined paths from one room to another. You’ll want to end up on the living room sofa in front of the entertainment center, a state-of-the-art TV and sound system complete with every Hanafuda game console back to Minamoto’s early days in the ‘80s. Fire up an old Hanafuda Home Computer on the enormous flat-screen television and select Minamoto’s favorite opus, Tales of Greta. Here you’ll play a demo-within-a-demo of this classic game for a few short minutes. Wander the boy, Hiro, around the map, grab his first blade, collect a few coins, look into a cave. You won’t be playing long before the experience abrades your nostalgia. The 8-bit graphics and midi music will seem run-down on the monstrous HD screen. Select “These don’t exactly hold up to the test of time, do they Minamoto?” from the speech Fun Fact! Mr. Minamoto used to talk to menu. This will trigger a sehimself often when he was alone. ries of flashback mini-games. R. JESS LAVOLET TE

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REVIEW

REMEMBERING WONDER DANIEL WALLACE’S THE KINGS AND QUEENS OF ROAM In his latest novel, The Kings and Queens of Roam, Daniel Wallace is in his element spinning a captivating modern folk tale and reminding us what it is like lose ourselves between the pages of a book. He uses fantasy to disarm the reader and make us wonder, only to illuminate what is truly real. The novel revolves around orphaned sisters, Helen and Rachel McCallister, who are among the last residents of Roam, an isolated and decaying industrial town in an area filled with ghosts, wild dogs, and a magical river. One day, the ugly Helen convinces the beautiful but blind Rachel that she is in fact the ugly one. Lies build on each other until Rachel discovers the truth and runs away from Roam. As in his previous works, Wallace creates a fantastical world in Roam. He fleshes out the town and surrounding areas with quirky details Touchstone / Simon & Schuster in a wry yet whimsical voice, balancing both CLOTH, its wonder and decay. The odyssey of Roam’s 2 8 8 PA G E S formation by the girls’ great-grandfather, Elijah McCallister, and Ming Kai, a Chinese man he kidnaps to learn the secret of silk-making, also gives the town a larger-than-life mythos. Before the first chapter even ends, you find yourself engrossed in this strange and beautiful world. Underneath the story’s dreamlike veneer lie characters and relationships that are incredibly honest and imperfect. Wallace’s storytelling skills are the most apparent here in his ability to extract the real person from the fairytale stock characters. Rachel isn’t a helpless princess awaiting rescue. Her blindness becomes a strength as she sets off alone to find out the truth about her world. Similarly, Markus, the

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boy who discovers Rachel in the woods outside of Roam, isn’t some knight in shining armor. Instead, Wallace explores the selfishness of that trope as Markus tries to manipulate Rachel much in the same way Helen does. The people in this story are flawed and selfish, hurting each other without intending to. Helen could be the story’s malicious villain, manipulating Rachel to serve herself. But it all starts with just one fib by a goading older sister, “just a bit of fun.” A"er Rachel leaves, you realize how alone Helen truly is and her subsequent transition from deceitful to vulnerable is where the novel soars. The se!ing may be fantastical but the characters are very real, which is what makes them so fascinating. The final culmination of Helen and Rachel’s actions is a shocking but achingly beautiful resolution to the emotional arc of the novel. The only way to stop the expanding ripples of each deceit is forgiveness—but in Wallace’s story, redemption is not simple or easy. It is a grueling process of learning to live with your own mistakes, forgiving yourself and others, and le!ing go. As Mrs. McCallister tells Rachel though, “That’s the only real power any of us have—to forgive.” Perhaps that is what Wallace offers through this book, not only to his characters but to his readers: A chance to see our own mistakes and know that it’s never too late to right them. — MEGAN HARLEY

MEGAN HARLEY

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T H E C A R O L I N A Q U A T E R L Y thrives thanks to the institutional support of the

University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill and our generous individual donors. Beyond the printing of each issue, monetary and in-kind donations help to fund opportunities for our undergraduate interns, university, and community outreach programs, as well as improvements to our equipment and office space. If you would like more information about donating to the Quarterly, please contact us at carolina.quarterly@gmail.com or call (919) 408-7786.

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Our sincere thanks go also to the Office of the Provost and Vice Chancellor for Academic Affairs, Carolina Leadership Development, the Bull’s Head Bookshop, the UNC-Chapel Hill Creative Writing Program, and the UNC-Chapel Hill English Department. This publication is funded in part by student fees, which were appropriated and dispersed by the Student Government at UNC-Chapel Hill.

Founded in 1948 P U B L I S H E D AT T H E U N I V E R S I T Y O F N O R T H C A R O L I N A – C H A P E L H I L L

Q U A R T E R LY S U P P O R T E R S

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Contributors

Fall 2013

V O L U M E 63.2

B R A N D O N A M I C O ’s poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in Hayden’s Ferry

Review, Sixth Finch, The Baltimore Review, and elsewhere. He was a finalist for Indiana Review’s 2013 Poetry Prize. He lives and writes in Manchester, New Hampshire. A A R O N A P P S is a PhD student in English Literature at Brown University. He

also holds an MFA in poetry from the University of Minnesota. His first book of poetry Compos(t) Mentis came out from Blazevox in 2012, and his second book of hybrid-genre prose, Intersex, is forthcoming from Tarpaulin Sky Press in 2013. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in LIT, Verse, Denver Quarterly, Los Angeles Review, Pleiades, Caliban, PANK, Caketrain, Sleepingfish, and elsewhere. He is also currently co-editing An Anthology of Posthuman Poetry with Feng Sun Chen. L E S L I E B A Z Z E T T ’s work first appeared in New England Review, where it was

nominated for a Pushcart Prize, and received honorable mention. Subsequent work has appeared in West Branch and New England Review Digital. Her novel was a finalist for the James Jones First Novel Fellowship, and was also nominated for a Pushcart Editor’s Choice Award by Liz Vanhoose of Penquin. D A V I D B E R S E L L ’s work has been published in Volume 1 Brooklyn, The Good

Men Project, The Sandy River Review, Carry On, and Barnstorm, where he contributes the column “Nonfiction Pizza Party.” He was chosen to read at the 2012 Writing by Degrees conference, hosted by Binghamton University. Sandy River Review honored his short story “Age and Beauty” with the Editors Choice Award for its fall 2010 issue. He is an MFA candidate at the University of New Hampshire. A M Y F R I E N D is a Canadian artist working predominately in photography. She

has exhibited nationally and internationally. Friend has been awarded grants from the Canada Council for the Arts and the Ontario Arts Council. In 2012 her work was exhibited at the Detroit Center for Contemporary Photography as well as during the Mois De La Photo-OFF in Paris, France. Her work has been featured in select publications such as the Magenta Flash Forward Emerging Photography Competition, EnRoute Magazine, LENS magazine (China), The Walrus and The Rooms Literary Journal.

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O L A F H A J E K is one of Germany’s most renowned illustrators. His colorful

work can be seen in publications including The New York Times and The Guardian, as well as on stamps for Great Britain’s Royal Mail. Drawing on the diverse influences of folklore, mythology, religion, history, and geography, Hajek’s surreal paintings decompose the borders between authenticity and thought. More than anything else his images explore the opposition between imagination and reality in the context of western cultures. D A V E H A R D I N is a Michigan poet and artist with poems published in 3 Quarks

Daily, Literary Kicks, Pocket Thoughts, The Drunken Boat, and Detroit Metro Times. He contributes work to Scrum, a blog of poetry and satire and self-published A Ruinous Thirst, a collection of poems, in 2012. M E G A N H A R L E Y is a senior at the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill

studying English, Global Studies, and Creative Fiction Writing. Her work has appeared in Cellar Door and Carolina Passport. She is also an intern at the publishing house, Algonquin Books. She is from Charlo!e, North Carolina L I Z Z I E H A R R I S ’ poems appear or are forthcoming in Barrow Street, Painted

Bride Quarterly, and Phantom Limb. Her first collection, Stop Wanting, is forthcoming this spring from Cleveland State University Poetry Center. She’s a poetry editor for Bodega Magazine. D A V I D K O E H N is an essayist for Omniverse.us, and a father of five. David has

published poetry in 60 or so journals including Kenyon Review, Volt, New England Review, Phoebe, New York Quarterly, Alaska Quarterly, Cutbank, McSweeney’s, Phoebe, 32 Poems, Third Coast, Bi#er Oleander, Puerto Del Sol, Painted Bride, Rhino, and many others. David’s chapbook, Coil, won the University of Alaska, Permafrost, Midnight Sun chapbook contest. David’s prose appears in Jacket, New Hampshire Review, New York Quarterly, and elsewhere. David translate’s Latin poetry and was awarded a Hendrix-Murphy Foundation Programs in Literature and Language Grant to lead a Catullus Translation Workshop/Reading at Hendrix University. Some of David’s translations of Catullus are forthcoming from Spect. J U L I E K O E T S ’ work has been published in the Los Angeles Review, Indiana

Review, and Euphony, among others. Koets is a Ph.D. student in Creative Writing at the University of Cincinnati. Her first book of poems, Hold Like Owls, was published by USC Press in 2012.

CONTRIBUTORS

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R . J E S S L A V O L E T T E is a freelance writer and editor living in East Lansing,

Michigan. His short fiction has appeared in Witness and Ra$ and has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize. He is at work editing his first novel, a parody about the life of a famous video game designer as translated into adventure game form. M A N U E L M A R T I N E Z received his MFA in fiction writing from the University of

Florida where he studied with Padge! Powell and Harry Crews. His fiction has appeared in Blackbird, The Sun, The Los Angeles Review, Bridge, The Literarian, Gulf Stream, and Mandala. He received the Zora Neale Hurston/ Richard Wright award for emerging African-American writers in 1993, and is presently an Emerging Writers Fellow at the Center for Fiction in New York. C A R L A P A N C I E R A has published fiction, poetry, and memoir in several journals

including The Cha#ahoochee Review, The New England Review, Painted Bride, and Nimrod. Her first book of poetry, One of the Cimalores, received the 2004 Cider Press Book Award. Her second volume of poetry, No Day, No Dusk, No Love, was awarded the 2012 Bordighera Poetry Prize. She lives in Rowley, Massachuse!s, and teaches high school English. J U A N R A M I R E Z is from Homestead, Florida but currently resides in New York

City where he teaches middle school English and Language Arts. He holds a BA in English from Florida State University and an MFA in Creative Writing from Sarah Lawrence College. In 2013, he was nominated by the faculty at Sarah Lawrence for Best New Poets 2013. A L E X A N D R A R E I S N E R has a!ended institutions of higher learning both fancy

and shameful, and sometimes both at once. She makes jewelry and tiny books in New Orleans. R E B E C C A S T A R K S has a PhD in English from Stanford University. Her poems

have appeared in Poetry Northwest, Slice, Measure, Grey Sparrow Journal, and elsewhere. She lives in a co-housing community in Burlington, Vermont with her spouse and two young sons. C H R I S T I N E W U was educated at the Art Center College of Design in Pasadena,

California, receiving a BFA with honors. Her work has been featured in many local and international publications, websites and blogs, including Juxtapoz, Hi-Fructose, and Kate: The Kate Moss Book, celebrating Kate Moss as a cultural icon. Stylistically, her work is multi-layered with haunting and sexual undertones. She o"en depicts people in flux, capturing the vulnerability of self-discovery.

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Carolina Quarterly 63.2  

Fall 2013

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