Clamor 2020

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Creative Writing + Audio & Video + Visual Art

2008-2020 Annual Literary & Arts Journal


Clamor is the annual literary and arts journal of the University of Washington Bothell. Copyright 2020 Clamor. All rights revert to authors and artists after publication. The views expressed herein do not necessarily reflect those of Clamor editors or of the University of Washington Bothell. Clamor 2020 Editorial Board Alec Johnson Alexa Agustiano Cedric Dacoco Daniel Goltapeh Dhruv Verma Heather McAllister

Jeanne Macbeth Jonathan Tan Jonathan Wiedemann Jordan Lee Havlicek Kylie Kepl Madeleine Jenness

Michelle Schaefer Miles Hart Naomi Nguyen Noelle Rittenhouse Pei Wei Chung Sabina Livadariu

Sana Iqbal Saskia Gottuso Spenser Hu Vannie Cao Vivian Mak

Faculty Advisor: Anida Yoeu Ali Cover image: Vannie Cao, A Greener Yesterday Mailing address: Clamor: UWB Literary and Arts Journal University of Washington Bothell Box 358561 18115 Campus Way NE Bothell, WA 98011 Email: Instagram: @uwb_clamor Website: Printed by Consolidated Press, 600 South Spokane Street, Seattle, WA 98134 We acknowledge the generous support of the Services and Activities Fee Committee, the Office of Student Engagement and Activities, and Club Council at the University of Washington Bothell.

Contents A Letter From The Editors


Jordan Lee Havlicek The Summer Solstice


Marina Burandt Find Me In If You Wouldn’t Mind

14 73

Xinzhu Xu Watchman Dream

15 78

Jonathan Tan Our Aquarium Creation

16 55

Michelle Schaefer Payback Last Dance

17 104

Annika G.R. Bunney The Cycle of the Tree A Rebuild Commences

18 107

Bee Elliott Wake Up


Jessica Belmont The Rock Defiled


Najma Adan Blank Canvas


Cindy Yang Black Tears 24 Ila Plank The Accident Place

25 80

Josephine Hartono Bleed


Emily Nguyen Rico Nasty


Jan O. I enjoy reading things really loudly. Like Real Loud. So loud it’ll break your...


Krisna Bour The Old Man in Rags The Man with the Seven Heads

30 87

David Payne Expression of Soul


Susanna Andrews Parasitical Nightmare


Vivian Mak ver à soie (silkworm) The Self

34 76

Kylie Kepl Watch Your Step 35 Sabina Livadariu In an Ex-Communist Country: Capitalism Kills nothing to give you

38 58

Courtney Putnam Symbiosis


Heather McAllister Out of the City


Cliff Watson Shattered


Karina Syrova The Code


Sonia Saravanan A Ripple in the Galaxy


Pei Wei Chung Stardust Four Seasons’ Breeze

46 65

Joseph Niduaza And He. And She: A Day in the Life


Gregory Buck Untitled Gazy

51 52

Manasa Yadavalli Beautiful Chaos


Virginia Cassady Enough


Darrell Black The Forgotten People


Joan McBride In Transit Washing Underwear

57 116

SanBian Untitled City Wall

60 122

Ashley Rittenhouse Silent Night


Jennifer Dormier Metropolis


Abigail Mandlin A Personal Inquiry Into the Second Law... She tasted like vanilla: overpowering

63 97

Stephanie Segura Saguaro at the End of the Yard Carnal

64 115

Angela Jilliene Casidsid Fly Melt

66 89

Elisha Hong Climate Change The Beautiful Abyss

68 92

Nicolas Hauser Ground[DED]


West Lawrence The Greatest Beings To Ever Exist


Ace Baker New Battle Grounds


Daniel Goltapeh Sequoia Rose Zissou People

72 95

Jasmine Figueroa The Weeping Willow


Weiling Zhang ĺ°˝ - Jin


Noelle Rittenhouse Monthly Matters


Elaine Tjokro Aku


Donna Sullivan Haven She Said No Frances Jaynes I Used to Sleep to Kill Time

81 110 82

Shanelle Clogston Wristlet 83 Beza Ayele apprehension


Saskia Gottuso Don’t Mind If I Do


Adrienne Co Spectacle


Thelma Tunyi The Rowboat 1 Breathe

90 108

Vannie Cao The Pew Through the City A Greener Yesterday

91 109 124

Kiana Dolam My Favorite Color Was You


Corbin Louis Gemini Season


Shan Shan Tsang Faced 96 Little M Apraxia


Grace Boieriu Sound On


David Dinh Horizon Line


Jeanne Macbeth Believers in Signs


NP Creed Rum Whore


Morgan Thomas To The King


Shanley Fermin The Adventures of Johnny who invites a girl to a picnic even though...


Denise Calvetti Michaels What You Really Want To Describe


Crystal Sackman Waves on a Distant Planet


Jay Quedado Gooey


Rachel Raymond Wanderlost


Xiaowei Zhang Elegant fish


Audrey Tinnin Finally, was all she wrote




Online Exclusives


A Let ter From The Editors How is everyone doing? Professor Ali asks at the beginning of our online meetings. I feel I’m not doing enough. All I’ve done is sleep. I’m sorry I haven’t been as engaged. If we had said these things before the pandemic, it might have seemed like we were not putting in enough effort. Even during a global crisis, some of us feel we are not doing enough, while others find themselves working harder than ever. Major shifts due to the spread of COVID-19 have pushed us to adapt to new expectations and stresses. Lives and experiences have been lost during this time, and the world is filled with grief. We recognize how lucky and privileged we are to be alive and part of this team. We hope art can help us overcome the feeling of disconnect experienced around the world. This publication is a celebration of our community’s strength. Because of the isolation, this collaboration was more difficult but also more rewarding. By presenting UW Bothell’s best creative works in the most environmentally aware edition in our journal’s history, we Clamorians hope to tell a story of resilience and sustainability through art. Due to the extraordinary efforts of the Clamor team, and despite all the hurdles we have faced, you are holding the 2020 edition of Clamor in your hands. This journal would not have been possible without the hard work and support of a rotating staff of students, contributors, and readers like you. With immense pride and effort, we present the cumulative work of this once-in-a-lifetime year. We love you, and we believe in you.

Please enjoy Clamor 2020.


The Summer Solstice Jordan Lee Havlicek Digital Art 13

Find Me In Marina Burandt

wet clusters of mushrooms, and blood clots inside egg yolks, and marinated meats layered in plastic, and tiny curled hairs on wool, and pale worms on sidewalks. inside the trunks of hollow trees slipping from hiding place to hiding place, gathering more grey Spanish moss for my hair and more spiderwebs for my neck and shoulders someday, someone will be here with me, scratched into stone walls around spiral stairs, but for now, the spongy leaf litter under my feet is starting to grow over me redshifted in the empty space like this, the eye moves too quickly and leaves the burning orange impression but I’m long gone.


Watchman Xinzhu Xu Painting 15

Our Aquarium Jonathan Tan Digital Art 16

payback Michelle Schaefer

grass and loam for now. no seed lies itself down to not grow no blossom thinks about the season’s end no wild meadow looks up at the sky to ponder its life no cornfield wonders how many mouths it’s feeding no river debates if there will be salmon this year no ocean fears that it will boil to salt no iceberg senses that the air is too warm no desert wishes for rain no forest hears the sound of chain saws it’s only earth as she has always been and in time her grounds will be merciful and make room for me even when I have so little to offer in return.


The Cycle of the Tree Annika G.R. Bunney

What do you remember about the earth? Close your eyes and hold your breath as you slide under the surface of the water. The salt of the sea keeps us alive but burns our skin. It drains the water from us, taking the moisture back into the earth. We drink the water and eat the salt and lose the water and start all over again. A cycle of going away and coming back again. A tree growing, leaves coming and going, the seasons passing. I open my eyes under the water, and the salt burns. The fish swim by, staring at me. What are they looking at? Seaweed brushes my face like mermaid’s hair, and the sand between my toes turns my feet to flippers. I move forward slowly, unblinking and blurry. My lungs burn, too. Something touches the surface of the water above me, and I surface like a whale, slashing water and drinking in the air. A leaf floats by, fallen from a tree on the shoreline.


Swimming in the summer, watching the water in the winter, back to the swimming, and so goes the cycle. Ice and rain and sun and wind cannot touch the water – cannot touch me in the water. Only the moon and its many cycles control the sea, much as the moon controls my blood, in and out and in again like tides. I am the ocean like my mother before me and her mother before her. The cycle continues around and around. Tell me what you know about dismemberment. An old fence falls slowly. The structure may collapse in an instant, but wood rots and nails rust in many years more than planks take to snap. Bones decay in the same way. The body must deteriorate and be whittled away over the years before the bones begin to fracture apart. Yet the skeleton within the body is merely a scaffolding for the brain, a support for the muscles that move it from place to place. We are just parts.

How will you/have you prepare(d) for your death? Sandpaper slowly erodes that which it touches, including itself. The wood gives beneath the grain. The work of an old tree is slowly turned to dust. A blacksmith makes many nails, yet I have need for none. Only glue is required. Did horses die to make my glue? Each side of the box is glued in place, horsepower holding them together. Smoothness takes skill. I am still rough around the edges. I run my hand along the seams, but the lacquer covers them. They are unseen. I know they are there, and I keep dragging my fingers across them. Back and forth in rhythm until my fingerprints are gone. The wood is showing again. The seams are clear again. I cover them with paint and lacquer once more. I pull at wrinkles on my face, rubbing them and hoping they will disappear. They do not. I am no box. My seams cannot be covered.


Wake Up Bee Elliott Mixed Media


The Rock Defiled Jessica Belmont

fraudulent promises tattered

bulldozers flocking like vultures drinking the lifeblood of culture hollow tranquility shattered holy protectors are battered peacefulness met with aggression reverence their only weapon

I am not sacred as they are my bloodline is the betrayer my soul is blackened with oil


Blank Canvas Najma Adan

Darkness all around — realizing I can’t dig myself out of this deep, black hole As if trying to erase everything from my past, will somehow help build my life for the future. Nothing seems to have changed because too much has changed. Instead of trying to erase my past, my history, my life, why not embrace it with open arms? But how to do that with weight lingering at the back of my mind and within society all around? Being looked at under a microscope, small, insignificant, worthless. Trying to scratch, and rub off my skin as if my melanin will wipe away, just like my roots did. Not knowing where to look: left or right Painting us with our own blood, sweat, and tears through years of suffering as though we are the ones who are the creators of our own pain. But little do they know that they were the ones who had infused us with this self-hatred. A parade of noise cries, and commotion going everywhere yet there is silence, stillness, a lull for when we are alone we are loud, rambunctious, free with our tongues slaying every which way But when the light comes to shine in our way up ahead, we are stunned by the beauty we think it is and are immediately cut off -- from sounds, beats of our hearts, and even our deep, blank minds. All it takes is a switch, turning light into dark and what’s treasured most into lumps of coal. The thick, coarse hair of our ancestors and our forefathers was and still is, dark, black, and dull Not falling into wavy curls or cascading down our gashed backs from the sun beating down on us every day.


Trying to cover it all up with a patch of fabric, rough to the touch -- concealing our very existence. But all that matters now is that I can see the light pouring down on us, teasing us with its height, glorifying itself to seem much more grand and enchanted than it really is. For now, the darkness is my blanket, comforting, warm, and ringing truth. That deep, black hole is now where I want to be, since that light up there won’t do anything but beat me down back into it, for it is the very thing that embraces me -in all my baggage, my history, and my darkness.


Black Tears Cindy Yang Digital Art


The Accident Ila Plank

I lost my dad. I don’t know how it happened. I can’t remember his name. I fly over blue trees. They’re shaped like evergreens. Somehow I know they’re soft to touch, yet I have never touched them. I tumble into a room filled with toys. The room is split into two halves. One is orange, and the other is blue. I can see dolls and teddy bears. Everything is blurry. Somebody androgynous puts their hand on my shoulder. I look up at them, but I can’t see their face. “Are you looking for somebody?” “I think so.” Was I looking for my dad? Suddenly I can’t remember. I take the spiral stairs downward. The sky is hazy, sort of an orange-purple. A purple-orange. I don’t know where I’m going. My feet aren’t cold, but they aren’t warm, either. I wonder how the sky can be dark and bright at the same time. I look at it again, and it’s covered in butterflies. They are the clouds. They make everything dark. It is so difficult to breathe. The air is thick, like I have a blanket covering my mouth. I feel overheated, but my feet are lukewarm. The ground is soft in texture but hard in structure, like hardened putty. I can’t tell if it’s sandy in color or green. Maybe the sky is too dark. Maybe I just can’t see. I don’t think about why I can’t fly right now. I’m wearing a dress that only goes down to my knees, but I don’t know how long my hair is. I’m not sure what my face looks like. Am I a boy? A girl? Something else? I don’t think about that either. By now, I forget about my dad. Now I’m just wandering, lost, stuck in this world that is beautiful and suffocates me. I don’t think about death, either. I’m not scared, so I don’t know why my heart is beating so heavily. It feels like a pulse that isn’t mine, like a big machine inside me.


The sky is black. Giant orange teddy bears walk beside me, their arms and legs swaying carelessly as they march. They’re the color of an orange cream ice pop. They look friendly and soft, but they don’t talk to me. Behind me, giant blue dolls appear. I think I must be frightened of them, because I can’t look at them. I don’t know what they look like, except that they are the same blue as the sky I know in another place. In another time. Baby pink poppies and daisies grow around me and the teddy bears. I march with them. We are on a quest together but I don’t know what for. One of the teddy bears shrinks and shrinks until it falls into my small arms. I give it a hug, and name it something that I will forget. I will name it again. The giant teddy bears wave and turn around together, leaving me in a giant field of soft pink flowers with my teddy bear. He doesn’t talk to me, so I still feel alone. The ground disappears beneath me and I fall down a tunneled slide. It’s purple. It’s too dark to see, but I know it’s purple. I don’t know how I know. I’m not afraid, but my heart still pulses inside me. It feels like each of my limbs has a heart. It feels like my heart stretches to each part of my body. I can feel it everywhere all at once. I roll out in front of a tall, ivory castle. It’s lit up with orange lanterns. The sky isn’t black anymore. The butterflies are gone. The sky is dark blue like the ocean that surrounds us. My teddy bear rolls out behind me and holds my hand in his tiny paw. I take a step forward and somehow I’m already at the top of the castle. The king is wearing blue robes. Somehow I can’t speak. I start crying. The teddy bear sits on my shoulders and holds onto pieces of my hair in his paws. The king wraps me in his blue robes, a warmth I didn’t know I needed. I shrink into his arms like my teddy bear had just moments before. It was an accident, I say in my head. I don’t know how I got lost. The king calls me his child and the air feels breathable again.


Bleed Josephine Hartono Digital Art


Rico Nasty Emily Nguyen Digital Art 28

I enjoy reading things really loudly. Like Real Loud. So loud it’ll break your eardrums. Break the Sound Barrier I don’t give a shit. Jan O.

I watched a show recently, it was about eating and going feral. Being feral means you’re really loud all of the time. Hunch low to the ground, breath heavily. Cartilage creaks when you twist your body, drag your limbs Groan and growl until the emotion becomes physical. -feralMy metabolism burns like a small animal, hunger is consistent. I NEEd to eat. Loudly. Crunch Bread IT Crips AND CLAPS. SO LOUD. TASTE THE FLAVOR: Salt. Grease. Meat. protien. Chicken: Teeth tearing through bone. Egg.


The Old Man in Rags Krisna Bour

There was once an old man who used to sit on the same park bench every time I walked by. I would go out for a morning jog, and there he was, sitting on the same bench as always. There were times when I wondered if this man was homeless. Knowing that he showed up out of nowhere, wearing only old dirty clothes, sitting on the bench like always, I had figured that was who he was. Every time I walked by, he was never drunk nor caused any trouble— just a frail old man with nowhere to go sitting on that bench. One morning I was curious about the type of man he was, so I sat next to him for the first time. His fingers were boney, and his hair was thin and gray. His attire consisted of a beat-up brown, leather jacket, baggy sweatpants, and sneakers. The heel of his foot was exposed by his worn shoes. Despite his current situation, his expression was peaceful and gave me a wry smile as I sat next to him. I asked how his day was and if he was cold from the morning weather. He responded that the chilly morning was refreshing for him as he liked hearing the morning birds going about their business around him. Then I asked him if he was in some sort of financial trouble. I felt bad asking the obvious, but I wanted to know. The old man responded that the world was his home and he was resting at the park because he liked the scenery. He told me that


ever since he was a young boy, it was a dream of his to travel the world without constraints. Despite his frail body, he was enjoying what the world had to offer. His eyes crinkled like paper remembering whatever memory he had in his mind. Then out of the corner of my eye, I noticed that he had a piece of thread sticking out of his jacket. For some reason, I had the bright idea of pulling it out for him. I started pulling it, and the old man widened his eyes and told me that there was no need to do so. I did not listen and kept on pulling. It was endless. The thread, still in one piece, was unwinding his whole jacket. It was magical, but the old man wanted me to stop. He used his frail hands to push my arms away, which was of no use as his hands had the strength of leaves. I kept on pulling and pulling. The string still in one piece seemed to be unwinding the whole man himself ! I could not stop. I wanted to know what would happen next. Tears escaped the old man’s eyes. He begged. I did not stop. Soon the old man was gone. What was left of him was a single unwound string in a bunch, that consisted of the old man. I was done. I picked up the loose bunch of string, rolled it up in a tight ball, and tossed it in the park’s trash bin. The old man was gone, and I continued my pleasant morning jog.

Expression of Soul David Payne Photography


Parasitical Nightmare Susanna Andrews

We emerge from the cracks in the wall, oozing out of the corners, forming breathless beings. We laugh with sinister smiles, but we are not heard or seen, even by each other. We are surrounded by decimation and decay. We embody our surroundings. We are awakened by the childish scream of our new prey, a trophy in the making. We seep through the openings in the deteriorating walls onto the streets, where we absorb the stench with pleasure. We are at home in this hunting ground; prowling comes as naturally as breathing to the living. We blend in with the bleak darkness of the night, although we shield our vision from the ghastly light of the full moon. We sense the girl’s anticipation of our arrival, and that’s when we move. We slink down the concrete path, extinguishing street lamps as we go. We get hungrier as we feel her shivering and shaking rising. We round the corner and feast our consciousness on the girl in the nightgown. We are noticed, and a shrill shriek is emitted as she begins to sprint away, barefoot.

A parasite depends on a host for survival. Without one, it shrivels up and dies. It attacks a victim and makes them their home, causing them immense pain without actually killing them. The parasite may lead the host to develop a fatal illness, but the parasite itself is not fatal. They thrive off the life of a host, which is, in turn, drained, and slowly their wellbeing is sucked dry. There are different types of parasites that all serve slightly different purposes. Sometimes symptoms don’t show up immediately, and effects can be transmitted between living beings. Parasites exist globally and in all kinds of environments, some being quite unexpected. Some inhabit their hosts externally, making them more obviously apparent to an outsider. There are methods of prevention, but sometimes being infected is inevitable.


We feel black cloaks flying behind us, plastered garbage below us, target acquired ahead of us. We slither with animal-like instincts, growling with excitement and stalking in complete silence. We sense spots of sweat and small wet footprints covering the sidewalk; it has begun to rain. We are consumed with one goal: catch the girl. The girl is consumed with one goal: escape the chase. We play this invigorating game of tag every moment of every night; time doesn’t exist to us; the only thing that exists is our bloodlust. We live on the dark side of the moon, never facing the light. We are stuck in a never-ending cycle that we don’t want to break out of. We grow closer and closer to our prey, and finally, in a moment of pure ecstasy, we suffocate her, and she dissolves in our grasp. We squeeze our fists in victory for a second only to forget about the dust that lies beneath us as we feast our consciousness on a fresh being to haunt, wearing soaking wet pajamas, the anxiety — only just beginning to fester.


ver Ă soie (silkworm) Vivian Mak Sculpture 34

Watch Your Step Kylie Kepl

limp bodies spread on the sidewalk smeared into oblivion one moment you are gelatinously alive the next painted on the pavement line of Jell-O do you even know how moments work there is one then the next but when looking back they become indistinguishable one long blur one linear sticky stain squished into memory if memory exists at all how can perspective be viewed when one is too high when one is too low when one is a smudge and the other a smudger implementing perspective is not plausible with this power dynamic


attempting to alert a warning to look towards the sky to see the future a warning in a language unlearnable is nothing to heed living in fear cannot be synonymous with living in the moment fear originates in knowledge in moments lived and yet to be in the ability to look up and recognize the sky is falling the moment was sun damp ground sluggish movement the moment was warmth teeming with life free of fear the moment was slugs the moment was sludge clinging to the ground covering the ground soul to sole


divine connection or is it reckoning fearful fate or a moment now passed a mess or a life it makes sense that only those who understand moments dictate how they pass how they feel and who can feel them even though others live in them too does it make it better if your victim is unafraid unaware is it any more humane it is more human these gooey creatures live in the moment so we do not live in fear of their pain


In an Ex-Communist Country: Capitalism Kills Sabina Livadariu Photography


Symbiosis Courtney Putnam Mixed Media


Out of the City Heather McAllister Digital Art 40

Shattered Cliff Watson

INT. THE KITCHEN – Time of day uncertain, no clocks or windows visible. (FADE IN on sink) A pair of hands soaping a white MUG with a faded logo of a bear running in track shoes. The phone on the counter rings, “Chariots of Fire.” The hands partially rinse the MUG, place it on the edge of the counter, and reach for the phone. The MUG slips off the counter in slow motion, the hands unable to grab it. The MUG shatters into a thousand pieces. (FADE OUT)

INT. A COLLEGE CLASSROOM – Time of day uncertain, bright fluorescent light. (FADE IN) Bell rings. A geology professor is packing up after class. Two students, JUSTIN and ME, are walking towards the door of the classroom. ME So, what’s it like being on the crosscountry team? JUSTIN It’s cool. We get to visit other schools for meets. The competition is pretty fierce, but nothing’s been able to catch me yet.


ME (Laughing) You mean no one, or are you racing other creatures too? JUSTIN (Laughing) Yeah, no one, I guess. (EXIT)

INT. A LIVING ROOM – Evening, dimly lit, darkness outside the windows. ROSE and GERMONT are sitting on a flower-print sofa, not touching, staring into space. The TV is showing “Happy New Year festivities, 2010.” A photo of JUSTIN sits on the coffee table beside a box of tissues and two full teacups. (FOCUS IN on coroner’s report on side table) about a carpedestrian accident, “Accident Date 12/31/2009.” INT. A COLLEGE CLASSROOM – After class, daytime, sun streaming in through windows. (JUSTIN hands ME a white MUG with a bear logo.)

For me?



JUSTIN Yeah, they made all these mugs for the cross-country team, but they made too many. I thought you might like one. ME Oh, cool, thanks. (turns it over) Microwave safe too. (Fist bump, laughing EXIT Justin and Me.) (FADE OUT) INT. GOODWILL – Time of day uncertain, bright fluorescent light. (FADE IN) A pair of hands frantically picking through a sea of endless mugs. The hands stop moving, carefully extract a white MUG. The rim is chipped. On the side, there is a faded and scratched logo of a bear running in track shoes. (FADE OUT) THE END, in memoriam.


The Code Karina Syrova

You are a code that has been inputted into my system. I have been reprogrammed to always be in your favor. I am to weep when you depart, And crawl back at your return. Your code has changed the chemistry of my thoughts. The first detached me, now endlessly analyzes you. Numbers are recorded and computations are made every day to understand why you changed your mind. But no number is needed to know there is a change in the direction of your desire. This computer that is filled with the essence of you is only a self-destructive tool to obsess over every minute detail until the code inputted into me has been decoded. I am a robot, fulfilling my role in a small cubicle of this universe.


A Ripple in the Galax y Sonia Saravanan Painting


Stardust Pei Wei Chung Collage 46

And He. And She: A Day in the Life Joseph Niduaza

And she gets up in the morning. And he goes to work at five. *** He goes to work at five. The crows are cawing. The grain truck idling, its driver awaits the man’s arrival. “G’mornin’,” the driver says. The man grunts. *** And she gets up in the morning. The cat is meowing; it wants to chase the crow. The woman gets up in the morning, and she walks to the kitchen. Old wood floors, cold. Home, without insulation, of antiquity, Americana. The cat rubs against the woman’s legs, and the woman grinds the coffee beans. Water boils. Aromas fill the air. *** The man grunts. Winter, the walk through the factory is cold. The walk-in cooler is warmer. He gets to the security panel and disables the alarm. He turns on the lights. And then he unlocks the back door of the facility and turns on the air compressor. With the flip of two switches and four clicks on a panel, the entire factory is operational. Pipes. Hoses. Brite tanks. He grips the chain of the heavy bay door and pulls. The winter air wafts past the man, its icy chills, an unexpected wave of warmth— a temporary reprieve from the cold concrete and aluminum factory. “All ready,” he says. The driver grabs the hose from the grain truck. The man helps the driver carry the hose to the silo.


“I got it from here,” the driver says. “You go on ahead. It’ll be about two hours. I’m gonna catch a snooze in the truck.” The man says goodbye and starts his work. He walks up the metal stairs to the control panel and pushes the first button. The system activates. He opens the door to the mash tun and admires the cleanliness. “Good maintenance,” he says aloud to no one. He adds enough water to a level just above the mash tun’s false bottom, and then he pushes another button. The rakes of the mash tun rotate. With another button, the system’s hydrator activates. After a few minutes, he pushes another button and grist from the overhead mill begins to fill the mash tun. More time passes. The mill empties; the grist awaits metamorphosis. “One more,” the man says. The last button is pushed, the disco ball rotates overhead, the party lights come to life, and the old Sony speakers join the party. *** The old speakers join the party, and the woman walks to work. And the cat follows her. She gets to work and the cat sprints away. “Maybe a crow,” the woman says aloud to no one. She walks into the coffee shop and the music is blasting. Her coworker, busy baking pastries before sunrise.


“Oh, hi!” the coworker says. The woman grunts. She asks, “Are the lemon bars ready?” “Five minutes. Have an espresso, love. And one for me too, please. Rough night?” “Great night. Rough morning.” The woman grinds the coffee beans. She puts the grounds into the portafilter and slides her finger across the top, sweeping off the excess. The surface is smooth, even. Perfect. Eighteen grams of coffee harvested from the fields of the Green World Coffee Farm on the North Shore of Oahu, the manager’s secret stash. She tamps the coffee once. She tamps it twice. The perfect puck. No twist. “Fuck twists.” She fills a second portafilter. Tamp, tamp—perfect— and puts both pucks into the coffee shop’s new, fancy espresso machine. She is hungover. The machine does most of the work. Water comes to pressure and drips through the puck. Aromas fill the air. She takes her espresso outside and lights a cigarette. In the distance, a crow caws. *** In the distance, a crow caws. The machine does most of the work. The man is hungover.

Water comes to temperature and flows through the grain bed. metamorphosis. When all the water transfers into the kettle, the man pushes a button and brings the wort, the water with fermentable sugars, to a boil. He adds the first hop addition: eleven and a quarter pounds of Chinook, ninety minutes. Then the second addition: eleven and a quarter pounds of Cascade, thirty minutes. In that hour and a half, two Grateful Dead songs blast through the old Sony speakers. Aromas fill the air. The man grabs a sample of yesterday’s bottled batch. He pops the top, takes a swig and smiles. Six days ago, he brewed the wort for this sample. The yeast did most of the work. Six days ago, he brewed the wort for this sample. The yeast did most of the work. It was responsible for the metamorphosis. It is six forty-five and the man’s coworker arrives. The driver is still in the truck, snoozing. Ocean, the coworker’s thirteen-year-old pit bull, waddles alongside his human. The man hands his coworker a bottle and they share a breakfast beer. Ocean makes his way to his bed, near the Hot Liquor Tank, and naps. He’s tired, the old pup. “G’mornin’,” the man says. “Rough night?” “Great night. Rough morning.” ***

The caffeine does most of the work. It is responsible for the metamorphosis. Early risers storm the coffee shop. They’re groggy, and they demand. They want their drugs. They can’t function without them. They fill the shop and they wait in line at the drive-thru. The woman grinds the coffee beans and listens to orders on the headset. She puts the grounds into the portafilter and slides her finger across the top, sweeping off the excess. “Soy milk, got it,” she says through the microphone. Tamp, tamp— perfect—and into the machine. She pushes a button. “That’ll be $3.25,” she says to the early riser at the register. The tamping dies off around nine o’clock. The pace slows, and the woman preps her workstation for the next barista’s shift. *** The wort transfer ends around noon. The pace slows, and the man preps his workstation for the next brewer’s shift. After the wort is transferred to the brite tank, the man empties the spent grains from the lauter tun. The grain truck is long gone by now, its driver well-rested. Around one o’clock, Farmer John hauls his trailer into the brewery parking lot. The man dumps three hoppers worth of grains into Farmer John’s trailer.


Farmer John repurposes the grains and feeds them to his chickens and cows.

soy milk. Other than that, same old. Same old. What do we wanna do for dinner?”

Farmer John departs; the man hoses off the inside of each tank of the brew system. By twothirty, the man is done. And he joins the patrons at the taproom to drink his first official shift beer. At two-thirty, the taproom’s patrons are the morning’s early risers.


It’s been a long day. They want their drugs. They can’t function without them. They fill the taproom, and they wait in line to order. *** By two-thirty, the woman is done. And she joins the patrons at the taproom. She sees the man sitting at the bar and takes the seat next to him. “How was your day?” she asks. “Pretty cool,” the man says. “I got really high and listened to the Grateful Dead. Then Dave showed up, had a beer. Played with the dog for a bit. Farmer John showed up. Then I cleaned, Dave took over. And now I’m here. What about you?” She gulps her beer. “Well I got super twacked out this morning, too many espresso shots. And then this hippie customer kept giving me shit about


And they drink their beers ‘til five-thirty. And they leave the bar at nine. *** She gets up in the morning. He goes to work at five.

Untitled, BVB series, 4 of 6 ( Vampire Maps) Gregory Buck Collage 51

gazy Gregory Buck

the gaze of the gays. the gaze on the gays. the gaze on the gaze. the gays on the gaze. the gays on the gays. the gaze. the gays. the guys gaze. the gaze of guys. guys gaze. guys gaze on gays. gays gaze on guys. the gaze a guise for guy’s gay gaze.


Beautiful Chaos Manasa Yadavalli Digital Art


Enough Virginia Cassady

Getting an A is like getting an A Getting an A is like getting a B Getting a B is like getting a B Getting a B is like getting a D Missing a day is like missing a day Missing a day is like missing a month Studying on the weekend is like studying on the weekend Studying on the weekend is like studying in class Going to college is like going to college Going to college is like going to work Working constantly is like working constantly Working constantly is like working occasionally Working hard is like working hard But working hard is not enough


Creation Jonathan Tan Digital Art 55

The Forgot ten People Darrell Urban Black Drawing


In Transit Joan McBride

On the bus I always sit with my palms up hoping other passengers will think I’m open to conversation or put money in my hands.


nothing to give to you Sabina Livadariu

I have nothing to give you, we were told. Our parents detailing their lack of country houses, of social position, of money, of safe jobs.

All you’ll ever have is how well you do in school.


So we learned all the bones in the human body, All the countries of the world, and their capitals, How to write computer programs, And memorized all the valences of all known elements. We turned our faces to reading and learning anything found on a page, and turned our backs to everything. We never cooked or did dishes or cleaned our rooms. We were leaning machines, chopping up all the information coming our way to crawl out of the life, they said we should hate.

I have nothing to give you, they said. All you’ll ever have is what you learn. From the books, from the libraries, from the internet Never from the parents.


Untitled SanBian Painting


Silent Night Ashley Rittenhouse

It is silent. In a way that makes you hear. Hear the crunch of your feet, so loud on the frozen ground. Hear the automatic light flick off as you walk past—completely opposite of what should be happening. The cold doesn’t penetrate your winter jacket. Your hair remains unfrozen under your knitted hat. Even your fingers are unperturbed, naked as they are, wrapped around your ceramic mug. You are alone, so you don’t have to deny that you wish the cold would steal inside. Take from you the dull sedation to which you are accustomed. Out of your artificially heated hiding place. Coyotes yip and howl from far away. So loud in this otherwise silent world. Then they go silent as well.


Metropolis Jennifer Dormier Photography


A Personal Inquir y into the Second Law of Thermodynamics Abigail Mandlin

There’s a quiver in my hand that I can’t shake off. The blood in my throat sings. They say the body is seventy-five percent water, but I feel fully liquid: tippy and drippy and rising and spilling over the top. It’s a churn in my stomach, a thumping in my chest, a march in my feet that wants to go on, go on, go on, go on. There’s a castle wall inside my mind where soldiers who have lost their own throw themselves against the rubble. It used to be a thick sheetrock, pristine and shining; but the waves have corroded its surface over time, thinning it to sheer sandpaper. Yet it stands. When the general sees the resistance is not making any headway, they send their forces to the bowels of the structure—needling at the heart, the gut—until those throw up the white flag, stark against the night sky. But it passes, It passes, it passes, it passes. The wall doesn’t come crashing down, even if the body is weak. I survey the damage—fill out the reports—and salvage what I can, the bits and pieces of it. And then—with stars lighting my way—I reach for the brick and mortar and again. build over it up all


Saguaro at the End of the Yard Stephanie Segura

Summer afternoons are spent on the block, watching people line up at the corner to eat meat rolled into food blankets. We hide behind house silhouettes, sneak inhales of marijuana between passing cars. When it’s hot, we run to the ​paletero​, plead for ice to grace our tongues, and turn our lips blue. We drive up to city night lights and gaze at existence below us and listen to baby coyotes whisper behind caves in the burned hills. Sometimes I’m not on the block. I’m in an abandoned house with a boy I think I love. The ghost of the family that used to live there watches us sip Arizona Tea kisses between our tongues. A haunting of recklessness. Friday nights are howls beneath bus stops, walking under street lamps and meeting friends on the patio of a house full of dirt listening to beer bottles chime against gravel while eyes wander to a saguaro cactus at the end of the yard.


Four Seasons’ Breeze Pei Wei Chung Painting


Fly Angela Jilliene Casidsid Mixed Media 66


Climate Change Elisha Hong Painting


Ground[DED] Nicolas Hauser

Down the moon goes,

on toward the ground

and past,

further than the floor exists to eyes, dipping lower and lower

to trade its place when the sun rises and heats the ground, sizzling:

sa! sa! sa!

like eggs, bacon, and the POP!

That burn,

of toast.

the crisp breakage

yellowed and yellowing the green grass

placed and planted there by someone before.

Summer sun, while no doubt hot, is most destructive in its directness,

it continues its down pouring of flame until there’s nothing but the


of grass and that familiar

sa! sa! sa!

of the ground’s gray self.


The Greatest Beings To Ever E xist West Lawrence

An agonizing scream rips the air as a young sapling, barely thirty years old, is cut and shredded into tiny pieces. Tears swell in my eyes as I wonder if I’m the only one that can hear these beings. “Please, don’t let them do this, we want to live”. But what can I do, I am just a loner twenty-oneyear-old who has heard about what happens when you try to stop progress, as a Native American I know all too well. Much like the genocide of my people, the governments and institutions of the world think that by naming a few buildings, roads, or vehicles after these beings that they can make amends for these murders. I mention this thought to my friend as we enter her housing: Willow 182. Without trees and plants, there would be no you, and there would be no me. In human history, they provided shade on hot days, nuts, and berries for those hungry, and even once we have murdered them, they say: “It’s okay, I forgive you, please use my body to build shelter and protect yourself.” But a part of me holds on, even as the Australian wildlands burn down, as the Amazon rainforest continues to be pushed back for farmers and agriculture, and as the last of the old-growth continues to fall.


Trees and plants have existed without humans for centuries, and they will continue to do so as the era of humanity passes. All they need to do is outlive us. I have a favorite tree that I pass by on campus every day, every-time I give it a gentle pat and a warm compliment: “Keep growing little sapling, you’re doing great.” A few people stare and giggle, how silly I am they must be thinking. It occurred to me that despite trees giving their lives away to educate humans, we still cannot grasp the greatness and complexity of these beings. Like humans, trees and plants are products of thousands of micro-decisions. Yet we continue to slaughter them, almost as if they were lifeless, empty, and without will. I experienced a renaissance when I saw an old-growth tree over winter break, hundreds of feet high, and dozens of feet wide. As I went to touch the being, a current shot through my body, one that I had never felt before. Creation, Knowledge, and Sadness. My knees buckled as I landed on the soft dirt, tears watering the great being. A true God. Respect your elders; trees are more important than you can ever fathom. Please, be kind to your trees, as they have been to you.

New Bat tle Grounds Ace Baker Photography


Sequoia Rose Daniel Goltapeh Photography


If You Wouldn’t Mind Marina Burandt

Take a boat through the mangrove forest to find the cure for this particular ailment I can’t believe you’d have an argument over such material possessions Treacherous pool ladders are the only way to get around Wedding photography, high altitude, long comic book Dark and winding tunnel crawl to climb up a lasso to get the shot The rope wasn’t connected to anything A coastal town on stilts in a heavy fog Please, I beg the shapeshifter, do the fish man. Flowing golden hair on my legs like a moth The car is missing, and I don’t know where to begin looking for it Kidnapped in the desert with fast-growing plants guarding the outside Leave a voicemail and let him know that tonight is not his night The ember bed glows, each coal soft and warm to the touch All goes along like us, you should really ramble along there.


The Weeping Willow Jasmine Figueroa

I once heard an old folk tale about an old tree called the weeping willow It was said that this tree used to be as straight as an arrow and grew tall in the mystic forest One day, the tree noticed a young man and a young woman approaching This tree was always grateful for visitors As written in the folk tale, The tree overheard the vile things this young man threatened to do to this young woman Once the job was done, The young man left her dying body without a word. With her last breath, The young woman dragged herself to the shade of the tree with tears in her eyes “Please,” she begged “I wish someone else could cry these tears for me” And as she died, Her teardrops watered the tree It listened to her last request Carrying all her sorrow, The tree lost its straight figure And wept for all eternity


å°½ - Jin Weiling Zhang Photography 75

The Self Vivian Mak Collage 76

Monthly Mat ters Noelle Rittenhouse

how are you doing pain radiates from center casual bleeding

think you’ll go bonkers black and red crushing fire women dreamers ache

the flow stays seven on a scale of one to ten for eight to twelve days


Dream Xinzhu Xu Painting 78

Aku (I Am) Elaine Tjokro

Memang aku canggung. Memang aku pendiam. Memang aku sensitif. Tetapi aku bukan hanya itu.

I am awkward. I am reserved. I am sensitive. But I am not just that.

Memang aku anak pendeta. Memang aku anak tengah. Memang aku anak muda. Tetapi aku bukan hanya itu.

I am a pastor’s daughter. I am a middle child. I am in my youth. But I am not just that.

Aku juga bisa bernyanyi. Aku juga bisa menulis. Aku juga bisa berkarya. Aku juga bisa bermimpi.

I can also sing. I can also write. I can also create art. I can also dream.

Aku menantikan waktu kita berhenti menghakimi. Aku menantikan waktu kita berhenti membanding. Aku tidak hanya bisa menanti. Aku bisa melakukan.

I hope for a time when we stop judging. I hope for a time when we stop comparing. I cannot only hope. I can start doing.

Kamu bukan hanya itu. Kamu juga bisa. Kamu pun tidak hanya bisa menanti. Kamu pun bisa melakukan.

You are not just that. You can do it too. You, too, cannot only hope. You, too, can start doing.


Place Ila Plank

A small town, billions of miles from here. “Here” matters. “When” does not matter. A little girl. A big girl. She plants trees. She hunts for frogs. “Hunts” means “looks”. She does not kill. She climbs trees. She climbs them by the pond. A strange person is in this place. He is there as footprints. He is there as a clean scent; she hates it. He is there as a chunky white suit with his face behind. He is there with questions. He is gone. “Thyme?” She looks down at herself. She is small. She is tall. He is gone. “Long?” She speaks to a frog. “I am not long. I am long. The pond is long. My hair is short. My hair is long. This place is not his.” She does not speak to a frog. She finds a frog in the water. She holds a frog in her tiny hands. She puts a frog on a tree branch. She finds a frog in her pocket. This place has many frogs. This place has no frogs. This place is beautiful. Frogs are at this place. “How long have you been doing this?” He says it. She will see him here. She won’t see him here. She has seen him here. She hasn’t seen him here. “You are here.” “What time is it?” A frog jumps into the water.


Haven Donna Sullivan Digital Art


I Used to Sleep to Kill Time Frances Jaynes Collage


Wristlet Shanelle Clogston

her wrinkled finger swirls the liquid in her glass she licks the tip of her nail and wipes her salt-stained face on the lipstick blotted bar cloth her t-shirt clings to the leftover sweat drips from the one with the rose tattoo on the back of her hand she stands to leave ready to swallow the biting cold but she feels a pull on her arm pulling her back for more pulling her back to her.


apprehension Beza Ayele

strain, (dis) regarded. sinking into rotten vitality. brewing an accidental cup of blood, 90 degrees celsius. skin obstructed to maintain it. rejecting my lifeline, air pronged my inner cheeks. laughter a veneer, resembling stability. picking off the gummy corners, unable to be released. an unseen ensemble, put on one leg at a time.


Don’t Mind If I Do Saskia Gottuso Drawing 85

Spec tacle Adrienne Co Digital Art 86

The Man with the Seven Heads Krisna Bour

There is a man with seven heads, and I think he is watching me over the glass bus shelter. I am afraid to look at him, but he does not seem to be moving from what I can tell from the corner of my eyes. At first, I did not know that there was a man standing out on the side of the shelter until I noticed the shadow cast from the street light. From the shadow, I can tell that each head is stacked on top of each other, and it is so long that the heads extend past the top of the shelter, with several of the heads resting on top. I sit there in suffocating silence, trying not to acknowledge him in this cold, dismal night. I can hear the stuttering engine of the last night bus approaching in the distance as I sit, only getting up when it opens its doors in front of me. Walking in with the same routine, I flash my bus pass then proceed to sit at an empty seat in the middle of the bus, noticing the few late-night stragglers. The bus is stalling, and I pray to God for it to close its doors. But then it comes. His head, slithering in with its conjoined heads peeking through the door. My God, I can see it. Each head has a different face but shares the same sunken cheeks and short, coarse hair. His subtle empty smiles, his sickly yellowish pale skin and his sets of eyes deep like endless black abysses, gazing at me, freezing the core of my body. There is almost a sense of familiarity among these faces despite being so inhuman. I crank my head towards the window, trying to avoid its soul-stealing gaze, its eyes reading me. No one. Not a single person on this bus even notices this man, no, this monster. I watch it shuffle down the aisle through the blurred reflection of the window. He sits behind me in some seat I am too afraid to look at. As the bus starts roaring back to life, bringing back the familiar sense of normalcy, I am startled by the sudden whisper in my ear, “I’m coming home.� Its lips briskly touch my ear. Arriving at my stop, I start walking towards my apartment complex, occasionally flickering my eyes down, watching the shadow of the man following several paces behind me. Seeing the doors of my apartment complex, I head straight in and climb the stairs, not wanting to risk waiting in an elevator. I find my apartment door and frisk it open with my key, swiftly locking it back up once I am in. Tired and exhausted, I head straight to my bedroom and plop onto the bed next to my husband after kicking my heels off. I secretly hope that the man with the seven heads was a mental illusion created due to the accumulated stress of my waking day. My listless eyelids come


to a close and I fall into a deep slumber. A knock, shuffling, and the squeak of a door wakes me up. My eyes still closed and my mind still tired, I drift back to sleep not wanting to confront what is supposedly happening. Feeling restless, I begin to stir awake in the middle of the night again. I wrap my arm over my husband for some comfort, but I am met with a warm, sticky wetness touching my arm and hand. I lean up looking at my hand trying to decipher what this strange substance is. It is blood. I look at my husband only to see a bleeding neck without a head. Then I notice a figure sitting in the armrest near the window with the blinds rolled up shining in the faint light of the moon. It is the man with the seven heads, and he is holding my husband’s bloodied head in his hands. I watch him slowly put my lover’s head on the very top of his coiled heads, forming an instant attachment to each other. He sits there smiling. Warm tears loosen from my eyes as I lay back down unable to do anything. All I can hope for is that this was all just a terrible nightmare. “You shouldn’t have cheated on me Carolyn,” he whispers.


Melt Angela Jilliene Casidsid Digital Art


The Rowboat 1 Thelma Tunyi Digital Art


The Pew Vannie Cao Photography (Traditional Silver Gelatin)


The Beautiful Abyss Elisha Hong Painting


My Favorite Color Was You Kiana Dolam

I ate cotton candy flavored ice cream for you. Sticky and sickly sweet goop, mixed with Blue No.1 and Red 40 pigment To create this alien like neon blue that hurts my eyes to look at. The




Made Me Sea Sick.

Consuming cheap oil paints, it stained my tongue a highlighter blue. Like I had licked the stained glass of a church window that depicted the sky. Maybe that’s what it’s made of, Holy glass and highlighter juice. I let you pick the flavor, and you said that was your favorite. In the moment, that too was my favorite. I liked it because it reminded me of you. Sweet, but artificial,

But now it makes me ill.

A blue that is known to stain and leave a mark. Hard to wash out. Unless I drank turpentine. I pick red poppies over the blue forget me nots. Strawberry ice cream doesn’t stain the tongue, but you were allergic. I no longer like the color blue. 93

Gemini Season Corbin Louis

in june the rhythm of getting to know you this new favorite song, last night’s dance move or a movie I haven’t seen yet, what a scene all worth doing more so than quitting nicotine and sugar more so than we levitate in conversation your list of interests is on my list or maybe they’re the same list at least for a moment in june wednesday the 12th 83 degrees and you say swelter without cure and I say yes definitely, when are you free


Zissou People Daniel Goltapeh Photography


Faced Shan Shan Tsang Painting


She tasted like vanilla: overpowering Abigail Mandlin

She tasted like vanilla: overpowering. She made your lips burn: lemonade sting. Between the broken skylight and the violence— the cut of glass, a well-aimed shoe— the air becoming suffocating— stale, thin, an airplane dryness— the wrap of cellophane, your vision was tunneled all the way through. Then the silence— the forceful reminder— that you really did prefer prickly, sour substances to this, didn’t you?


Apraxia Little M Thousands of thoughts Images Words Fractions Pieces It’s all there Perfectly sound yet it comes out broken Loving to chat with people Listening, sharing but mostly listening The conversation starts and so does the coping Words fidgeting As the travel from my brain to my mouth Perfectly sound yet it comes out broken Stuck The word is stuck mid conversation I have 5 seconds to trigger the word before the awkward pause comes Think! Red Octagon It’s on a pole by the road What’s the word written on it “st..” Too late it’s happened Quick corrections Graceful charades Or silent judgment Most I don’t mind but the look is the worst The look that confirms that I have become something less to you No longer seen as an intelligent being Perfectly sound yet it comes out broken



In constant repetitions “Silver” no! “Sliver” come on “Silver” still not it “Silver” Damm it! The word is civil “I can see it in my bread” Dammit Head rhymes with bread but the word I meant to say was brain. Perfectly sound yet it comes out broken Thousands of thoughts in a span of a moment Rhyming helps red, bed, dread Dread for when it happens during a presentation and now seen as a nervous wreck Perfectly sound yet it comes out broken Thinking about thinking about thinking All for the purpose of speaking So goes my daily life Perfectly sound yet it comes out broken Perfectly sound yet it comes out broken Perfectly sound yet it comes out broken

Sound On Grace Boieriu Painting 99

Horizon Line David Dinh Painting


[BELIEVERS IN SIGNS] Jeanne Macbeth you and I don’t talk enough ashes falling in a crowd can’t bribe faces to the ground you and I been here before shook the words up from the sea to hope in a cloud of speaking you and I should open up take the far away life before pain breaks down the time why are we crying from the fire building in the rain choking on the way you make me a sign of the final show things are pretty good for a believer but you and I never learn it’s just what you and I know


Rum Whore NP Creed

Sweet little thing in brunette fashion Tall and slender and a whole pirate’s ration

Sugar and spice and everything A good dream brings

On days full of boredom and ill done A full case would last as long as the sun

Sugar and spice and everything Twice loved by devils and kings

Speak no more future tense as such a wonder Is left to others who do not fall into plunder

Sugar and spice and everything Found in an eternal wellspring

Would you allow this dreary blunter one last draw Sos he can feel and let his soul thaw

Sugar and spice and everything Worth passionate worshiping

Humble be the grave that awaits so Alls I do is wishin for one last throe Sugar and spice and nothing Best of all one man’s loving Give this sozzled pro some drum dog and I’ll give ya treasure All for one last tussle with my lovely pleasure


To The King Morgan Thomas Digital Art


Last Dance Michelle Schaefer Photography


The Adventures of Johnny, who invites a girl to a picnic even though the forecast said it was going to rain, but it was really the only day that they both had free, so he asks her out anyway, and starts to regret his choice Shanley Fermin

She shouldn’t be this late. Did I give her the wrong name of the park to come to? No, please don’t let it rain now. The curious case of the yellow umbrella that appeared out of the horizon that pierced the skies, stopping even the mighty god’s water from crashing into the earth, causing mass hysteria inside the affected area, the diameter of about 4 ft.

“Oh, you actually came.”

“Sorry I’m late. There was an accident on the road, and it delayed my bus.”

“I… it started raining, so I got worried.”

“What are we doing in this pouring rain? Let’s go watch a movie or something.”

“Yes, that’s a great plan.”

Life after the movie ends, and now Johnny must figure out whether or not she likes spending time with him at all. He knew going to a movie was a bad idea, no one talks to each other during a movie, you just sit there and watch the screen, he was not able to hold her hand because he just did not want to deal with his hand getting swatted away. How does one figure out this timing? 105

“The movie was alright.” “...” “...” “So” “Hey!” “Go ahead.” “Okay, uh ...Do you want to hang out again sometime?” “Maybe, if I actually get to talk to you next time,” “Oh...uh...yeah, I’m totally down for that...Next week?” Johnny’s little prayer, the words deciding his future (or at least his plans for next week) hang in the balance as he waits patiently for the answer to his question. It is unbearable. What if she says “no”? How will he come to class on Monday, knowing that she will be there first thing in the morning? “Next week,” she responds with a smile. The Adventures of Johnny who invites a girl to hang out next week and has no idea what to do next.


A Rebuild Commences Annika G.R. Bunney Digital art


Breathe Thelma Tunyi Digital Art


Through The Cit y Vannie Cao Photography (Traditional Silver Gelatin)


She Said No Donna Sullivan Drawing


What You Really Want to Describe Denise Calvetti Michaels What you really want to describe is the clothes you wore the day you were married. Not a wedding dress with the traditional white woven bodice, veil embroidered flowers depicting countries of the empire, immaculate cream magnolia petals forming the weft of the warp you escaped by leaving. Should you tell us you ran away from the monochromatic stifling at seventeen? Already a lei of boyfriends’ photos wrapped in linen atop crocheted blankets alive in the sanctuary of the cedar-lined hope chest from San Miguel Ranch, grandmother’s legacy. Would you ever stop keeping the secret of the clothes you wore to the church on the way to the Mohave? Driving by towns that do not favor naming, looking for a town to stop; Tulare will vie with Laramie, Cheyenne and other ghost towns of memory. Would you swear by the dress you did not wear? Choosing the abstract floral pinks and reds of a J. Magnum blouse you purchased with cash on markdown, a petite on the sales rack, out-of-season for northern California. You might share that you knew to prep in advance, imagining before arrival, and a form of writing. Maybe what you really want to say is you defied limitations of the hope chest grandmother unlocked to allow another form of writing.


Summer You Turn Thirteen

1. Summer you turn thirteen you wear the 4th of July seersucker halter-top you paid for with babysitting money. You feel happy and free, on your way to meet up with your girlfriend Linda Cooper who will confide in you she is having sex in her bedroom with the counselor at the rec center while her mother and stepfather are at work. You skip down the sunny side until you slow to a walk to peek inside frosted windows of the hothouses Glenn Aramoto’s grandparents built to grow lilies, chrysanthemums and poinsettias. These glass-paned long houses are huge and divide making a no-man’s zone where brothers throw rocks to curse the Japanese. Today you do not trust your instincts. When you sense danger you say to yourself, maybe just asphalt baking at midday and not the smell of Pall Mall cigarettes the outsider smokes who catches up, pulls your hair, forcing you to stare back, assess whether man or boy. You will not forget the smoke-ring harangue of his breath telling you, “never wear this” when he grabs, pinches, your breast because men cannot stop themselves.

2. Fall of your first year in high school your parent’s friend Bill Young waits for you at the bus stop because he thinks he deserves to coax you into his car; explaining to you at the open window his wife Diane is pregnant and he has a right.

3. Your first summer office job and the accountant you work for has a client who drives you home in the rain then tells you he wants to exchange phone numbers, give you one of the abalone bowls he imports to take to your mother who is watching this exchange from the kitchen window, waiting for you to get out of his car. You are fifteen. He is with a family of five daughters whom your boss told you live in the Philippines.


Because this needs to have Meaning 1. The summer I’m thirteen, dressed in the 4th of July seer-sucker halter top I earned the money for myself, I’m approached on the sunny sidewalk from behind, the back, my neck, by the stranger I never forget, who says never do this, never, as he grabs my breast with the excuse men can’t stop themselves.

2. September of first year in high school my parent’s friend, Bill Young, is there at my bus stop on Roosevelt after school and tries to coax me into his car because his wife is pregnant and he has a right to something.

3. My first summer office job and the accountant’s client drives me home, tries to exchange phone numbers, bribe me to take the imported bowls he sells. I’m fifteen. He could be fifty with a family of daughters in the Philippines.


Waves on a Distant Planet Crystal Sackman Painting


Carnal Stephanie Segura Photography 115

Washing Under wear Joan McBride

The hotel will wash your underwear for a price but the perfumed soapettes and glassy sink will work. The window is open and singing from the canals is flowing in like a boozy breeze. It is late on a Friday night and while the underlings soak, I walk out onto the balcony, where the carnival has lit up the sky outshining the red-light district with its discreet bollards and overhead red neon. I can hear the screams of the those on the amusement rides mixed with the carolers on the canal. A young guy adds a whimsy of vomit on a footbridge and a horse drawn wagon clops by amid the whir of bicycle wheels at this late hour. Now there is dancing in the street along the waterways where there is no railing. All to music from around the city magnified by the canal waters.


I turn back to run soapy water through the lacy panties, give the bra an extra swish and hang to dry over the balcony railing. The management will have a fit, the concierge will call. Maybe revelers will look up and admire my additions to the festival – a garland of lace and straps. By morning, underwear air dried from marijuana smoke and stung by song, I’ll be ready to join the party.


Gooey Jay Quedado Digital Art 118

Wanderlost Rachel Raymond

I remember London like you remember a lover; at one point in time, they press stars into your skin, a nebula of light and sound and soft fingertips. Years later when you meet again it’s not the same. I remember when he left for Iceland. I remember the black beach, the obsidian gravel crunching under my feet. The song of the wind danced off the waves to whip my face, its whistle tangling my hair like a scribble from my notebook. It was cold. Rain sprayed me damp with crystal droplets. I massaged their wetness into my hands like sunsets kiss the stars. Mist from waves pulsed in the air. I could not tell if the salt in my mouth was from my tears or the spinning, crashing waves of the Icelandic beach. I remember the canal boats. They glide, their weight and cargo sliding through water pressed for time. I remember Venice was so dark, when the fog lifted from the streets, I thought it was an angel. I remember the Louvre, not as an elegant palace, but as the first time I saw soldiers with AK-47’s strapped across their chests. The metal glinted in the low December light, a pale glow of onyx that drew my attention. The pyramid of the museum rose from the center of the

courtyard, a geometric mountain, it’s glass shining with arrogance. It could not compete with the man and his blood canon. I remember when I left for Amsterdam. I remember the sound of cobblestone. My worn boots skid against the street, the topsy-turvy nature of the stone tripping me. Most streets in Amsterdam do not have cobblestone anymore.The brick-lined paths are idyllic monuments to cyclists, who zoom past. The cobblestone is left in “historic” areas, frequented by tourists. It is the city’s way of fighting back. I remember stroopwafels. I remember how music felt in the Concertgebouw. I remember the first time I realized that the sky in the Netherlands really does look like a Dutchmaster swirled their imagination across the atmosphere, their brush a hum of titanium whitegossamer puffs. As I looked up at the sky, the sounds of Utrecht seemed to disappear and I felt Art. I remember the first time I rode my bike in the streets outside my Amsterdam apartment. I was so scared that I stopped too quickly, twice.


I remember the first time I saw a Van Gogh in natural light, the luminance of his paint shimmering scales of a mermaid tail pressed against the canvas. It was out of the corner of my eye, but when I saw it I was captured by fishing net, pulled in by sailors, and deposited in front of the frame. It was bright outside, but the light within the museum was diffused with the effortlessness of a French woman’s style, all done up and yet completely approachable all at once. As I stood in front of the captured siren, I vowed to never look at Art in artificial light ever again. The next day I visited the Louvre. I remember running out of money. I remember the smell of summer air without summer soot. I remember seeing red. The contemporary exhibit enveloped me like a lost child, the red womb within Oude Kerk a pressure against my skin. I stumbled around the old church, the film on the windows filtering all white light to be red, all white light to be red, all white light to be red. The stained glass windows become skeleton portraits, the figures and forms and shapes fighting against the sunlight. My footsteps seemed so loud in a place both so holy and so wretched, the red making everything feel warm with magic.


Is religion magic? I asked the rosary, the nave, the crosses in the middle of the floor. When the sun filtered through the film, its intensity made each window pane alive with flames, their fire smiting my question.

Elegant Fish Xiaowei Zhang Painting 121

Cit y Wall SanBian Painting 122

Finally, was all she wrote Audrey Tinnin

The water finally settled covering the vinyl mildew lining the windows the drain works at a peculiar pace first releasing slowly, then quickly all at once. It has come to an end. With suitcases barely shut, and zippers that hardly budge, struggling to retain power, concealing darkness trapped inside Time to go. With light feet and Fingers trembling The door closes but not until the final pen is plucked from the carpet. Click. The sound echoes in the hall fingernails scratch at the door with locks bolted shut the key slipped under the mat. Finally, was all she wrote.


A Greener Yesterday Vannie Cao Photography (Traditional Silver Gelatin)


Contributors Sabreen Abdullah is a self-taught henna artist. Instagram @HennaSabr. Najma Adan is a Somali-American student finishing up her Bachelor’s Degree in Biology at UW Bothell and hopes to pursue a medical degree. She hopes to bring more narrative and creative writing to the healthcare field, becoming a better advocate for the patient. Susanna Andrews is an artist who takes inspiration mainly from her dream world. She enjoys exploring different mediums of creativity and is working on a hand-drawn animated short film. She thrives when she is building something with her hands and enjoys creative writing. Beza Ayele is a student at UW Bothell pursuing a degree in Law, Economics and Public Policy with a minor in Gender, Women and Sexuality Studies. Learning about the ways systems come together to form the world as we know it shapes the way she views art. Ace Baker is a senior at UW Bothell. He will graduate in June 2020 with his BA in Environmental Studies. He is an enrolled member of the Standing Rock Sioux Tribe, a US Army veteran, a father to five sons and has been married to his wife, Marlys, for 20 years. Jessica Belmont is majoring in Gender, Women and Sexuality Studies at UW Bothell. After graduation, she plans to attend seminary for a Master of Divinity degree. She currently identifies as a polyamorous lesbi-romantic demisexual pansensual intersex trans woman. Scott Bentley is a first-year student in the MFA in Creative Writing and Poetics program at UW Bothell. He currently lives in Seattle. His poetry and prose have appeared in Pacific Review, Albion Review, and Otherwhere Approach. Darrell Urban Black is an artist from Brooklyn, N.Y. When Americans first landed on the Moon, his fascination with spaceships grew. He made spaceship models and hundreds of drawings. He earned his BS in Criminal Justice Administration at the University of Phoenix. Grace Boieriu is a junior at UW Bothell, currently taking up a Bachelor’s degree in Biology. Her work, creating images of people in the natural world, allows her to explore different media and image-making techniques, inviting the viewer to create their own interpretation of the work. Krisna Bour is a UW Bothell student who enjoys reading, drawing, and playing video games. Greg Buck is in the first year of the MFA, Interdisciplinary Poetics. Their interests include flash fiction, creative nonfiction, experimental literature, and visual arts. Annika G.R. Bunney is an aspiring artist focusing on traditional writing and digital textual creations. Her work draws on classic literature, folklore, and mass media. She is a student in the MFA program in Creative Writing and Poetics at UW Bothell.


Marina Burandt is a second-year graduate student in the MFA Creative Writing and Poetics program at UW Bothell. She has a BA in English Literature from Chapman University. Her interests lie in art, language, plants, dreams, and travel. Denise Calvetti Michaels teaches Psychology at Cascadia College and has a MFA in Creative Writing & Poetics at UW Bothell. Her works “The Things Downriver” and “Dear Daughter Love Letter” will be published by Cave Moon Press and Paterson Literary Review forthcoming. Vannie Cao is a graduating senior at UW Bothell pursuing a degree in Media and Communications and Law, Economics, and Public Policy. Photography, specifically film, enables her to find art in everyday life, creating different lenses to view the world around her. Angela Jilliene Casidsid is an Interactive Media Design major, focusing on visual design. She uses art as an outlet to bring her ideas to life and express personal struggles. She also has an obsession with the color pink. Virginia Cassady is a sophomore at UW Bothell. She is from the Seattle area and loves to cook and hang out with her two pets during her free time. Carmen Chan is a Media and Communication Studies student. She is passionate about photography and videography. She loves portrait and documentary photography. She thinks that a photo does not just entertain your eyes, it also makes you think about the story and content. Minji Choi was born in Korea and grew up in Korea until she was nineteen years old. She came to America as an international student. She has been drawing ever since middle school. Pei Wei Chung is a senior majoring in Interdisciplinary Arts. She is also an international student from Taiwan. Her art criteria can broadly expand in many different mediums. Shanelle Clogston is a writer, communicator and dreamer. She has a degree in Culture, Literature & the Arts from UW Bothell. When not consumed by keeping her goal of reading a book a week or working on her novel, Shanelle loves to travel, paint, and buy pajamas. Adrienne Co is a senior majoring in Applied Computing and minoring in Visual and Media Arts with an interest in both digital and traditional mediums. NP Creed is a graduate of UW Bothell and a lifelong lover of art and language. His current crusade began when he broke the spell that had trapped him in time for over a thousand years. He maintains sanity and telepathy lessons as much as possible to little avail. Jennifer D’Amico is completing her Bachelor’s at UW Bothell. After many years as a working mother, a stay-at-home mother, and a single mother, she found that she craved the satisfaction of completing her education. She finds her voice through creative expression, writing and visual art. 126

Violet Dahlstrom has been doing art for over ten years, and it is a big part of their life. Currently an officer for Palette Talk, an art club on campus, their mission is to use art and shared experiences to connect with people and to bring the community together. David Dinh is a visual artist who dabbles in digital art, sketching, painting, and a little bit of photography. He resides in the beautiful city of Bothell, currently planning to pursue a degree in Interactive Media Design with a minor in Visual and Media Arts. Kiana Dolam is a freshman at UW Bothell. She plans to major in Biology. She wants to study vertical farming and sustainable agriculture in the future. She would like to learn about terraforming and hydroponics so she can be the first space farmer on Mars. Jennifer Dormier is a professional photographer pursuing a degree in Media and Communications at UW Bothell. Her studies and passion surround global inequality. Mary Olivanti-Duerksen (M.Div, MFA) is a nonbinary visual and sound poet. Their works utilize several languages and include themes connecting the world to human justice issues. They have been published in “Three Visual Poems” (Tres Poesias Visuales) by poet Tchello d’Barros. Bee Elliott is a climate justice activist studying Environmental and Cultural Studies at UW Bothell. She strives to eliminate the disconnect between climate change and our lives through music and art, encourage others to face our reality, and to bring this new story to life around us. Jason Estrada is thankful to you for viewing their photograph. They hope you enjoyed looking at an airplane in the sky of a beautiful sunset. Thank you and best wishes! Shanley Fermin is a Media and Communication Studies student at UW Bothell, graduating in June. Shanley Fermin wants to drink more water this year and create a brand of content that screams Shanley Fermin. Jasmine Elizabeth Figueroa is a Mexican-American fiction writer and poet pursuing a degree at UW Bothell in Culture, Literature and the Arts. Alec Gabin is an interdisciplinary artist, writer, musician and amateur witch. alec believes that intellectual and academic discourse fractures spaces, which demands a spiritual response. alec’s work is around addiction, sobriety, friends, spirituality, and healing. Maryam Gani is a self-taught henna artist. Instagram @maryamgvni Daniel Goltapeh has been practicing photography since 2014. Goltapeh’s passion began with his interest in cinematography. He took on photography in the beginning for practice and has pursued it ever since.


Saskia Gottuso is a junior at UW Bothell. She is majoring in Environmental Studies and Society, Ethics and Human Behavior with a minor in Gender, Women and Sexuality Studies. Her main interests are music, movement, nature, spirituality, human expression. Josephine Hartono is a 2nd year student at UW Bothell that enjoys creating art in many forms, including digital illustration, graphic design, poetry, and painting. She has been a contributor in several independently published zines and art books, focusing both on original and fan art. Rachel Hartshorn is a student in the Media and Communications program at UW Bothell. Throughout her educational career, she’s developed numerous projects surrounding controversial topics such as identity, representation, and social media. Nicolas Hauser is an MFA candidate in the Creative Writing and Poetics program at the UW Bothell. His work centers around mixed-genre, poetry, and performance with an emphasis on experimental voice and writing. Jordan Lee Havlicek is an aspiring activist, trans artist, and editor for Clamor 2020. His art often focuses on various expressions of femininity and queerness. Elisha Hong is a Korean-American student. She is a self-made artist, as she’s been practicing art since she was eleven years old. Art has always been an integral part of Elisha’s life, as she sees the beauty in everything. Sana Iqbal is a full-time student studying Media and Communications. She enjoys spending time with her two cats, eating pizza, and painting. She is Seattle-based. Frances Jaynes has honed her approach and technique, as well as her artistic voice via collage. Her work explores issues of identity and subjectivity and invites viewers into otherworldly realms. Playing with space and perspective, she enjoys using bright colors and unusual textures. Kylie Kepl is a Culture, Literary, and Artistic Studies major at UW Bothell. She is completing her final quarter and hoping to become a high school English Language Arts teacher. West Lawrence creates art to inspire and challenge modern ideas in hopes of a better tomorrow. Sabina Livadariu is a second-year graduate student in the MFA Creative Writing and Poetics program at UW Bothell. Her work centers around violence, memory, and body. Corbin Louis is a poet and performer from Seattle. He is a recording artist and MFA graduate of UW Bothell. His work has previously been featured in Best American Experimental Writing, Santa Ana Review, and others. He seeks to open dialogues of addiction and mental illness. Little M’s goal is to connect with people through poetry and to bring excitement back to the medium of poetry by providing thought provoking poems. 128

Jeanne Macbeth is a poet, storyteller, researcher, and social activist from Seattle, WA. Vivian Mak’s art is driven by her interest in cultural issues, and perceptions of self. She thinks art is crucial in conveying social issues. As our consumer society is becoming saturated with disposable materials, she wants to utilize art as a catalyst for a sustainable future. Abigail Mandlin is a creative writing and poetics MFA student at UW Bothell. She tries, always, to see the humor and beauty in all things and considers prose and poetry to not be as separate as they seem. Heather McAllister is a student at UW Bothell, majoring in Interdisciplinary Arts. Her artistic passions include photography, graphic art, and design. She enjoys exploring new techniques, challenges, and emotion in her art. She recognizes the importance of art in the community. Joan McBride’s poetry has previously appeared in Clamor, Yours Truly, Raven Chronicles, and Nightshade. She is a retired elected official and lives in Kirkland. Emily Nguyen is a senior at UW Bothell, who is graduating from Interactive Media Design. Alongside design, she is an illustrator who merges her love for music, color, and line work. Joseph Niduaza is a student at UW Bothell. He is not published anywhere, and he is a slacker. He graduated from Palma High School in Salinas, and from Humboldt State University in Arcata, California, where he earned a degree in English Writing Practices. He lives in Seattle. Jan O. is Jan. David Payne is a photographer/videographer and student at UW Bothell. He focuses on visual thinking and imagery in the fields of music, art, and culture. David grew up in a small town on Whidbey Island, WA. After a year in his undergrad, he found his passion for the visual arts. Ila Blue Plank is a poet and visual artist, originally born in Olympia, Washington. She loves playing with mediums in art to uncover the mystery of creation. Courtney Putnam (MFA) is a writer, artist, and an associate faculty at Cascadia College. She is the creator of “Body Cards: Insight from the Body, Wisdom for the Soul” (Schiffer Publishing). She has been published in Lunch Ticket, Licton and others. She resides in Bellingham, WA. Jay Quedado is a junior Computer Engineering student at UW Bothell. She has an interest in doing art in her free time. Rachel Raymond ( is an artist, designer, and writer in the PNW. She has a double major in Interactive Media Design and Interdisciplinary Arts. She is an artist and a designer who uses Speculative Design to create introspective and immersive pieces.


Ashley Rittenhouse is a 2nd year PharmD student, currently living in Spokane. She graduated from UW with a BS in plant biology. When she finishes her degree, Ashley plans to write a memoir about her experience living with and trying to pay off her formidable college loan debt. Noelle Rittenhouse is a graduating senior in Media and Communications with a Minor in Creative Writing. She has happily been a part of the Clamor Editorial Team for two years and looks forward to finding ways to support creators through sustainable means post graduation. Crystal Sackman is a marketer, artist, and go-getter. A lifelong Snohomish County native and UW Bothell alumna, she works with texture paste and paint, translating engineering jargon into readerfriendly proposals, and endlessly streaming audiobooks and laughing with her family. SanBian was born and raised in Beijing, and dreams of becoming a car designer. He has received a level six certification issued by the China Central Academy of Fine Arts for sketching. He believes art is in the beauty of objects seen through observations. Jake Salvador believes that skiing is a design element, which teaches life lessons and is a dance between human experience and the physics, which govern life as we know it. He also believes that Earth is the medium for which human experience and physics meet. Earth is his teacher. Michelle Schaefer lives and plays in Bothell. She enjoys hiking and writing. She specializes in writing haiku and is President of Haiku Northwest. She has been published in several poetry journals. Currently, she is earning her CLA degree at UW Bothell. Stephanie Segura is a Latinx poet, educator, and activist from Southern California, featuring work dealing with displacement, memory, and trauma. Her poetry has been featured in Cal State San Bernardino’s anthology, Pacific Review Publication. Sonia Saravanan is currently pursuing a Bachelor in Computer Science and Software Engineering at UW Bothell. When not engrossed in her laptop coding and being antisocial, she likes to hang out with her friends over a cup of boba or go hiking up mountains. Donna Sullivan is a student in the Master of Education program at UW Bothell. She works full time and has a teenage son. In her abundant spare time, Donna works in watercolor, acrylic, and enjoys creating digital art. Karina Syrova (on instagram @kariinaart) is a 2nd year UW Bothell student majoring in Health Studies. She is passionate about alternative medicine, music, and the arts. Her favorite pastimes include drawing and writing. She is thrilled to be a part of Clamor 2020. Jonathan Tan is currently a senior at UW Bothell, majoring in Media and Communications Studies. He enjoys testing out new digital art styles and seeking out inspiration through anything from social justice movements, video games, and his surrounding environment. 130

Morgan Thomas is a freelance concept artist and illustrator masquerading as a student. Audrey Tinnin is a senior majoring in Culture, Literature, and the Arts. She enjoys reading and writing. In the future, she will pursue a career in education. Audrey participates in Rotaract club and Outdoor Wellness activities. Outside of class, you can find Audrey at the Den coffee shop. Elaine Alethea Tjokro is a senior at UW Bothell majoring in Business Administration and minoring in Creative Writing. Her passion lies in music and literature, singing and poetry. Her work is often nonfiction. She aspires to be a singer-songwriter in the future. Shan Shan Tsang has a desire for painting and design. Shan blended her skills with her 20y of painting experience, bringing about a perfect marriage of passions. She explores the depths of movement, different angles, and composition to introduce unique elements in her works. Thelma Tunyi is a painter and illustrator, and a member of a group with two other artists called Sunshine Tangerine. She is a self-taught artist, creating digital, watercolor, and mixed media paintings. Cliff Watson is an MFA creative writing and poetics student at the UW Bothell. He writes prose, poetry, lyrics, and scripts, and enjoys experimenting with digital media and live performance. He has had a spoken word piece performed by two acrobats in a circus show. Xinzhu Xu is appearing for the first time in Clamor. Manasa Yadavalli is a junior, pursuing a biochemistry degree in hopes of becoming a specialist in Rheumatoid Arthritis. Cindy Yang is a hobbyist digital illustrator. Growing up, she attended the Gage Academy of Art in Seattle, Washington, working with a variety of traditional mediums such as acrylic paint, watercolors, and charcoal. Cindy focuses on utilizing digital tools to bring her vision to life. Kevin Yeoman is a graduate of the University of Wyoming and UW Tacoma. While attending the latter, Kevin served as the fiction editor for the 2014-2015 edition of Tahoma West, UW Tacoma’s literary arts journal. He currently works as a freelance journalist and television critic. Xiaowei Zhang is an art lover. When she draws a picture by watercolor, she likes to use as many colors as possible to create a vivid world. She has a passion for pursuing a lovely life. Weiling Zhang is appearing in Clamor for the first time.


Online E xclusives Visit our website for additional digital content: Sabreen Abdullah & Maryam Gani, Wedding Henna, Collaborative Henna Sabreen Abdullah, Favorite Henna Model, Henna Ace Baker, The Master at Work, Photography Scott Bentley, 10 or 11 Things I know About Him (A Stolen Biography), Fiction Gregory Buck, Grandma May-Bee: A Snapshot Portrait, Creative Nonfiction Marina Burandt, Center of Nothing, Poetry Denise Calvetti Michaels, Lamentations on the Technologies of Transformation and Loss, Essay Virginia Cassady, Bear Chase, Poetry Carmen Chan, Plastic Waste, Mixed Media Minji Choi, Bruise, Drawing Violet Dahlstrom, Peach and Cherry, Digital Art Jennifer D’Amico, Rose Marie D’Amico - A Speculative Conversation, Creative Nonfiction Jason Estrada, Destination, Photography Alec Gabin, Broad Highway, Fiction Daniel Goltapeh, Beating of Hearts, Photography Saskia Gottuso, 10 Ways to Raise Your Energy and Vibe, Essay Rachel Hartshorn, Asian American, Photography Sana Iqbal, Untitled, Photography Frances Jaynes, Space Scene, Collage Sabina Livadariu, Love, Video Abigail Mandlin, In Statu Nascendi, Poetry Joan McBride, Suburban Dilemma, Poetry Mary Olivanti-Duerksen, International Women’s Day, Audio Jake Salvador, Student of Earth, Collage Donna Sullivan, A Day Off, Painting Cliff Watson, The New Life, Fiction Xinzhu Xu, Limitless, Painting Kevin Yeoman, This Little Counterfeit, Fiction


In Memoriam This page is dedicated to the people, time, and moments we have lost due to COVID-19.

clamor clam·or | verb | \‘kla-m r\ 1. to make a loud uproar, as from a crowd of people; popular outcry. 2. to publicly express (as of support or protest). 3. to make a vehement expression of desire or dissatisfaction.

This journal was made possible with the support of the Office of Student Engagements and Activities, Services and Activities Fee Committee, our Student Media Director Brenda Đào, the folks at UWave Radio and Husky Herald Newspaper, and the faculty of IAS. Special thanks to Amaranth Borsuk and our professor, advisor and Artist-in-Residence, Anida Yoeu Ali. Thank you all.

Clamor is the University of Washington Bothell’s annual Literary and Arts Journal, representing the best creative practices in literary, visual and media arts from across our campus and surrounding community. Our goal is to support and promote captivating, inspiring, and lively art in the forms of visual, literary and media work. We provide artists and authors with publication opportunities through our print edition, media publication platforms, and website. We foster community by reaching beyond the UW Bothell campus borders for creative works and by offering audiences quality reading, viewing and listening experiences. Staffed by an editorial board of current UW Bothell students, Clamor accepts submissions annually in Autumn & Winter. Visit to learn more.