Clamor 2019

2019

UWB LITERARY & ARTS JOURNAL 2019

Clamor is the annual literary and arts journal of the University of Washington Bothell.

Copyright 2019 Clamor. All rights revert to authors and artists after publication.

The views expressed herein do not necessarily reflect those of Clamor staff or of the University of Washington Bothell.

Clamor 2019 Editorial Board Badr Alghanmi Hannah Darrow Cali Gorney Kristine Jeanyoung Kim Molly Rooney Christine Tran

Vannie Cao Angie Désir Linh Hoang Maxtom McGuire Will SaeChao

Amanda Cook Hieu Doan Kylie Kepl Madison Nikfard Stephen Silvermintz

Faculty Advisors: Amaranth Borsuk (Winter and Spring, 2019); Anida Yoeu Ali (Autumn, 2019) Cover Art: Kristine Jeanyoung Kim

Cover Design: Hieu Doan

Mailing address: Clamor: UWB Literary and Arts Journal University of Washington Bothell Box 358561 18115 Campus Way NE Bothell, WA 98011 Email: clamor@uw.edu Website: http://clamor-journal.com Printed by Consolidated Press, 600 South Spokane Street, Seattle, WA 98134

Nathaniel P. Creed Jenny Fan Mariam Khodr Noelle Rittenhouse Donata Thomas

CONTENTS

A Letter From the Editors

9

Mudasir Zubair Void 11 Nebula 112 Megan Rich More About Stars

12

Ejimogu Acholonu Star Gazing

13

Michelle Schaefer noticed

14

Molly Rooney Untitled 15 THE PITS 113 William SaeChao Murphy’s law

16

NP Creed Too Many Babies The Lady In blue

17 73

Corbin Louis Afternoon Slump In 2010,

18 77

Aidan Emmons Cinderblocks 19 The Dead West Series 116 G. Fox A Beautiful Remembrance

20

Rachel Kudlacz Baptism 21 Fall of Church 120

Andrea Raye DIVINITY 22 Thelma Tunyi Crows 24 When they came 83 Shae Foley Requiem 25 Word Problem 47 Denise Calvetti Michaels There Was a Tree in Our Yard The Water Given

26 28

Jason Peach Tekapo faces

27

Angie Désir Parisian Lifestyle Women’s Worth

31 92

Sam Prudente No 1s cat Locating n (the value of)

32 117

Styne T. Knocking 33 silenced– 91 Kahlia Shearer Dutch Windows

34

Amanda Cook Silent Punishment 35 Sadie 67 Angela Jilliene Casidsid Lockdown 38

Nicolas Hauser tenderness&hope in the death of a ghost

39

Jignesh Trivedi Anatomy 40 Maxton McGuire Untitled Print

41

N.L. Sweeney The Death of the Invisible Man

42

Joan McBride Loaded Gun Catching Snakes

44 84

Vannie Cao Shadow 45 Stroll 90 Kalen Mills Discovery and Invention

46

Badr Alghanmi Full Moon 48 Spacepuddle 52 Jenny Fan A Self Portrait

49

Grace Boulanger Quiet, You’ll Hear It

50

Jacq Marie Babb Tremvelabletion 51 Priscinges 82 Abigail Mandlin The Morphology of Fortune

53

Morgan Thomas Magic User

59

Jeramie Castillo Elements of City

60

Vivian Chuang It’s All Coming Undone Attitude Adjustment

61 102

Dana Doran The Birth of Venus The March of Successes

62 94

Rania Elshamma Other

63

Darren Frazier As One With

64

Kristine Jeanyoung Kim For Our Four Circularity Yellow Flower’s Confession

65 121

Daniel Goltapeh Solitaire 66 Madison Nikfard Her 74 shanelle clogston watered down siLence On the rOcKs

75

Allena Bassett Prize Between my Thighs

76

Krisna Bour Self-Portrait 79

Isabella Tear {47.4924° N, 122.2391° W}

80

Skylar Lewis Seasons 81 Hannah Preisinger UN _ _ _ _ _ IFIED 86 Linh Hoang Tiger’s Nest monastery 108 BhutaneseSoldiers

87 101

Israel Medrano Double Exposure Eye Senses

88 96

Eric Acosta 9 29 17

89

Mariam Khodr Privilege 95 Bunny Sing, Audrey Tinnin, Reginald King, and Lucy Chi Mistaken

97

Cora Thomas Daffodil The Red Napkin

103 106

Deborah Caplow After The War Started White Red Orange

105 111

Cindy Fullwiler Cunningham Cabin

115

Emily Nguyen Silly me

119

Adrienne Co One Gaze

123

Contributors 125

A LET TER FROM THE EDITORS

clamor clam·or | verb | \‘kla-m r\ e

1. to make a loud uproar, as from a crowd of people; popular outcry.

2. to publicly expression (as of support or protest).

3. to make a vehement expression of desire or dissatisfaction.

We present to you Clamor 2019. After three quarters, a rotating staff of students, hundreds of submissions, and many a moment spent collaborating, we proudly present a broad selection of diverse and dynamic artisitic practices from within our creative community, a collection that is now yours.

We wish to thank the Office of Student Engagements and Activities under the managment of Brenda Dào, our friends at UWave Radio, the Services and Activities Fee Committee (SAF), and the Student Technology Fees Committee (STF). This journal would not be possible without their support and that of our readers and contributors.

Thanks as well to our mentors Amaranth Borsuk and Anida Yoeu Ali. Finally, we offer our thanks to you, our readers.

Take in the emotions. Take in the community. Take in the clamor.

9

VOID

Mudasir Zubair Digital Artwork 11

MORE ABOUT STARS Megan Rich

the way the sky fades from an array of pinks and oranges slowly into an abyss of cobalt, and the growing electric darkness that brings forth gleaming polar-white specks that litter the sky like freckles on your cheeks. why do I feel like I’m going to live forever, yet contemplate my existence at the same time? a shooting star leaves a visible trail in the sky, makes your stomach flutter

12

with amazement. The Milky Way galaxy piercing the ebony canvas, but dimmed by the light pollution of the nearby city; it’s a sea of stardust wrapped around our planet like an embracing hug. satellites trail slowly and haphazardly out of the corner of your eye. you hear someone approaching from behind you, “I’m not alone,” you think to yourself. I’m not alone

STAR GAZING Ejimogu Acholonu Photography 13

NOTICED Michelle Schaefer

noticed not you I leave early before your first yawn before the sun yellows the walls of your room the bus I take motors through urine stained streets and bottoms out into the funk of the city I grab a donut stale and crusted over in places where it shouldn’t be and swish coffee over my tongue as I try not to swear it’s my second job or first, the clock just keeps punching back but it’s paying bills so I march in time and don’t complain noticed not you I wasn’t born privileged the word almost to rich to say so I have to get moving—knees knocking together when I run because my transfer won’t wait as the door is closing on the dim slim light of opportunity that picks and chooses who to let squeak in and who to leave gasping on the other side I got lucky today the turn-style is circling in my direction it isn’t often that it happens so I try not to gloat noticed not you I get in line because there’s always a line and I stand behind you and wait nothing is foolproof, water proof or bulletproof—wear thicker skin so I take my chances on what I know It’s more than being street smart and hip… just saying dreams are for the brave so I sleep light I figure that things will change if you’re a fighter evolve for the better as they say and when it comes I’ll still see you coming before you see me noticed not you 14

UNTITLED

Molly Rooney 35mm Photography 15

MURPHY’S LAW William SaeChao Pen and Ink 16

TOO MANY BABIES NP Creed

Fat fat babies in my way galore.

So many tubby tubby flubbery tikes here and there.

I step, they shriek! Too many fat fat babies make me sore.

Fat fat babies on my furniture and in my rooms.

Too many tiny feet close to me and more than I can count.

So many beefy babes they fill me with gloom.

Fat fat babies you’d believe me if you saw them all.

Too many who run around all night and all day.

Soon I will trip in midst of the noise and down the stairs I will fall.

Fat fat babies whose names I try and try to recall.

All of them too many to remember and to feed and to clothe.

Maybe some will love me, maybe they aren’t so bad after all.

Fat fat babies oh me and oh dear and why, why, why!

So many beloved little pudgy poop factories Who all want attention and to run about and to jump and fly.

Fat fat babies not one more could I stand!

Not even if I was paid gold or jewels or splendid things!

No more could I claim or feed or dress or hold in my hands!

Fat fat babies finally all grown up and out of the home With dreams and hope and a will to get it all Leave their parents with a whole planet to roam!

Fat fat babies with loved ones so, so proud Let their parents nap and sing and play But, no more fat fat babies allowed.

17

AFTERNOON SLUMP Corbin Louis

nap after nap—with eyelids heavy as sediment—caked onto an impossible wish—I remain stranded in lieu of so many that died—blue faced with hundreds stuffed in their shoebox atrium—glass cage heart—every weekend visible in their expression—which is to say that we wear our bodies like yellowed cloth—which is to say the menthol has its tax—and bridge—we crossed atlantics—we sang annoying odes—hollering third eye—all six of us looking into the rearview—film strip—the hot pocket sanctum perfect day to burn a white flag—nobly—peace on earth was never ours to give—we’d rather file our teeth and bite the crust—we’d rather die, angel like, jerking the orgasms out of each other—as if the best feelings in us are to be beaten out with a body part—butterfly edges that cut our hands—the temptation to give up comes in the most beautiful forms—like perc—like a TV alibi like weekend after weekend—drunk at the pool table just saying the same thing—‘I want a turkey sandwich or an order of fries’—‘maybe even pad thai and a coke’

18

CINDERBLOCKS Aidan Emmons Perfomance Art

19

A BEAUTIFUL REMEMBRANCE G. Fox

I figured it out.

I fell irretrievably in love with you.

That’s why it hurts to think of you sometimes.

It is both a beautiful remembrance, And a painful realization.

20

BAPTISM

Rachel Kudlacz Charcoal, Ink Wash 21

DIVINIT Y Andrea Raye

Today, oh what a day for me to be Alive, yet only barely, might I add.

Interrupted, woke I from my sleep, Astounded by my own damp, trembling hands.

“No one listens to Me anymore, No one fears the thunder of My wrath.

People do all things that I abhor, To them My discipline is an attack.

Abruptly, jolting up, I was aghast At witnessing a Being taking form.

While tapping to the ground tobacco ash, A voice spoke that was clearly of the Lord.

“But you, My son, have listened unto Thee, And may just be the only one who has.

To put you out of your own misery, I’ll free you from these most repulsive lands.

“I am the great I Am,” Said God, Himself.

He pressed a cigarette against His lips.

“Alas! Take heed, this world has gone to Hell!

I’ve only stuck around to reminisce.”

“You ache, but there’s no remedy to cure, You walk and never find a place to rest.

I want you free from this utter torture, I plead with you My son, meet My request.”

“Oh Lord, my God! Why speak you unto me?”

And fell I to the ground upon my knees.

Then from my breast I pulled my hand in fright, And reaching out, I asked Him for a light.

22

I hadn’t heard His name in many years, Nor felt His hand upon my wounded soul.

I must admit I rarely felt Him near, But in His presence now, I felt quite whole.

We laughed together gazing on the world With cynicism filtering our eyes.

I thought back on events that had unfurled When I still wondered if God heard my cries.

Then putting out His cigarette, He said, “The time has come to end what I once loved.”

While raising up His hand the heavens spread, And fire reigned down from the skies above.

‘Tis strange how never once did I protest.

‘Tis strange to feel so morbidly undead.

23

CROWS

Thelma Tunyi Digital Artwork 24

REQUIEM Shae Foley

Iowa on Tuesday.

Crows pick at roadkill outside the window and you under prayers of hospital sheets.

The eternal opossum.

The flock picked the carcass clean and flew over your face.

A cornfield in winter abandoned between seasons.

Walk a mile in his eyes, his spleen, his kidney.

I will never forgive your liver out in the world.

25

THERE WAS A TREE IN OUR YARD Denise Calvetti Michaels

There was a tree in our yard, rouge-red camellia in the picture window, short-vowel Italian arias stinging the radio, the sonnet of bitter blue seas a poetics of exultation.

We were taking our daughter to college in Flagstaff where ravens haunt the Grand Canyon North Rim and I thought each crow carried trilogies of redwoods, sequoia sempervirens. Afternoons I fought off sleep with reveries of when I was seventeen, enrolled in summer art history, Picasso enraptured at the easel, cobalt blue, SurMauldre, 1939, November. I told my daughter I learned by rote to sort bicycle parts, drawn to facets of an artist whose externally referenced meaning entailed more than the idea of gluing. Such a Boy, I imagined, would sear the world to the canvas, and sear the canvas to the world—paint, I told myself, and the children to come.

26

TEK APO FACES

Jason Peach Digital Photography 27

THE WATER GIVEN Denise Calvetti Michaels

1.

It was my fault. I should have known not to climb into the back of the truck. It was what any boy would do, pick up a shotgun and pull the trigger, my younger brother wild, on the edge. Adults forgot children in the garden. My brother’s godfather came for us when he heard, me in the backseat beside Aunt Celia. The water given was to bring us back to real time. In the front seat, Uncle Frank repeated to my brother you wouldn’t want to hurt your sister. I was close range, smiling as though he held a camera. Grandmother walked me to the kitchen for a drink from a glass I watched her fill and drank to show I was alright. We were hidden in the boxwood. Grandfather swore at his friends for their negligence. When I turned around the farm would never be the same. While the men were inside the house, my brother and I climbed in. I stumbled over sacks of grain, tailgate to the cab window. When I turned away my brother found the rifle. When Dennis called my name, he was pointing the muzzle in my direction and I don’t remember his face. In fourth grade, I’ll meet a boy from Texas out of reform school and baseball players who follow me home for cookies and milk, packs of boys, but not to one do I confide my interpretation of when I was spared.

2.

The water to drink after the gunshot was to draw us back to real time, protected, where accidents don’t happen to frighten the elders who couldn’t have known.

Accidents happen when adults forget.

Something breaks down but we were lucky.

It was a moment when the adults forgot children in the garden.

It was my fault.

I should have known not to climb into the back of the truck.

28

It was what any boy would do, any little brother who’d watched cowboy shows, and my responsibility to realize what he might do.

I’ve been told the reason the bullet missed me, but I will never understand, only my brother smiling as though he is holding a camera asking me to smile.

Uncle Frank came for us that evening and we drove back late at night, me in the back sitting beside Auntie Celia, her daughter Sandra, my age, on the other.

In the front Uncle Frank kept asking my brother what happened, reminding him he wouldn’t want to hurt his sister, over and over as I watched the moon follow us into the night; the burden on my brother to answer for his behavior weighing on me. Until Aunt Celia said it’s late, go ahead, rest against my shoulder, my mother far away, her daughter soothed by another mother, dorme, dorme, sleep.

3.

The farm that summer was stolen but I didn’t know it.

In the beginning you string beads as though one idea will easily follow the other in linear order because the primary colors call out to be chosen so that you leave behind the pastels and grays to focus on the bold and resonant that are strong featured, not knowing you’ll have to come back to sleuth what was missed, the garden scent, phrase, forgotten incident, meaning.

You already know anything can trigger. Yet you are torn between the desire to go where the prompt takes you and the fear of what it might bring. Writing close to the bone is a form of rock climbing, risky. But the terrain draws you including spikes in temperature, fire in the distance, smoke moving out to the Pacific. And sometimes landscape is a place to hunker as you question, are you using writing to deflect what is unsolvable within the sphere of human relationships?

29

You think you need to somehow link the passages to allow the readers’ coherence. Then you realize you are on the journey you’ve carved out for yourself. Leaps, synaptic in nature, imagined you here.

In fourth grade I’ll meet Casey from Texas, the one to whom I confide my narrative of the accident in which I was spared.

Not to speak shapes the memory.

But this sound is the memory.

30

PARISIAN LIFESTYLE Angie Désir Photography

31

NO 1S CAT Sam Prudente

o catnap disrupted, out of sorts bed spirit flew — out the window — must wait. ‘til it slinks back. into tail.

Mmm, maybe. it will find me. at uncomfortable scratchy carpet (must wave tail to help it find me) how did Sphynx sleep/then/eat/men/for breakfast/ ...[YAWN] o, for an Egyptian dry haboob desert wind, damn this cold damp wet floor — cold, cold, leather, smelly, sunny leather better, maybe... the noooO... stretch, leather, no, claws, leather, pat, pat, leather-pleatherrr sofa,

o nice, warm body heat sharer leather, well,

maybe just a little...teenie, tiny bit of c/l/a/w/at wait, where is catnip mouse? leatherrrr, rawrr leather, pat, pat, no, scratch, black catnip mouse — grey, o nice leather, sniffy-iffy leather...rrrrrrrrrRRR! my, catnip mouse! tapping you changes your color catnip mousey o, just, don’t. Yikes!!!

— I SAID JUST DON’T! — jumpa

to get

round

will ya my tail ? sigh, no

...no 1’s home...

letmesinkteethinto oldcatnip mmmmmmmousey, hmmm(me:ow) this is getting old; let’s just do the sitting here thing, waiting for 1 to come home, ok, catnip mousey, pat, pat, old catnip mousey mouse, I won’t leave you & play with the leaves outside, like 1, ok mousey mimenotgummaletchugowRRrrr!!!

32

When did my life come to Revolve around school?

When it became more difficult?

When more effort was needed?

When Adulthood came knocking?

. . . Tick . . .

. . . Toc . . .

I decided to shut myself in.

To block everything out.

To fully immerse in schooling.

To block out my own

LIFE My friends . . .

My family . . .

Myself . . . & even God at times . . .

. . . Tick . . .

I didn’t shut my doors to Distractions

. . . Toc . . .

I didn’t shut my doors to Learn

. . . Tick . . .

I didn’t shut my doors to Grow

. . . Toc . . .

I had shut my doors to

HAPPINESS

. . . Knock . . . Knock . . .

KNOCKING

Styne T. Visual Poetry 33

DUTCH WINDOWS Kahlia Shearer 35mm Photography 34

SILENT PUNISHMENT Amanda Cook

You were not burned at the stake You were not evil by any means You were gentle and pure You were a child, not a monster But they tried to kill you I found you lying in blood I found you crying for help I found you pleading for your mother’s love I found you reaching for your father’s hand They did not love you Safety was what you wanted Safety was what you needed Safety was what you deserved You never knew my name I provided the comfort you wanted I provided the companionship you craved I provided the protection of a true monster I provided the love of a parent and friend No one would touch you They wanted you to die They wanted you to suffer They never wanted you I had to take you away Away to where you could be safe Away to where you could be free

35

Away to where you couldn’t feel pain Away to where you couldn’t be with me Convents are not for the likes of sinners like me In my place, the sisters would love you In my place, the sisters would raise you In my place, the sisters would protect you In my place, the sisters would be your guide My punishment is my soul It has been blackened from the start It has been stained by blood It has been fractured by screams It has been broken by countless sins A demon is not worthy of forgiveness Forgiveness is for the savable Forgiveness is for the redeemable Forgiveness is not for the damnable Forgiveness is not for the replaceable I am replaceable I wish that you would keep me I wish that you would cherish me I wish that you would be my friend I wish that you could turn a demon’s heart white I wish that you could make me irreplaceable I will never leave you Outside the convent I will wait Outside the wall I will watch

36

Outside your knowledge I will stay Outside the limits of reason I will pray you back to my side My Ebony-Rose.

37

LOCKDOWN

Angela Jilliene Casidsid Digital Art 38

TENDERNESS&HOPE IN THE DEATH OF A GHOST Nicolas Hauser I notice you as you notice me noticing what you are: You faceless fool You ghost in mourning You watcher of me Keep steady your gaze behind that guard which collects your words and makes them dust.

I am captive, locked behind battered bars and forgotten in your holding.

Even now I am not afraid, for I have whispered to the man staring at us, asked him, “Will you set me free”— He peers into my frame, eyes with no need for blinking, but he doesn’t notice me or my movements.

Unlike you, I am still to him, a wandering ghost who has done his haunting.

Here I stand and view you from behind your back.

I can hear your fear I can taste your regret I can see your life You are what I was, and I am what you will soon be.

Place your love in my rotting heart as it begins to fade away so you may be greeted with nothing in return.

I am sorry, but if there were anything to give from live to dead you would still be here.

39

ANATOMY

Jignesh Trivedi Digital Artwork, Pen and ink 40

UNTITLED PRINT

Maxton McGuire Digitally Colored Block Print 41

THE DEATH OF THE INVISIBLE MAN N.L. Sweeney

The Invisible Man died on the 5th of October.

They held his funeral the following Tuesday, near where they presumed the body was.

The congregation fanned out like a Greek amphitheater, the rubble of blackened cement and twisted steel the stage. The fires had been put out long ago, but stacks of charred wood still mingled with the wreckage.

The New York Fire Department had tried to find the body, but of course, they had found none.

They’d searched for three days, poking Building B’s remains with the red heads of their axes.

Rumored among the losses were a pet gerbil and two golden labs, but miraculously no people had died in the collapse and subsequent explosion.

On the New York Fire Department’s lunch break, a man named Kris sobbed into his bologna sandwich. The others looked away.

No one knew for sure if the Invisible Man was religious, so they called together several speakers: a Buddhist, three Christian leaders (a bishop, elder, and pastor just to be safe), a Rabbi, an atheist, an agnostic, and a Wiccan Priestess.

One woman argued for a swami, but did you not have to be from India to be a true swami? Those gathered decided to place an idol of Ganesha as a compromise.

There were tears. Kris cried, but with no spongy white bread to catch the tears, they dribbled down to the dusty ground.

Hundreds came, taking up the white plastic seats and crowding body against body. A final count

42

estimated more than one thousand and three hundred people, with reports of simultaneous ceremonies being held around the country.

News stations huddled around the outskirts, whispering into their puffy black mics as the speakers spoke into their own microphones.

They prayed for his soul or they praised his escape from suffering or they did neither. They all spoke of the man.

“Reliable,” they called him. “Always there.”

They told stories after—atheist, beside agnostic, beside bishop—gripping steaming paper cups of acidic coffee. A single mother mentioned the patience the Invisible Man gave her when her screaming child woke her night after sleepless night. An acne-scarred student told of the long nights where the Invisible Man simply sat and listened. Kris stared into the black well of his own paper cup.

“Today marks a terrible tragedy that hurt more than just one man or one city, but all of us. Invisible man,” a Q7 reporter warbled, not bothering to wipe the lines of tears that smudged his make-up. “You will be sorely missed.”

Just before everyone headed home, someone streamed the president’s address on a white projector screen. Kris only caught the end of it. “It is in times of great distress, that we must come together,” she said, glancing at her family beneath the golden arch. “That is what will make us stronger as a people and as a country.

Thank you.” The screen transitioned back to the anchors as she walked away.

The sun was setting by the time most people left, and the autumn chill crept into the air. A few remained behind to speak some final words to the Invisible Man’s resting place. The mayor had decreed the space a historic monument, to be left untouched. The House was voting to declare the 5th of October a national day of remembrance. There was talk that the European Union would follow suit.

Kris leaned against a lamp post, watching. A worker in an orange and yellow reflective suit pinched a paper cup between the teeth of his clamp and stuffed the detritus into his bag.

A pair of women clasped hands and walked away together. The lamp post flicked on with a sparking crackle that made Kris jump.

Kris shivered. His fingers clenched and unclenched at his sides. He could feel the salty remains of dried tears on his cheeks, but he left them.

He walked to the edge of the wreckage, and the ambient sound of traffic rose up around him. A passionless laugh died in his throat. “Guess we all go eventually,” he said.

The breath of wind came in response.

“You made a lot of people really happy.” His lips trembled and his jaw tightened. His voice came out a whisper. “So where the hell were you for me?”

43

LOADED GUN Joan McBride

44

I.

Somewhere in the room where we sleep is the loaded gun.

He says it’s hidden in a drawer where the children can’t find it.

He says we sleep safer because of the hidden gun.

II.

When I wake in the dark it’s there— a metallic taste in my mouth like blood.

If I move I can hear the whir of the tracking mechanism.

When I open my eyes I stare into the dumb blackness and am stranded in the sights like a radar signal homing in on the center of madness.

SHADOW

Vannie Cao Digital Photography 45

DISCOVERY AND INVENTION Kalen Mills Acrylic on Canvas 46

WORD PROBLEM Shae Foley

If life is a real number, solve for x.

X equals the death of my father.

To the power of a step-father I didn’t know how to love.

Multiply my mother’s ache strapped to my back.

Carry my grandfather’s bass voice offered to God every Sunday.

Subtract supervision.

Exponentiate my sister, always with my sister.

Multiply by do not fuck with my sister.

Find the inverse of someone to talk to at lunch.

Divide by excellent manners, thank you.

Find the circumference of despair and rage at 4 am.

If a friend drives me to the emergency room and the staff subtracts shoelaces, belts, and sharp objects will I get well?

Solve for the negative value of the man who molested me.

This is the square root of a family without the remainder of my baby sister or father.

Add a good pen.

Use the order of operations to multiply by the power of words. Add notebooks.

Subtract permission.

47

FULL MOON Badr Alghanmi Digital Artwork 48

A SELF PORTRAIT Jenny Fan

I want to face the tree that hides the grapes.

I want to hide the fake so I can be here safe.

I know I am far away when looking at my desire, for I hate the fracas that is handed to my teacher.

I never know how I feel, because it is just a cup.

I know when the fake falls and fade fails.

I know I should race so I can wipe the blood up from my face.

You might say I should efface the street I have passed by.

I can tell I cannot do it because the red façade is merely a surface.

49

QUIET, YOU’LL HEAR IT Grace Boulanger

Desperate thoughts grow gardens of bitter weeds and crusty dirt, breaking bones below the sky, I’d forgotten it— while looking down, aching.

I grew a patch of tender stems, they push at the dirt with moderation grasping and reaching and steady, all around me, soiling my grief— Crack the Earth like an egg’s yolk until the ground runs with the sticky parts the weeds leave behind to rot.

Runny pulp, soils repugnant cousin, coaxes green out of new stalks— I needed these weeds— When it comes to planting no one knows more about the dangers and difficulties than a sad person.

I’m sure the flowers have a word for this.

They will be here soon.

50

TREMVELABLETION Jacq Marie Babb

51

SPACEPUDDLE Badr Alghanmi Digital Artwork 52

THE MORPHOLOGY OF FORTUNE Abigail Mandlin

It all begins when Lucky falls down.

priority in her mind. It is a sacrifice for them all.

She stumbles, tumbles—bruises and scrapes— and eventually, inevitably lands in a manner only the pliable nature of children can accommodate for, all tangled limbs and laughter.

“For us all,” she whispers in that poor girl’s ear, even as she stands and prods Lucky towards her condemned destiny.

However, her kind are not nearly as amused.

For Lucky is not meant to fall. It goes against her preordained attribute, a testament to her namesake, to her predisposition towards fortune.

Thus, chaos descends on the human village like the fae has not seen for a millennium.

Stringent, Fair, and even Lenient cannot find it in themselves to overlook an error so egregious.

Certainly, little Lucky is ill-fated indeed—Godforsaken, the cruelest among them spit, acid dribbling from their chins—if her gifted name has not manifested itself properly. She is a mistake.

A lapse in divine judgment. No one knows what to do with her—a mottled, mangled child—when her affliction could so easily spread among the decent folk.

In the end, it is decided—for all their sake’s—that she has to be rid of.

I watch her mother—the one called Caring—hug her one last time, benevolent tears staining the girl’s threadbare cloak. Her daughter’s departing pains the woman on the most fundamental level, but her own name is as much of a gift as it is a curse, as she cares for everyone—the villagers included—equally, her child taking no

The gate closes soundly behind her.

There is a moment where she blinks back at the shackled lumber, willing it to open with the force of her big doe eyes, but none come to collect her and none will. She has been set free to die however she pleases—and pleases her it does, evidently, as she makes no attempt at a second glance back, charging forward with the single-minded determination of God’s simplest creation, mind full of sun-bleached chrysanthemums and not much else.

She patters about the field before the enchanted woods on chubby legs—bare from the knees down, strangely, even as the rest of her is bundled up—walking in such a manner that she is always tripping but never quite all the way.

Even the youngest of fawns could outpace her, meandering as she is, tilting this way and that.

The woods—my realm—grows bored with her trifles and sends a ladybug to entice her, flying just out of reach, flashes of black and red beckoning her forward but not too close. She may be a babe to her own kind, but to creatures such as these, she harbors ancient wisdom that cannot be underestimated, no matter how she sways in the breeze.

It catches her interest—those mesmerizing dots drawing her in—and she toddles towards

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it in pursuit, reaching out with pudgy hands to ensnare it. It slips between her short fingers with minimal effort, coaxing her ever closer to the edge that magic cannot venture over.

The trail becomes easier for her the nearer she gets—sloping downwards, becoming slick and unobtrusive—and vines creep forward to loiter at her heels, prepared to steady her steps if the earth becomes too eager to have her for its own.

Before she is to meet her first taste of trees, there is a steep decline—a ravine inhabited with throngs of thorns and brush—which is meant to ward off those who are unwelcome. Lucky does not spare it a thought, flopping onto the ground, sliding forth, pitched giggles punctuating each renewed roll down the bank.

The dirt wills itself soft and supple, the foliage lying flat, allowing her passage, untempered, even as she loses her shawl along the way, snagging on a slow-witted barb halfway down.

When momentum finally runs its course on her, she is left in a sprawl at the bottom of the abyss, already well into the forest.

She rights herself—the movement jarring, hair springing forward with an assortment of leaves adorning her crown—and shakes them out with a self-satisfied hum, watching them cascade down her shoulders even as they try to cling on, already well attached to their newest playmate.

And then, stillness.

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I see for the first time that dread has crept into her frame—perhaps some form of acknowledgment, at last, of her situation—making her appear even smaller than she already is. The pines tower over her—casting shadows, dappling on her skin—and her lower lip quivers at the unfamiliar sounds, the forest curdling in pleasure as it celebrates the arrival of its latest visitor.

It has frightened her—that much is apparent— and the woods recognizes its fault.

The trees part to allow sunlight through, lighting a simple path deeper in. Lucky crawls into it, basking in the glow, resting in the warmth. The leaves tremble off their branches, flittering down to kiss her in gratitude.

When she has finally had her fill—having replenished her energy—she wanders along that which has been indicated for her, mushes guiding her way as natural light becomes scarcer, casting an affable glow in the place of dimmed uncertainty.

She is merely walking at first, but on a gentle descent, she picks up speed and maintains it, throwing her arms out wide, whinnying, screeching, winding and spinning, milking the full scope of what has been made available to her, no one around to tell her it is not proper.

The woods, in turn, rushes to join in her merrymaking, squirrels scurrying out of their burrows to barrel alongside her, foxes skittering back and forth between her legs, fur tickling at her ankles at each instance as they brush by.

The guiding light fades and fades until it is merely a flicker, illuminating only that which it intends to show her. She slows until she is at a halt, slurping around her fingers as she takes in what is before her.

The forest has led her to a strip of bushes weighed down with berries so ripe they are close to bursting. Hardly does Lucky need the motivation, however, as she immediately reaches out to grasp a handful, red blooming upon her cheeks as she partakes.

She sits to make a meal of it, but before long, her head is dipping, eyes closing then reopening as she puts up a commendable struggle against the stranglehold of sleep. It is a little early for humans—golden light just beginning to wane— but the woods makes up its mind to put her to bed.

She makes little protest—rubbing at her eyes, dawdling a bit here and there—as she is led to a natural alcove at the base of a tree, already converted into a nest—its roughest edges smoothed over—by a family of rabbits. The animals merely reorganize themselves in the wake of their unexpected houseguest, settling in around, atop Lucky as she curls into the cradle, ignorant to all the moment her head is lain flat.

I do not intend to watch her all evening, but I find I cannot tear my eyes away from her either, seeing how defenseless she is, fleshy and prone to harm—to abandonment. She is marred by scars old and new, dirty and dingy, and engendered through the predictable process of

human weakness, having been imparted with a name that touted expectations too great to bear.

However, in the peace of slumber, all traces of misfortune seem to fall away.

It is in the midst of admiring this tranquility that a butterfly descends upon the bridge of Lucky’s nose, foisting its wings upon her like a mask. She startles awake, the insect—no, the faerie—lifting from its perch to drift above her face. It is not one of mine—overly gaudy, mired in deceit—but just as the rest of the forest, it has heard of our guest on the wind and came to investigate for itself.

Or interfere, as it were. It shakes before Lucky, shimmering dust tumbling from its wings, which serves little more than making the child sneeze.

Yet, it provides just enough interest for Lucky to follow, tripping after the butterflied creature and away from where she made her bed, bunnies twitching their noses after her in confusion.

The faerie leads her to a clearing—an outcrop, unique to the forest—that hosts a multitude of flora, wild and feral the way the fae prefer them.

They blot every inch of the ground—bleeding into one another, fighting for space—except where the center pond has taken up an extended stay, watching, waiting.

The pond… No, not the pond— Nature itself shrieks in terror, a crows pringing from its nest to caw mournfully into the night; the faerie makes itself scarce, having done what

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it set out to do.

Yet, Lucky totters on, undeterred, towards the gleaming basin. Living in a limited world of pretty colors and shiny trinkets—interests hardly extending upon the current moment— she spares little thought to what horrors can await her—what horrors shall await her—if she dares to cross the more jagged corners of the enchanted forest.

The pool ripples in glee as she approaches, the frenzied splashing it is known for settling into a monotonous drip-drop. My throat tightens at the subtle low notes wafting over the water, beckoning her closer, promising her sweet nothings that fall harsh and discordant on my own ears.

Even so, they draw Lucky ever nearer.

The woods have not given up on her—having grown dewy and fecund in her stay—and clamors at her feet, the sand popping and crackling at her, clinging to her boots and weighing her down, desperate to tether her to the earth.

Lucky stops—but twilight has fallen, the pond’s spell already cast.

The moon, reflected atop the pool, blurs out of focus, just awry enough to catch a discerning human’s eye, but to a child, is a lovely form of entertainment worthy of vigorous applause, which Lucky gives as that same moon fades entirely. Below, the residents of the pond—fish, if they can even be referred to as such—have already begun their dance.

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The fish swirl, slow. Languid. Indolent by nature. They follow each other in disarmingly predictable patterns, tailing swishing, scales casting blinding light at each turn, ephemeral, iridescent.

She leans over the pond, drawn to the movement, enraptured by the spiral, repeating, repeating, and yet evolving into something more, code etched into their designs, messages carved into the water. Then, all at once, the fish reverse, the steady march doubling back to cover their tracks. Their scales go stark white—then clear, transparent. They reveal their interworkings— their entrails—to the poor girl, sharp teeth set against translucent backdrop, organs pumping in a hypnotically comforting rhythm, eyes seeing straight through the soul.

Lucky stills. The smile fades from her lips; the sparkle drains from her eyes. She wavers—the fish bubbling, festering in delight—as her limbs fold inward, surrendering.

The surface of the pond goes rigid—reflective— at the moment of impact, shattering with a bone-chilling crash as her body meets it, shards of the pond separating around her to coax her in.

She sinks slow—meticulous—not one piece of her form indicating any objection to her fate, the minute twitching of her fingers the only testament to her lingering presence on this mortal plane.

The water grows denser—having gotten a proper hold on her—and drags her down, the surface

sealing once more as the last of her cotton dress is drowned.

The forest holds its breath.

The first sensation I am aware of is that of my arms being sliced down the sides as I plunge my hands into that accursed pond, the water resisting me, hissing, “Thief—thief—you had your chance; do not take that which is now mine.” I steadfastly ignore it, even as the liquid solidifies around me, biting into my flesh, leaving angry trails that spell betrayal.

I feel her then, her body having been stashed away at the bottom of the pool, cold in ways humans should never be cold. I wrench her up, dislodging her from the shoal’s vice-like grip.

Her whole body comes loose all at once—left in suspension, stained in shades of blue—as the pond, regrettably, gives up its coveted prize.

I drag her up and over the edge of the bank, shells snapping at us in final, futile protest.

We collapse together—her against my chest, in my arms—as I swallow a gluttonous breath of precious air.

I hasten to sit up, knowing she, too, is in desperate need of one.

She is pale as moonlight—expressionless—her eyes shielded by heavy lids. The grass gathers around my bare legs to brush their condolences into me, whispering words of remorse, of their fond memories with her, of what could have been.

Then she gasps.

She sputters—that tiny, live thing—and rids herself of the remaining malicious water that plagues her with racking coughs, normal pigment returning to her withdrawn cheeks, arms and legs wriggling with reanimated energy, eager to prove just how alive she is.

And she cries.

She cries big, pitiful tears of anguish—of loss, of grief—now that reality has finally set in. They roll down her face like pearls, milk-white and wet as morning dew.

I shush her, soft and low, and rub assurances into her back. I watch as she hiccups, swallows roughly, tracks the movements of my lips as I promise her the worst is over, that nothing else will harm her for as long as I shall live.

She settles, even as she continues to take gasping, intermittent breaths, still reacquainting herself with the function of her lungs. Her hands find strands of my fine hair, pulling me forward, keeping me close. I rest my forehead upon hers, warbling nonsense that serves to calm her rabbiting heart.

It is only when she is completely pacified that I prop her up on wobbly legs, dwarfing her little hands in the palms of my own.

“Give me your name,” I plead of her.

I think then, perhaps, that this is too much to ask of her—of a babe so young—but she

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surprises me, as she always does, with a trilled “Luuuckyyy!” pinched sharp at the edges like a reprimand, like she has heard her name said so many times before.

I shake my head. “Not anymore. You have given it to me now. I shall keep it safe—“ I rap against my breast. “—in here. No longer will you be burdened by it. And I shall grant you a new name in its stead.”

“No!” she squeals, squirming forward, grasping at my chest. “No! Mine! Lucky’s!”

Ah. In my haste, I have managed to underestimate humans once again. I smile wryly and surrender with grace. “Yes… I apologize. It is yours. It is yours to do with it what you will.”

She melts against me then, heavy with fatigue.

I catch her as she falls, bringing her up the full extent of my height, and she is asleep not before I take a single step.

As I return to the friendlier parts of my domain, I think on what I would have named her had she allowed me the privilege. Hopeful, perhaps.

Loved. Cherished. Adored. Even Sleepy would have been more fitting. Yet, none sit well with me.

But Lucky…

I peer down at her, tucked under my chin, her breath warm against my skin. Even now, she is a little damp, still scratched and muddied from her ordeal.

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She is so alive. So here and alive.

Fortunate, indeed.

MAGIC USER

Morgan Thomas Digital Artwork 59

ELEMENTS OF CITY Jeramie Castillo Photography 60

IT’S ALL COMING UNDONE Vivian Chuang Mixed Media Collage

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THE BIRTH OF VENUS Dana Doran Oil on Canvas 62

OTHER Rania Elshamma

Ot(her)

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AS ONE WITH Darren Frazier Freehand Digital Art 64

FOR OUR FOUR CIRCULARITY Kristine Jeanyoung Kim Acrylic Pour Over

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SOLITAIRE Daniel Goltapeh Photography 66

SADIE Amanda Cook

Pulling the ribbons that held back the drapes that would cover the painting at night, he glanced around the rest of the gallery to make sure everything was in place. Rodger grabbed his keys from the top drawer of the front desk and walked out the door, making sure to lock it and set the alarm.

New York never looked the same to Rodger as it did to everyone else. The bright lights of the city were harsh on his eyes and he did not see the same beauty as the other people his age. Stopping at a street corner, Rodger could see his reflection in a nearby window. He was dressed in what he was told was a blue suit with a lighter blue shirt and black tie, his hair short and trimmed neatly back. He was a presentable man who looked like he ran a business, but he did not feel like one. He did not have the circle of friends or close colleagues that businessmen did. There were not many 27-year-old men living in New York City who did not go out and have drinks with friends or take their girl out on a date in the middle of Times Square and go ice skating in the winter. But that was Rodger. He did not see the value in wasting time.

Rodger rounded another corner, keeping his eyes low and a hand up to try and help his vision focus on the area in front of him. He was nearing the bookstore he went to nearly four times a week, meaning he was almost home. After he passed by the door to the bookstore, Rodger paused and cursed under his breath. He had finished his book at home and would need another one to get him through the next two nights. That was

the downside to having no friends—it left ample time to do other things, like read many, many, many books.

Pushing open the door, Rodger called out a ‘hello’ to Miss Stacey, the elderly southern woman who did checkouts, made his way to the fiction section, and looked for an author he recognized. He skimmed the grey covers until he found one that looked interesting. Cross by James Patterson was one he had heard of but hadn’t read because he was in the middle of a series by Lee Charles Kelly.

Rodger was looking over the other colorless covers, looking for another book to buy when a feminine voice sounded next to him. “James Patterson, I haven’t read anything from him since Maximum Ride.”

Without looking up from the back of the book Rodger nodded, “I’ve never read any of his work, but several of my colleagues have recommended it.”

“If you like murder mystery, you should try this one.” Suddenly, a book was pushed into his line of view. The cover was nothing special, but the title read Bark M for Murder. Recognition flared into his head as he read the list of authors and found Lee Charles Kelly to be one of the authors.

Rodger instantly turned to thank the stranger but found that the power of speech had left him. The woman stood, contemplating the two books in her hands. That wasn’t what shocked him though. The thing that amazed him was that this woman wasn’t colorless or dull like

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everyone else—she was vibrant and vivid with colors.

Her hair, a crimson red, tumbled around her shoulders in long curls. The black jacket she wore went down to her knees, dark in contrast to the light tone of her skin. The woman’s jeans were dark and tucked into the calf-high brown boots she wore. A dark green scarf around her neck completed her look and gave Rodger yet another thing to stare at as he took in all the colors.

Rodger continued to look her over, the colors of her clothing seeping into his memory. Turning away to place a book back on the shelf, Rodger felt his heart beating hard in his chest. Never had someone appeared in colors that bright. Sure, he had a sense of which colors were which when looking at a painting, but never had he seen them like this. Rodger shook his head—he was sure that he had imagine it. He glanced over his shoulder to double check and saw that she was in fact in color, but also that she was moving out the door.

Rodger took off after her, forgetting the books in his hands as he ran out the front of the bookstore, fighting for a glance of the woman.

Once outside, the night lights of Time Square attacked his eyes, making it impossible for him to see. A hand on his arm pulled him back into the store where the lighting wasn’t as harsh.

Once his eyes adjusted, Rodger saw that it was Miss Stacey.

“Rodger, are ya alright? You ran out the store

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in a panic and y’all pale and sweaty.” Miss Stacey frantically searched him all over to make sure that he wasn’t hurt. Rodger regained his composure and nodded to the older woman who was still staring at him with immense concern.

“I’m sorry to have worried you, Miss Stacey. I’m fine, but I would like to buy these books please.”

Shakily he handed her the books as well as his wallet and took a seat by the door. She nodded and ran off to ring up the two items for him.

Miss Stacey quickly brought his wallet and books back. “Ya sure y’all right?” she insisted as she handed him the plastic bag as well as his wallet.

She crouched down in front of him, holding his hands in hers. “It ain’t right for a boy like you to be alone all the time,” her eyes shining with tears as she spoke. “Maybe you should come over and have supper with me and my family this Friday night. All my kids will be there and they’s about your age.”

Rodger quickly shook his head. He was fine, but he wouldn’t mind having company some of the time. He just didn’t want to impose on the kind woman in front of him. He definitely didn’t want her pity.

“Thank you, Miss Stacey, but—” the glare from the elderly woman in front of him made the words die before they left his throat.

“Now, you listen to me, Rodger Mitchell Strauss.

I’ve known you too long to have you lie to me. I know you too well for that, so here,” Miss Stacey pulled a piece of paper from her pocket and a

pen from her apron and scribbled something down, thrusting it into his hands when she was done. “Dinner is at five thirty sharp—don’t you dare be late, and bring a bottle of wine. It’s my baby Sadie’s twenty-ninth birthday.” With that, the elderly woman stood up, gave Rodger a quick hug from where he was sitting, and ran off to check out the other customers who had lined up at the counter. It took Rodger a moment to process exactly what had happened.

Rodger continued down the long hallway where Miss Stacey directed him down as she took the flowers and wine to the kitchen. There were two people seated at the table, both were men who looked to be his age or slightly younger. Rodger knew their names were Cedar and Seth without even asking, but he wasn’t sure who was who.

Miss Stacey talked about her children often while drinking tea at the bookstore if Rodger had time to visit with her after work.

After a few minutes, Rodger got up, plastic bag in hand, and began to head home. For the first time in a long time, he had plans on Friday night.

The thought brought a sincere smile to his face.

The older looking of the two stood up and extended his hand, “My name is Seth, you must be Rodger. Ma talks about you all the time, so it’s nice to finally have a face to the name.”

*

*

*

Five fifteen rolled around and Rodger was already standing outside Miss Stacey’s house.

Rodger shifted his weight from one foot to the other. In one hand he held a bottle of wine, in the other, a bouquet of flowers. He was nervous, he had never met Miss Stacey’s family. He wasn’t sure what he was supposed to do or say. She was important to him. He couldn’t risk messing this up. Taking a deep breath, he knocked on the door.

Silence enveloped him as he waited for someone to open the door. Miss Stacey pushed it open and ushered Rodger inside. Rodger smiled when he saw that it was a cute, southern looking home.

It suited Miss Stacey with the lace doilies and hardwood floors—something that was not really a thing for Rodger who lived in a one bedroom apartment.

Rodger accepted the extended hand and gave a firm handshake. “I feel the same. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

The younger one, Cedar, stood and gave a similar handshake. “Then you must know who I am, nice to meet ya, Rodger.” Cedar looked to be a bit shy, but polite, nonetheless.

All three men took their seats at the table and began to chat idly about nothing. Rodger found out that Cedar was a college student at the local community college and was only nineteen but was living with a couple of his friends nearby. Seth on the other hand was a full-time resident at a hospital in Brooklyn. Rodger found talking with both men quite enjoyable and the conversation was moving easily. Something that he wasn’t accustomed to.

At five thirty Miss Stacey came into the dining

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room and told them that Sadie was on her way but had gotten delayed at work. None of them minded though and continued their conversation, but this time with Miss Stacey sitting with them.

The sound of the door opening and closing broke Seth and Rodger out of their conversation about the current election. Seth got up and walked with his mother to greet Sadie. Rodger stood up and straightened out his clothing as he waited to meet the last member of the family.

Miss Stacey led the way back into the room with the other two close behind. Rodger couldn’t believe his eyes. The woman in front of him was none other than the one that he had met at the bookshop. The woman in color. Rodger couldn’t move or take his eyes off the young woman as she introduced herself and extended her hand with a smile. When he didn’t respond, Cedar, who had stayed in the dining room with him, jabbed him in the side with his elbow, snapping Rodger out of his daze.

She was as stunning as the first time that he had seen her. Her red hair was let down in even gentler curls across her shoulders. Sadie’s eyes met his and instantly Rodger became nervous.

Her calm eyes reminded him of grass swaying in the breeze. It was that calmness that set his stomach churning. Nobody had eyes like that.

“I-I-I’m very sorry. My name is Rodger Strauss, it’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Sadie. Your mother talks about you all the time.”

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Sadie smiled even brighter when she recognized him. “You’re the gentleman from the bookstore!

I would have tried to stay longer if I had known that you were the Rodger.”

After the introductions were made, they all sat down and Miss Stacey brought out their supper. Rodger ate and talked, but his eyes were constantly being drawn back to Sadie who was glancing his way all the time too. Once they were done, everyone moved out to the living room to have some tea. Rodger took a seat on the couch next to Miss Stacey as he watched Seth teach Cedar how to start a fire. Sadie sat on the chair closest to them.

Once the fire was started and tea was served, Cedar decided to be the one to start up the conversation again. “You know, Rodger, you ain’t the only one here who is color blind,” Cedar began as he took a sip from the teacup. “Sadie is too. Hasn’t seen color a day in her life.” Rodger snapped his gaze to Sadie, and she smiled sheepishly at him.

“It’s true. That’s one of the reasons I entered a music program instead of an art one. I couldn’t stand being in a room that was supposedly filled with color when I couldn’t see it,” Sadie began twisting the skirt of her dress in her hands uncomfortably. “That’s why I found it interesting when Ma said that you were colorblind and yet were working at an art studio. Wasn’t it difficult?”

Rodger looked at her and shook his head. “I couldn’t miss something that I had never seen,”

shrugging his shoulders, Rodger placed his tea cup onto the table next to the couch. “Besides, I can see you in full color.” It was Sadie’s turn to be surprised at his words. She looked from him to her mother and then her brothers. Silence consumed the room and Rodger began to wonder if he was overstaying his welcome.

Rodger quickly stood up and bid farewell to everyone in the house. Nobody moved or said anything, but at that point Rodger didn’t care.

Placing his hand on the door knob, he went to turn it when he heard the words, “I see you in full color too.” *

*

*

Rodger opened his eyes to see Miss Stacey kneeling next to him, with a hand on his knee.

Sitting upright, Rodger realized that he was still in the bookstore, the piece of paper that Miss Stacey had given him tucked into the open book that was on his lap. Miss Stacey looked up at him with concern in her eyes.

“Ya alright, Rodger?” She gave his knee a little shake. Rodger felt confusion cloud his mind.

There was no way that he was still in the bookstore. He had gone home and Friday night dinner had already happened… Right?

“Miss Stacey… what happened?” Miss Stacey’s worried frown only got worse with his question.

“Well…” Rodger sat up and took her hands, looking her right in the eye. “What’s wrong, Miss Stacey?” Clasping her hands tighter, Rodger stared into her eyes, his own pleading with her.

Miss Stacey sighed and took a seat in the chair next to him. “After you ran out the store, I chased you, brought you back, and sat you down at the bench by the door. You handed me your money and I paid for the books for ya. After I handed you the paper, you told me ya wanted to read for a bit before going home. You moved over here, and not long after reading, you fell asleep and nothin’ could wake you.”

Rodger blinked and looked at her. None of this made sense to him. Hadn’t he gone over to her house? Hadn’t he met her children? Hadn’t he had dinner with them? Hadn’t Sadie been the only colorful person to enter his dull world? Was everything just a dream. He had seen Sadie— hadn’t he?

“Miss Stacey, what time do you think Sadie will be to the house on Friday night—I’d like to talk to her more,” Rodger was holding her hands very tightly.

The elderly woman next to him gave a puzzled look. “What do you mean again, Rodger?” A perplexed look took over her face. “I met her a moment ago—when she came into the store, didn’t you see her?”

A hand went across her mouth as Miss Stacey looked him over for a moment. She stopped and looked him in the eye and held his gaze for a moment. Finally, Miss Stacey reached down into her apron and pulled out a round photo case, holding it delicately in her hands.

“It’s impossible Rodger. I think you have my Sadie

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confused for someone else—my baby died four years ago.” Tears filled her eyes, and she gently opened the case, showing Rodger the pictures inside. On the left was a picture of the two men that Rodger had seen in his dream, Cedar and Seth. But his heart dropped when he saw the woman on the other side.

It was the woman in color.

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THE LADY IN BLUE NP Creed Acrylic on Canvas

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HER

Madison Nikfard Erasure 74

watered down siLence On the rOcKs shanelle clogston

his Silence forced down my tHroat like liqUor the burning after tasTe echoed, but Ultimately destroyed my vocal cords to the Point that my own silence taSted like Liquor too and so i raised my finger, salUting the barTender for another drink…

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PRIZE BETWEEN MY THIGHS Allena Sharpe Photography 76

IN 2010, Corbin Louis

when dubstep was

the most popular genre in America and we had jungles in our brains you and I went to a house party

where they played beats off a gameboy

and called it 8 bit the house was in U-district and every square inch was covered in beer cans and ash was covered in running away all we wanted

to do was coal mine our heads for whatever electric charge was left like resin

that night you mouthed the words you mouthed the houses and cans and sidewalks you ate everything out of the bags you chipped away at the future left yourself pamphlets, put my wishes in zoos pexiglas morgues where our bodies would be autopsied

and magnified for our friends enjoyment this way we become song and not callous

ravaging

vessels

we spent our chemicals young

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we broke our safes open and blew out the cobwebs we mountain climbed our wells in reverse screaming

how could we be so stupid

how could we be so purposeful 19 — preparing the funeral

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SELF-PORTRAIT Krisna Bour Oil on Canvas 79

{47.4924° N, 122.2391° W} Isabella Tear

You can feel the anger in the air. As if the people there are inhaling one another’s problems and it becomes their own. The people are not angry though, they simply carry on with the burdens of others strapped to their backs like their children they are desperately trying to take care of. The atmosphere of the city attaches to them. It’s really all just cries for help; a better life. The people themselves are goofy and joyous but it gets tiring when you see all the children walk home alone or roofs cave in from the constant downpour. Nobody was meant to stay here their entire lives. You move here to live the struggle but were never meant to call this place home, at least not forever. Everyone comes and goes but no one ever stays. They use you to get elsewhere and never take the chance to sit back and watch, but I know you watch us. I know you see how they look at you. The whispers and sly remarks on your appearance and your belongings, they point and laugh but I think it’s because they’re scared and couldn’t handle your rude awakening.

I can see past that hard exterior though. You get bullied, I know. But you will always be a place I can look to and reminisce on the everlasting impact you have had on me. I am much more humble now because of you. I am much more strong. I am much more of everything that was meant for me to become and I thank you for the experience but now it is time for me to go as well. But never change. I think you’re perfect the way you are. *

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*

*

Skyway. Always hustling and bustling. Never stops for a moment. I bet you see a lot of different faces every day. There is something about this place that brings security and safety in my heart although you are not perceived this way. You are where I grew a lot, without you, I wouldn’t be me.

There is something in those grey skies and vacant homes that call my name and make me feel warm and leads me to when I was young, and this was my upbringing. Ghetto, dangerous, hood, all the words you could think of to describe you, this is where I was at and this was home.

SEASONS Skylar Lewis Photography

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PRISCINGES Jacq Marie Babb

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WHEN THEY CAME Thelma Tunyi Digital Artwork

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CATCHING SNAKES Joan McBride

When I was young and the summer sun was high and the few clouds were like marshmallows or cotton balls or smudges of white poster paint, the garter snakes would sneak from flowerbed to flowerbed or make a bee-line across the yard to a shade tree or the boxwood hedge.

It would be the afternoon after an evening of croaking frogs, lonely calls of the killdeer and twilight quiver of dragonflies whispering the night away.

I remember catching the garter snakes, their dark green bodies with black stripes, the flick of the tongues, the way they stretched towards freedom as I held them by the tail, the way they peed and wiggled to be let loose.

And when let go they would zip away like a ground meteor across the grass.

And then there was Joey, one of the boys in the neighborhood.

He and his friends would often come by when my sister and I were catching snakes.

One day he took a snake from my hand and snapped it like a whip and its head flew off with a splatter of blood. He put the snake down and watched as the body writhed in the cool grass.

That summer he trespassed into many yards looking for snakes, snapping them like a towel in a frat house.

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He would wash his blood-splattered shoes at a friend’s house before being called to dinner.

But never again in my yard.

I think of Joey every summer when I notice once again that I haven’t seen a garter snake in years and the dragonflies don’t wave into the sunset. The birds still sing but the chorus is hollow.

I hear news of Joey.

He’s near retirement now. He had some kids and lost a wife to cancer. He found a God and is a church elder. Still, he posts a hateful screed these days. He doesn’t like the way the world is headed and wants someone to take charge and lay down the law. He laughs about sissy men as he laughed about sissy boys long ago.

I heard he feels forsaken— too weak to hurt others.

Forlorn in a world that doesn’t honor his work or his anger.

And he sits in the expanse of his lawn where no snakes wander no dragonflies whisper and the birds long since fled.

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UN_ _ _ _ _IFIED Hannah Preisinger Erasure 86

TIGER’S NEST MONASTERY Linh Hoang Photography

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DOUBLE EXPOSURE Israel Medrano Digital Artwork 88

9 29 17 Eric Acosta

portals of psychic garbage hurtling down the road drunk and shaking with anxiety, the reverberation of crying yourself to sleep on the couch, waking up and walking through the apartment under water in contrition there’s no taking it back, the emptiness of permanence permeating the skin, the white phosphorus explosion of laughter and smiles encourages holding on. I’ve made a huge mistake, so far, without any consequences, but I smell their cigarettes in the dark of the trees in the distance beyond the camp I hear them hunting, bells pursuing one another oscillating, I feel a magnitude that must be moved but how do you take a break from this life thing, are they trying to kill me by feeding me emperor platters filling the tables and bringing more tables, the steam from those full full plates heaps and heaps of steam the warmth of the plates like a small star

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STROLL

Vannie Cao Digital Photography 90

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Styne T. Visual Poetry 91

WOMENS WORTH Angie Désir Erasure 92

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THE MARCH OF SUCCESSES Dana Doran Oil on Canvas 94

PRIVILEGE Mariam Khodr

“White privilege” is unofficially defined as “the level of societal advantage that comes with being seen as the norm in America, automatically conferred irrespective of wealth, gender or other factors.”

I am not white, I am not male, I was not born in the United States.

I do not have the privileges most Americans are born with.

I have my own privilege.

I have the privilege of living outside the so-called “societal norm in America”.

Others see racism, misogyny, islamophobia, xenophobia on a daily.

I have the privilege of living it on a daily.

Others are born in America, the first gift outside of the womb is automatic U.S. citizenship.

My parents immigrated to America from Lebanon in 2000.

I was born in Baghdad, Iraq.

I have the privilege of being a foreigner, I wear the title like a badge of privilege clear as the light of day on my Arab forehead.

I used to wear the hijab for several years in my adolescence.

a traffic light.

The traffic light would allow future employers to discriminate against me.

The hijab is more than a pretty piece of cloth, more than a head covering.

The hijab is an invitation to Jannah, to a guaranteed beautiful after life.

I have the privilege of my own, exclusive relationship with God, secured with the same safety pin I used to secure the hijab on my Arab head.

So you can have your white privilege. Your white privilege is not a privilege.

A real privilege is the one where you are different from the “societal norm” in America.

It is the one where you use your tragedy, your clear as daylight differences, the pain and suffering you experience on a daily to bring awareness to the corrupt society we live in called America.

My privilege opens doors and brings protection from God, brings me honor and joy and love.

My privilege is that of being more proud of my Iraqi heritage than it is of my American citizenship.

Some said the hijab would be the equivalence of a target on my head.

The target would be a sign as red and bright as

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EYE SENSES Israel Medrano Digital Artwork 96

MISTAKEN Bunny Singh, Audrey Tinnin, Reginald King, Lucy Chi

82 year old Sikh man Beaten outside Fresno Gurdwara Sikh mistaken for Muslim Wears a beard and turban Mass slaying inside Gurudwara Sikh family receives death threats Sikh mistaken for Muslim Wears a beard and turban Sikh passenger boards a NY City train Punched by fellow passenger Victim lost three teeth Sikh—mistaken for Muslim Wears a beard and turban Two friends out for a walk Both shot and killed Suringh Singh age 68 Gurmej Atwai age 78 Sikh mistaken for Muslim Wears a beard and turban Cab driver severely beaten Two passengers call him Bin Laden Sikh mistaken for Muslims Wears a beard and turban Gunman walks into a Gurdwara Killed six people in 2012

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Sikh mistaken for Muslim Wears a beard and turban Sikh designer and actor Prevented from boarding an airplane I was upset, I had anxiety, I was shaking I did not speak Sikh—mistaken for muslim Wears a beard and turban Gunman walked onto residential driveway Gunman yelled “go back to your Country” Gunman shot Sikh man in Kent Washington Sikh—mistaken for muslim Wears a beard and turban Gunman yelled “get out of my country!” opening fire, killing one, wounding two Sikh—mistaken for Muslim Wears a beard and turban Putting up signs for political office Mahli recounted sand being thrown in eyes White supremacists jumped him Showered him with baton blows Sikh—mistaken for Muslim Wears a beard and turban Attacked With a pipe outside Sikh Temple Head wounds, broken bones, and ribs

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Sikh—mistaken for Muslim Wears a beard and turban Sikh Family received death threats Calling them “Turban Family” Accused of being tied to Taliban Sikh—mistaken for Muslim Wears a beard and turban 71 years old Sikh Man Attacked by 16-year old boys Kicking him, spat on him Sikh—mistaken for Muslim Wears a beard and turban Neo-Nazi symbol spray-painted Two men beat a Sikh man Police call it a hate crime Sikh—mistaken for Muslim Wears a beard and turban Hammer hit me Bleeding from my head Yelling, go back to where you came from Sikh mistaken for Muslim Wears a beard and turban Sikh man pummeled by wooden sticks Assailants wearing hoodies With a celtic cross

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Sikh mistaken for Muslim Wears a beard and turban Sikh man in Manteca California Assaulted, his turban ripped off Sikh—mistaken for Muslim Wears a beard and turban Man threatening to kill worker suspicion of a hate crime Sikhs want to take action We shouldn’t hate each other We are just one of you Sikh mistaken for Muslim Wears a beard and turban Sikh man beaten through car window Turban knocked off fistful of hair cut off Sikh mistaken for Muslim Wears a beard and turban Tone matters in political discourse A matter of life or death for millions Worried about losing loved ones to hate Hate targeted towards anyone middle eastern Violence against anybody should be intolerable

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108 BHUTANESE SOLDIERS Linh Hoang Photography

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ATTITUDE ADJUSTMENT

Vivian Chuang Mixed Media Collage 102

DAFFODIL Cora Thomas

Daffodil— that was one of your favorite flowers.

They reminded you of me born in the Spring of 1984.

Narcissus and its friend tulipa dot the yard and bouquets in vases overflow with color my birthday decorations You decorate ever so carefully—getting it just right.

Even sticking tape to the top of balloons and affixing them to the ceiling to make it look like helium.

Your smile lights up the room just like the flowers.

I stand— blossom in hand and rest it carefully on the stark white sheet. fragile

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just like you a burst of sunshine “I love you,” I said. it’s March Daffodils greet you with their wide yellow mouths heads bobbing as if they are welcoming you to walk inside their sunny disposition for the last time.

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AFTER THE WAR STARTED Deborah Caplow Encaustic on wood

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THE RED NAPKIN Cora Thomas ~ for k.i. ~ I fold the faded red napkin and quickly walk back into the kitchen bright red cartoon hair—

abrupt wave of an image but unmistakable—

Ariel from The Little Mermaid Not just Ariel though—something else was there. the way my cousin used to draw her like she alone had summoned the Ocean Princess from the Deep Sea.

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She could put those artists at Disney to shame.

Did you trace them? I asked my young mind becoming curious, No, she confidently replied with a slight smile.

I remember the smooth pine desk my uncle gave her the colored pencils she carefully chose. red

hair curving down Ariel’s shoulders violet

sea shells

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strategically positioned I learned only when I got older.

I stare at the red napkin that I have washed and put away dozens of times in this same drawer— stunned.

If I could ask Ariel to set out on her next watery adventure and

bring back my cousin

I would.

After a long search, both of them side-by-side would rush to the sparkling surface of the water and step onto land like it was the first time, but my imagination gets away from me sometimes.

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I wonder where those drawings are now

I want to imagine they are neatly stacked in a drawer somewhere—

newly sharpened pencils lined up beside them

Their woody scent faintly fills the room Her warm signature splashed in the bottom right corner

but, they are lost like she has become

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bleeding back into the hue of this red napkin.

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WHITE RED ORANGE Deborah Caplow Encaustic on wood 111

NEBULA

Mudasir Zubair Digital Artwork 112

THE PITS Molly Rooney

I. My mother is a mountain at the bottom of the stairs beloved and in love with, we’ll all have a finger in the chimney corner A magpie picking over stores of glinting resentments, she chews on the could-haves and should-nots sticky pits, she spits them out you were an old barfly when I met you Decay is so fragrant to feed the should-nots Jupiter’s torn heart stains her teeth your father used to say ain’t and y’all aintinyaawl Outside her kingdom, she has fallen the waterlogged belly a great honey moon stranded in my own herd so tender for poaching, swollen with the would-haves writhing, the feral thirst of sallow yew I could have drunk the heart myself as I marveled at the sumptuous wet nurse licking her wounds such a shameful tongue.

II. My apartment is where the girls can come smoke cigarettes we eat raw that which would burn at the altar, young bull babies heaven-born and belted-bound

With my face pressed against the quarry rock, I was not tame, a name of my own still waiting as the serpent crumbled shivering as though an infant, I saw her fallen still-life

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the wretched Madonna on her knees.

Years later, I find the pits fit perfectly in the space where the sad tin boy pulled my baby tooth I hum with the pits in my mouth a fate of my own snatched from the woodlands, a plant of bloodless speech.

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CUNNINGHAM CABIN Cindy Fullwiler Photography

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THE DEAD WEST SERIES Aidan Emmons Digital Artwork 116

LOCATING N (THE VALUE OF) Sam Prudente

wood plank fences alternate with chicken wire, stones, red berries an open doorway is a mouth agape into inner basement darkness long unhinged, door rotting, its white painted wood overgrown with brush it had fallen flat on its face and everybody around it ignored its embarrassment downhill all the way, slowly avoiding slips on the dank golden leaves a Cadillac hubcap has rolled into the ivy cascading over the rocks who will hack life-rings around the trees above: deciduous, evergreen? underfoot neon pink & st. patrick green is spray-painted shorthand by stop #72869: an x encircled; KB/t; NOBR; ER STWIPG, arrows pointing down and back uphill a yellow first responder’s jacket is lodged between some large rocks and between some more, crushed cans of beer as if a volunteer had had a hard day and forced to take transit close to midnight, kicked back a few and missed the bus but it is morning now, a pony-tailed Asian woman jogs downhill past me in controlled cadence a smart Asian woman in her bangs & leisure suit blows leaves away from her stately driveway high up from the corner where Eastgate Bible Fellowship now shares venues & worship time with the Korean Yedam Church, there are thirteen cones curbside due to repaving of the sidewalks but only 5, or 2, or 8 on the other curbs opposite and kitty corner to the signs: Dead End Private Driveway; Do not Enter; Exit Only—as if the promised salvation were not Three Iron Truths: 1. Manhole cover marked US West Communications, classic ring waffle design, now rusty. Made in India. (lies beneath an electric post with a colored poster now losing color: Tabby. Lost August 26. Answers to the name Tabby; one of many pets lost throughout the neighborhood.

One sees bunnies, birds, racoons skitter along but never lost pets. Coons, crows, maybe would fight or eat them dead but rabbits, becoming hungry, carnivorous?)

2. Yellow spray-painted hydrant. Markings: WB670250 and Waterous. (Isn’t that glorious!)

3. Drain cover marked: Drain. even in light rain uphill is always harder than downhill, caution easier than battle I never turned my back on old friends, but it will all be behind me in a few days if I can get out Albertson’s now a Safeway; Baskin Robbins, Postal Service and Dominos gone to make way for Hong Noodle Ramen & Izakaya; Castle Nail Bar did in the dentist & the laundry; even the Redi Clinic inside Rite Aid closed shop, the sitting room chairs face out now into the aisle, barricading its entrance, providing instead a temporary respite, so you can sit

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and examine the details of The Squatty Potty 2.0: 379617 414940 LN1309 5179 SP 22 2057 (price 24.99 before taxes) why is it so taxing to go when it takes all you know to stay out of shit, where do you put the boxes marked: conduit underground, extra heavy, well secured since, specifically, you don’t know where you’ll end up coz when you gotta go; you just gotta go

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SILLY ME Emily Nguyen Digital Artwok 119

FALL OF CHURCH Rachel Kudlacz Charcoal, Ink Wash 120

YELLOW FLOWER’S CONFESSION Kristine Jeanyoung Kim

A brown tiny seed travels in the air and prepares for its landing on a speck of moist dirt

The seed cautiously settled on a land nowhere

Waiting for the body to reach high into the sky, she hears people criticizing, machine generating, and numerous planes flying by

In her mind’s eye, a world is bittersweet

But she smells a scent that is indescribable

She feels a warm breeze, that forms a nostalgic mood

An underground shelter is unsuitable for a flower like her to live, for which she is confident to show off her beautiful presence and is unwilling to see an upper world

Without standing her curiosity and hastiness, she urges to move upward;

Her entire body electrifies as if trying to alleviate the itchiness A sudden wind blows on to her tender body as she approaches outside like the instant moment of Botticelli’s Birth of Venus

She inhales deeply and puts all 121

away from her thoughts and feelings, and shouts:

I am free, I am beautiful, I am eternal,

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ONE GAZE Adrienne Co Pencil Crayon

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CONTRIBUTORS

Eric Acosta is a prose/poetry writer from El Paso, Texas. He plays guitar and lives with a fat cat. He’s getting his MFA in Poetics. He graduated from University of Texas at El Paso.

Badr Alghanmi is a photography enthusiast who enjoys discovering his imagination in digitally altering and modifying photos that he takes based on his life experiences.

Jacq Marie Babb creates in many mediums and takes great pleasure in combining varied genres and artforms in her works. Her aesthetic is layered and fragmented, transparent and interweaving—a statement as true to her life as to her art. She lives in Seattle with a writing desk at her window so as to gaze out at the green and grey and sometimes blue while she works.

Grace Boulanger is a graduating senior from the Culture, Literature, and the Arts program with a special interest in defamiliarization and horticulture.

Krisna Bour is a student currently working towards her Interdisciplinary Arts degree. She loves being humorous, cartooning, and playing Dungeons and Dragons with her friends.

Denise Calvetti Michaels teaches psychology at Cascadia and writes poetry, memoir and lyric essays. Denise plans to complete the MFA in Creative Writing & Poetics this fall 2019.

Deborah Caplow is an art historian and curator with specialties in Mexican art, history of photography, women in art, art and politics and more. She is the author of a book about the Mexican artist Leopoldo Méndez and is currently researching graphic art in Oaxaca, Mexico, where she curated two major exhibitions in 2018. At UW Bothell, she teaches a variety of art history courses in the School of Interdisciplinary Arts & Sciences.

Vannie Cao is a student at University of Washington, Bothell double majoring in Media and Communications and Law, Economics, and Public Policy and minoring in Business Administration. Vannie loves the arts because art inspires.

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Angela Jilliene Casidsid is a junior studying Interactive Media Design. Creating artwork and illustrations is a therapeutic hobby for her, since it allows her to express her active imagination and to voice her own thoughts and emotions. She also has additional interests in fashion, psychology, and sociology.

Jeramie Castillo is a second-year student at the University of Washington Bothell pursuing Computer Science. His artistic focus is on street and portrait photography. As a child, he had always enjoyed the ability to create and express various forms of creativity behind the lens. Being self-taught, he possessed an eye for unique composition and angling in his works. His images are captured through angles that are uncommon to an everyday pedestrian which, in return, develops a unique dimension in his photography. In each series, his goal is to create a connecting theme that portrays aspects of human life, interaction, and nature. Skills in post-editing software allow him to further emphasize emotions and feelings in his images while maintaining a realistic setting. With his work, he hopes to use this platform as a way to represent Filipino and Southeast Asian culture in visual arts.

Michele Chao is a junior majoring in design with an appreciation for photography. For her, it’s a way of disconnecting yourself from your day-to-day and immersing yourself with your surroundings. Most of her photoshoots are of people or views of nature from various travels. Along with photo, she has a deep passion for music and mixing. You can find her music through her pseudonym, Nemesis.

Vivian Chuang is a student at University of Washington studying Cinema Studies and Multimedia arts.

Shanelle Clogston loves writing and aspires to be a published YA novelist. She is a senior, graduating with a BA in Culture, Literature & the Arts and a minor in Visual & Media Arts at UW Bothell. Her favorite novel is Where the Crawdads Sing by Delia Owens. Shanelle writes every day and is currently working on two novels.

Adrienne Co is studying applied computing and minoring in visual and media arts in hopes to combine her interests in both programming and art. As much as 126

she is involved in the digital realm, she has an equally profound connection with traditional art.

Amanda Cook is a senior student of UWB’s American and Ethnic Studies program. She has been doing creative writing on and off throughout her schooling, but has never been completely satisfied with anything she has written - until now. She hopes one day to write a book using many different writing styles and mixing poetry and prose to make something unique. Amanda is planning to pursue the MFA through UWB along with an MA in history with hopes of curating a museum.

NP Creed is a Culture, Literature, and Art major and will graduate in June 2019.

He is thinking about joining the MFA program at UW Bothell and would like to teach someday. He has been writing in various genres for most of his life and enjoys all kinds of art, both consuming and creating. He personally deals with mental illness, but in recent years has been more vocal about what he faces daily both in his own life and in his work.

Angie Désir is a Media & Communication Student with a minor in Visual Media Art. Media, Arts, and Entertainment is what I live for and what I’m passionate about. I am a senior and will be graduating in Spring of 2019. I am a women of mix race with a two different culture background. I am proud to set the trend in my family and will be the first to graduate from University.

Dana Doran is a 2014 UWB graduate with a degree in Interdisciplinary Art. Much of the work she is currently producing is elicited from conversation and theories about the nature of consciousness (C = hf) or musings about the nature of the universe (some say it is a hologram) with a dash of humor. As part of the series 404 _ Page Not Found, her work finds that “things” common to life today cannot be found in the future or have adapted to an unrecognizable form to survive.

Follow her at dorandana.wordpress.com/ or saatchiart.com/danadoran.

Rania Elshamma is a UWB alumni and former Editor for Clamor. She majored in Media and Communications from the school of IAS. Rooted in the majority of her written work are narratives surrounding social issues faced by women and/ or persons of color; shedding light on stigmas, social pressures, and inequality/ 127

disadvantages. She finds importance in giving experiences faced by many a female voice and narrative to relate to, as well as encouraging a platform for Women/POC to share their own accounts.

Aidan Emmons grew up in the small, isolated town of Monroe Washington, Aidan Emmons has found a paradise within the many creative facets that exist today. Influenced by street art, Emmons is convinced that “art is not only an entryway to another dimension, but a podium to express one’s feelings.”

Additionally, Emmons employs many mediums such as digital, cinema, music and audio, and even performance art. His products are not always created to please, but to question, to ask and to explore. Furthermore, the majority of his works can be viewed as outlandish or strange, but generally simple. He states, “There is something seducing about strange and outlandish pieces, but there is nothing more sacred and meaningful than a finished product that is straightforward and concise.” Emmons continues to utilize and combine these tactics in order to deliver the most intriguing images he can muster.

Jenny Fan is a CLA student at UW Bothell. This is her junior year.

Matea Ferencak, aka Mati, likes to find parks and animals and take new pictures, and wants the world to stop hurting the planet.

Shae Foley is a Health Studies student at the University of Washington Bothell and amateur writer. Her stories and poems are featured prominently in the “notes” section of her smartphone and in the many notebooks her husband has sworn to burn when she dies. She read a true story about motherhood at Town Hall as part of Listen to Your Mother Seattle 2016. Most of her time is spent fact-checking and copy-editing school projects for her 2 children—usually the night before they’re due. She is a lecturer on a range of topics including strangerdanger, bicycle safety, and good hygiene. Find her hiding behind a book or awkwardly trying to make small talk.

Gabrielle Fox is a Latina student at the UWB. She is a senior with a double major in gender, women, and sexuality studies and society, ethics, human behavior, with a minor in diversity studies. She hopes to become an educator on topics of gender and women studies in order to spread knowledge with the potential to 128

liberate. In addition, she hopes to be a writer, a passion which has always been instrumental to her personal liberation.

Darren Frazier has always loved creating things, the medium changes but the act remains the same. I’m thankful for my abilities and the opportunity to share my work with others.

Cindy Fullwiler is a self-taught North American nature and wildlife photographer. After her retirement in 2010, she knew this was the time to travel and learn the art of photography--a lifelong goal. Cindy has traveled and photographed the coasts of California, Oregon, Washington, Vancouver Island, and England. Her love of wildlife and nature combined with her environmental education degree translate into a unique perspective in her photographs. It is Cindy’s goal to produce not just pretty photographs but also to tell a story with conservation center stage.

Daniel Goltapeh has been practicing photography since early 2014. Goltapeh’s passion began with his interest in cinematography. He took on photography in the beginning for practice and had pursuit it ever since.

Nicolas Hauser is a student at the University of Washington Bothell currently working towards an MFA in Creative Writing and Poetics after receiving his BA in Media and Communication Studies from the university over the summer. In his own practice he primarily focuses on poetry, but he enjoys engaging with many forms of writing as well as other artistic fields. Beginning in Fall 2018 he became a Peer Consultant at the Writing and Communication Center in an attempt to learn even more about what writing can be.

Linh Hoang is a senior at UWB. Her major is Media and Communication Studies and minor in Health Education and Promotion. She hopes her love for art and travel will inspire others to never stop exploring the world around them.

Mariam Khodr is a graduating IA student with the University of Washington Bothell. Originally from Baghdad, Iraq and immigrating to the United States in 2000. She has held on to her ethnicity and faith as a baggage of burden, until

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realizing the privilege she has of not originating from the American societal norm that is white, male and born in America.

Kristine Jeanyoung Kim is an aspiring artist in Seattle who was born in South Korea and raised in Anchorage, Alaska. Throughout her study in Interdisciplinary Arts at the University of Washington, she has taken diverse courses in the arts such as producing audio, writing a journal, coding for web design, and, creating artwork.

Rachel Kudlacz is pursuing her undergraduate degree in Community Psychology with a minor in Business Administration, with the intentions to use her interdisciplinary knowledge to provide insight in addressing social disorders in the workplace. She engages in artistic expression as a way of understanding the different perspectives around her, while also investigating the inner workings of herself. Admittedly, she finds this process enlightening and humbling, if sometimes hard to bear.

Skylar Lewis is a Senior majoring in Media and Communications, with a minor in Visual and Media Arts. He has always had a passion for photography. He hopes to attend grad school to pursue a career in sports journalism.

Corbin Louis is a poet and performer from Seattle. His art is rooted in a desire to express the dark realities of drugs, loss and the ugly rollercoaster of being alive.

Corbin’s text/image is a pickaxe that cuts things open at the nerve in order to exam them. This way understanding becomes empathy. As long as people can still feel something, there’s a chance we might live to see a few decent hours.

Abigail Mandlin is a creative writing and poetics master’s student at the University of Washington, Bothell. She loves to see the magic in all things, even the mundane. It’s what keeps her going despite the struggles of life in these turbulent times. She currently teaches language arts and history at a combination middle school/high school and aspires to one day achieve her dream of being a proper novelist.

Joan McBride has previously published in Clamor and Raven Chronicles. She lives in Kirkland, WA. 130

M.R. McGuire is the son of a son of a preachin’ man.

Israel Medrano is a gifted videographer, photographer and performance artist based out of the PNW area. It is his intention to contribute to the creative movement by sharing his artistic vision across the world. His photo and video work has been featured in various art publications and has won numerous awards. Israel recently performed an art installation for Badder Ink’s 1st year Gallery show that involved projecting images on a live subject. @Medranoproductions Kalen Mills is a multimedia artist specializing in temporary installations of crumpled-up math proofs. Kalen works in as many formats as necessary to justify collecting art supplies, and likes texture, geometry, and negative space. Kalen is grateful to the local art community for their encouragement and unwavering support for anyone dedicating themselves to practicing what they love.

Madison Nikfard spends her free time writing, painting, and playing with her border collie. She’s written and published books and short stories under LMNO Publishing and hopes to someday see one of her books turned into a film.

Jason Peach ate a fried guinea pig in Peru, dried frog legs in Thailand and a skewered scorpion in Beijing but really lacks the palate for olives.

Hannah Preisinger is a student of UW Bothell, graduating in 2019 with a BA in Culture, Literature and the Arts and a minor in Consciousness Studies. She is also actively involved with the gravitational wave astronomy research group, works as a Student Web Assistant with the school’s Marketing and Communications team, and owns and operates a small theatrical production company. She is an avid investigator of all things strange and unexplained. After graduation, she plans to continue practicing theater and attend a local coding bootcamp. She also might sleep sometime.

Sam Prudente was once adopted by Grace, a pure white cat with one green and one blue eye, who mothered many generations of kittens. On his last quarter at UW, he found himself evicted from his landlady’s property because she didn’t have the necessary permits. Locating a new residence meant abruptly saying 131

goodbye to an old neighborhood. Both poems were products of Prof. Abe Avnisan’s Advanced Writing class last fall.

Megan Rich is a Media and Communications major at UW Bothell. She spends her summers up on San Juan Island, which is where she draws her inspiration for writing and poetry.

Molly Rooney is a senior majoring in Culture, Literature and Arts. This is the second edition of Clamor that she has worked on as part of the editorial board.

Will SaeChao is an on campus Graphic Designer for Student Affairs. Even though his main medium of choice is using digital software, he has a background in classic mediums such as pencil sketching. When he’s not being your friendly neighborhood graphic designer, he’s off hitting the books studying for his classes; trying to complete his IAS Undergratuded Degree in Media and Communication.

During his free time (which is rare) he’s either planning a hiking trip, taking it easy with Netfilx and Video Games, or just enjoying his hometown, Seattle. Go Hawks!

Michelle Schaefer lives and breathes in Bothell. She enjoys writing poetry especially haiku. You can find her poems in Frogpond, Acorn and Modern Haiku.

Currently she is attending UW Bothell to complete her studies in Culture, Literature and the Arts where she hopes to learn how to make an impact on things that matter. She thinks that you are never to old to go to school, never to young to write poetry, and should learn something every day.

Allena Sharpe is a recent graduate of the Environmental Studies program at UWB. She firmly believesthat in order to build the healthy, thriving societies we all crave, we must correct our institutions to incorporate the rhythms of Nature and remember we are caretakers and guests, not masters and overlords, on this planet. At the same time, she tries not to take life here on Earth too seriously as it is over in a blink. Her favorite areas of creative expression are dance, painting, and writing. She hopes her work makes you feel confused and curious.

Kahlia Shearer is a previous UWB student and Clamor editor who is passionate about finding art in everyday life. This past summer, Kahlia traveled Europe with her film camera, studied art history and immersed herself into new cultures.

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Andrea Raye is an aspiring artist and creative writer.

N. L. Sweeney is a current Creative Writing and Poetics MFA student at University of Washington Bothell, N. L. Sweeney’s work has been published by Twisted, Flash Fiction Magazine, Niteblade, Jeopardy Magazine, and Inroads: Writers in the Community. When not writing, dancing, or studying, they busy themself with petting furry animals and losing themself in a cup of tea.

Styne T. is a UWB Applied Computing student who is minoring in Creative Writing. Although most of her educational background is based on the logic of technology, she often enjoys engaging in her imagination and writing poems to express how she or others feel to escape from the logical side of her brain.

She hopes that her writing will be able to appeal to the reader’s thoughts and emotions through a clear use of imagery and language.

Isabella Tear is a 19-year-old Senior, currently in the CLA and MCS major with a minor in Creative Writing. She carries her own blog with more writing of poems and prose and plans to become an author and continue on to grad school with UWB. Cora Thomas is a poet and advocate. She is proud to serve the UW Bothell and Cascadia College community as a Campus Library staff member. An alumna of UW Bothell’s M.A. Cultural Studies program, she also served on the Clamor Editorial Board during her graduate work—a real highlight. Growing up in the beautiful Skagit Valley has cultivated a deep appreciation of the natural world which played a significant role in her creative development as an artist. Cora’s poetry and photography has been published and her environmental nonfiction has been featured in an outdoors magazine, Adventures NW. Her advocacy work is layered from education around Skagit River Watershed conservation to supporting first generation college students (she is proud to be one).

Morgan Thomas draws elves and hobgoblins and plays DnD. The two hobbies overlap.

Audrey Tinnin is a sophomore majoring in Culture, Literature, and the Arts at the University of Washington Bothell. She is originally from Kennewick 133

Washington, and she first moved to Bothell 1 years ago. On campus she is involved in Rotaract Club and Outdoor Wellness Activities. In her free time, Audrey enjoys reading and exploring the Seattle area. When she is not in class, you will probably find her at the Den Coffee Shop, or the ARC. Music is an important part of her life, and her favorite genres of music are Indie and Folk. She also enjoys singing and playing the piano.

Jignesh Trivedi has been living in Everett, Washington for most of his life.

Currently, he is pursuing a degree in Electrical Engineering. He works on his art in hopes to develop it past the point of simply just being a hobby.

Thelma Tunyi is a painter and illustrator, and a member of a group with two other artists called Sunshine Tangerine. She self-taught artist, creating watercolor and mix media portraits.

Mudasir Zubair is actively refining his art skills in his free time, plays Dungeons and Dragons, and is creating a comic series set in an epic space-fantasy setting.

Mudasir loves to support and follow his friends’ personal art projects. While studying Communications and Science-Technology in his undergrad, Mudasir worked on the Clamor Editorial Board as a copyeditor, treasurer, and event planner. At the end of Summer 2019, he will graduate with a Master of Arts in Policy Studies. You can view more of his works at artstation.com/strayqrow.

Thomas Wilson is a student at Cascadia College studying Media & Communication. Photography & Film are his passions, and he aspires to hold a successful career in media/art when he graduates. @scubatomster

UNIVERSITY OF WASHINGTON BOTHELL LITERARY & ARTS JOURNAL