Clamor 2022

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UWB LITERARY & ARTS JOURNAL 2022

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

Copyright 2022 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 2022 Editorial Board Tushigmaa Ariunbileg Samantha Austria Joshua Baker Danny Carrillo-Miranda David Le Dinh Andrew Djermani

Daizha Espiritu Jason Estrada Dulin Louis Hayden Samantha Johnson Josh Kong Meta LeCompte

Kerly Lynce Alec Scot Mullen-Deland Krissy Oh Sarah Petrov Marchie Sayas Sofonias Shiferaw

Wendi Shively Janelle Tuble Kylie Weaver

Faculty Advisor: Ching-In Chen Cover Image: Cheryl Chudyk “The 5th Round of Remote Learning” Cover Design Layout: Marchie Sayas & David Dinh 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 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.

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Table of Contents A Word from Our Editors

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CREATIVE WRITING Ro Al-Ghosien Gray-Winged Angel Reflection in a Canvas

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Martin Arriaga Little ladybug

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Aeriel Rae Adajar Asirot “Araw” 14 Danny Barbare The Gift

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Robert Beveridge A Handful of Batteries Dug Up

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Katharina Mei-Fa Brinschwitz Healing knows my name Tight Knots

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A. Bunney mourning prayer

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Virginia Cassady Wildfire Pandemonium Will she lie dying?

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Mary Christine Delea After The Circus Rider by Marc Shagall Wildfire Season

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Andrew Djermani A COSMIC ROUNDABOUT

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John Grey A Poem For Everyone I Haven’t Seen In A Long Time 26 On An Island 28 Jess Chia Hughes Full Circle

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Connor James A Birth from Another View Conjoined Memories

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Samantha Johnson At the Bottom of the Ocean Laid a Tree

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Nina Jouval Garden Party

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Meta LeCompte Green House 39 Undressed 40 Alysa Levi-D’Ancona Daphne 41

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Corbin Louis Creed of Angels Labor Angels!

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Abigail Mandlin In The Genes When I Told My Mom

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Muhammad Mazz When do we fly back home?

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Joan McBride Metamorphosis with Many Details Left Out On The Spectrum

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Mynisha McGrew Stolen Black Souls

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Hannah Mendro “Dirt Meditation”/Crave to Connect

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Nicolette Natividad Hanahaki Disease

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Sky O’Brien Edge of the grass Forest dream #3

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Krissy Oh Forever in my heart

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Mary Olivanti-Duerksen Silenced 62 Sarah Petrov Fire 65 Sam Prudente Trouble 66 Crystal Sackman Your Power Has Been Restored

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Elisa Sagisi SP // LIT

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Elizabeth Salinas Two Roads Diverged

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Terry Sanville Dinosaur Caves

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Michelle Schaefer no eye movement

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Irene Shin Fools 79 Wendi Shively Not Today

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Alexandria Simmons Do you remember what it was like?

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Samaya Sullivan a note on healing inequality

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Devin Taing homebound 85 sitting under the streetlight 86 John Tustin EACH 87 THE CROWS IN THE GRASS 88 Minyoung Yoo Stretching 89 Celina Yu Hanged Man

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Lawrence Zephier-Reed Cupid 91 To The Sun 92

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VISUAL ARTS Tushigmaa Ariunbileg Self-Portrait, Unhappy at 19

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Zhewen Chen Dreaming of Being Back Home

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Cheryl Chudyk Educator Exodus / Mask up, Children The 5th Round of Remote Learning

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David Dinh Lost But Already Found

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Dana Doran, The Baroness of Eads Tech Tyranny: The Last Card, 2022

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Jason A. Estrada Vargas Light in the Darkness

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Madison Galiardi Laugh 103 Anmei Gao The Wind Weeps - Detached Fractures

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Xuanxuan Han Whale is dying

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Jess Chia Hughes Green Sunshine

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Simon Jouval Rue de Rivoli

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Matthew Keenan Smoke Screen

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David J. Kim The Pale King from Hollow Knight

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Danyl Stephan Kok Talvassus 108 Josh Kong Lost 109 Kerly Lynce Wish 110 Marchie Sayas Dahon 111 Kitty 112 Christen Solberg Max and Bowser

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Viola Tabares Jaguar 114 Mariposa 115 Kylie Weaver Beautiful and Gloomy PNW

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Eric Westman Bristlecone Pine, Nevada Yakima, Washington

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Contributors 120 Digital Media

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A Word From Our Editors As Clamor, we encourage public expression within our art and writing community.

Clamor also provides an atmosphere of cooperation, collaboration, self-awareness, self-care, and community support. As editors of this year’s journal, we experienced many challenges planning and executing our showcase of creative talents from our UWB community, including supply chain shortages and subsequent rising costs since the pandemic. Fortunately, we were able to meet these challenges with an ethos of collaboration and care.

The beauty of art is its ability to not only encourage self-discovery but also to help establish community and insight within the world around us. For the past fourteen years, we strove to exemplify these truths and continue to do so. Our platform provides a space of free expression for creators of every medium to foster a community built upon inclusion, diversity, and inspiration. We truly hope this year’s Clamor issue will inspire you, as it has inspired us. As always, we look forward to giving you an unforgettable experience.

None of this would have been possible without our stellar faculty advisors, Ching-In Chen and Scott Bentley. Many thanks to our peer facilitator, Madison Nikfard, and our program manager, Pauline Tolentino. We express our gratitude to everyone who submitted this year as well as everyone who continues to support us. Thank you all for being part of the Clamor family. We enjoyed every fun, crazy, and chaotic minute of our time together!

Here is our 16th edition of Clamor.

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Gray-Winged Angel Ro Al-Ghosien

Oh, gray-winged angel, let the rain Fall down your stone features as if they were tears.

Of course, you cannot cry since you are stone—you cannot feel pain: No loss do you feel sorrow for, nor on any stormy night feel fear.

But are those really capabilities you do not possess?

Are you certain that those dark nights all alone Do not give you at least some sort of distress?

Tell me, statue, what has become of you and your mighty stone?

Your skin is worn out, dulled, and cracked in so many places.

Age has not treated you kindly—oh, how you stood so high!

Tell me, is that still the rain on your face Or have you finally learned how to cry?

Tell me, during those silent starry nights of speckled black Do you ever dream of being alive?

Of having breath and heartbeat, healing bruises not cracks?

Was there ever life in you that could one day revive?

Perhaps I am a fool for asking questions to a statue.

You stay still, never to speak or sing, and I, in vain, dwell.

Perhaps one day I will hear a response from you.

But for now, goodnight, my gray-winged angel.

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Reflection in a Canvas Ro Al-Ghosien

Why do you judge your beauty by your reflection in the mirror Rather than the self-portrait on your canvas? Isn’t it much clearer?

You paint your true colors better than any mirror can hope to And there you are — your shape, your shades, and hues!

Isn’t it beautiful to see the song inside you set free, Each note turned into a brushstroke or three?

And aren’t you beautiful, dearest you at your foundations?

Free from the confines of human biology, looking back at you from your own creation.

Sometimes what is unnatural is the most natural representation of oneself.

You draw your own soul, not the body it inhabits, its worn shell.

For what is a body other than a thing to carry you And to be molded to your purposes and liking through and through?

Your heart is made of gems and clouds and love, Your mind is made of spiderwebs and photo albums and stars from above.

You are so much and more, no one could ever describe The beauty, the wonder, and the pain that likewise reside.

You are more than just an image, you are spiraling and crying out and flying all the same But if you must be depicted, be so by your own heart’s vision, not by a gambling game.

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Little Ladybug Martin Arriaga

My little ladybug who laughs on leaves It was but summer’s eve.

When we first met, it was a sight For sore eyes. Our book had written us our first challenge.

It won’t work out for us, will it?

No – was our answer before it became an explosive yes.

Te amo soon followed.

One plus another could equal love after all.

You are not only the one I love: you are my lighthouse in the darkest storm.

Storms came and went but our nest endured.

Like a crow in a winter’s blizzard, our love stood out Springtime’s sun has made our winter moon dark and cruel.

I am here before you, please can’t you see?!

“You are not” replied the ladybug with silent lips.

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“Araw”

Aeriel Rae Adajar Asirot Chocolate is what they called me An assortment of voices called out to me Different than the rest I hold my arm next to theirs, Why don’t they get a nickname too?

They called me, “Maputi” My brown skin translated into “white” The meaning falls differently out their mouths and into my heart

“Stay away from the sun” “You’re already too burnt” “You’re going to get darker” But isn’t my home country embraced by the sun?

I wonder if I went back home would there be a difference.

To my homeland I go; embracing my Filipino culture with all my might But it still didn’t feel right.

Embraces and compliments I get But the connections were never met They stare at me in awe.

I tell myself, “Maybe I just need to engage” So head on I go Amongst my cousins we smile and laugh, but every tagalog word out my mouth still wasn’t enough.

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The Gift

Danny Barbare She’ll wrap you with kindness in an assortment of ways square as a box she’ll teach.

She’s a bread and butter cookie mellow and sweet she’ll make you smile a gift a treat.

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A Handful of Batteries Robert Beveridge

The house may be old but the skeletons that hold up the foundation are as solid as they were in 1563. We petitioned the magistrate for a fresh supply to build an expansion to the east wing, were told the sugar mine on the other side of the mountain would be in the way, and that we could end up with a simple syrup geyser, a ballroom in splinters fifty feet in the air, albeit delicious.

Thus, we turned our attention to the factory, just retooled for the manufacture of elk tamales; they’re big in Lithuania right now, and it’s been hinted we could even crack the Argentinian market. All that remains is to build the altar to Smudge from excess femurs, scapulae, install it in the freezer.

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Dug Up

Robert Beveridge Manifold sits on the ground like an afterthought, mechanic taps here, there, tries to find that telltale hollow sound.

Twist the right bolt and this piston pumps another day, be it one that delivers blood or one that delivers air.

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Healing knows my name Katharina Mei-Fa Brinschwitz I’m breaking down the barriers of False beliefs and humble knowings I am NOT who I once was Who is the girl who’s lived such traumas?

I’ve cracked the door open and yet I stand too close to let her in.

The stench of rotting flesh permeates the air and I ask her to close her wounds so she doesn’t make me sick.

She is disabled Handicapped by shackles of regret and guilt.

She needs my help to pull them off.

So I slip out the door, olive oil in hand and I massage her bound wrists free, lathered in Athena’s blessing I bestow wisdom and knowing upon her limp body and together we heal.

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Tight Knots

Katharina Mei-Fa Brinschwitz Tight knots rolled in gluten-free dough Made fine dumplings In 1969. But Bao brings me to high ceiling stains and cement fences that somehow Causeway Bay to metro lines with heads on shoulders my head on your shoulder Tight knots as I rest my head on empty space

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mourning prayer A. Bunney

morning comes, a sparrow darts from limb to limb of a tree a wily cat the bird outsmarts yet this you cannot see no clergymen nor braggarts nor man with a degree or patron of the darker arts could ever answer my plea I hope your bones know kinder hearts late as they may be to pick up all the broken parts and heal calamity no amount of scouring charts nor crossing every sea can bring back where our story starts nor deliver you home to me

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Wildfire Pandemonium Virginia Cassady

the sky traps them in their bedrooms the smoke a thick blanket covering them a pillow suffocation a slow death. their eyes sting from the poison air while their lungs cry for clarity and their hearts lonely in a soul presence. the dirty fog stains their hair their skin and brains forever changed.

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Will she lie dying?

Virginia Cassady

Does she listen to the lies?

Does she know they are lies when she lies awake in bed at night?

Or when she drives to nowhere?

Sometimes she reckons that her brain lives on a different planet from her heart.

Her gut is wrong.

Does she know she lies?

Does she love the lies that spill from her lips so effortlessly?

Is it easier to lie?

She covers her pain so nicely that no one can see it Not even her own eyes.

Does she lie to herself ?

Her feet can only take her so far But she sprints at full speed anyway Away from the awful feeling That is her brain.

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After The Circus Rider by Marc Shagall Mary Christine Delea

I want an elephant.

I want an elephant adorned with a silver cab, beaded reins, and a lavender cap made of silk and velvet ribbons.

My dress would be layers of crinoline and gossamer, tulle and eyelet, and my high hat would be violet with red plumes designed by Italian artisans.

I imagine the poster: Eloise and Her Elegant Elephant!

Astounding! Graceful!

Like Nothing You’ve Ever Seen!

I have prayed for an elephant every night since joining the circus. I cheerfully wash cages, tighten ropes, button up the skin tight costumes of trapeze artists and human cannonballs.

I smile constantly, even when the sword swallower flirts with me in his most unique way.

I picture my elephant’s heavy grey skin, her playful trunk, our love for each other.

I dream of her at night.

But instead, I’ve been given a horse.

A multi-colored polyester leotard. No feathers.

No expensive European fabrics My guardian angel hovers on my shoulder, trapped by her own guilt. She begs my forgiveness as my white horse and I trot around the ring, just part of the act between the pyramid clowns and the three elephant riders with their perfectly sincere smiles.

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Wildfire Season Mary Christine Delea

It’s like this for days, the sky glowing red behind grey smoke, the outdoors smelling like a campfire.

Iridescent swirls surround the sun, as the fire, twelve miles away, ( far enough, we are told, for our safety) blazes through forests and neighborhood trees, wooded city parks. This morning we awake to air shrouded in haze, heavy and thick, worst than ever this week. I sink back into my mattress trying to decide if I should rise. I do. There’s much to be done: deciding what should be packed and what should be left behind to burn. We check reports. We text friends who have evacuated, or those who, like us, wait, staring at the sky. Cat carriers are moved from the garage into the house. I try to cull photos, jewelry, art, what has been passed down from family. It is too much.

There is too much. I want to return to bed but instead pack what I think will fit in my car, along with the cats, my CPAP, my myriad medications. My husband does the same.

After a week, the air clears. We are told the danger is gone, the fires contained. We unpack. The cats calm down once the carriers disappear back into the garage and the stress level in the house decreases. I start to organize, to donate, to toss, to make decisions about importance and necessity, and how happy we might be if we move and go live in a desert, tree-less.

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A COSMIC ROUNDABOUT Andrew Djermani

In the vastness of SPACE, a boundless void surrounds all.

In the gears of TIME, creation is set in stone and existence moves forward.

Against a bang of HEAT, a sprawling universe is conceived from the light of creation.

Under the pull of GRAVITY, life is born in an expanding cosmos.

But as the final stars blink out, GRAVITY itself becomes irrelevant.

When the expansion of the universe ceases, HEAT too will halt.

As creation crunches in nothingness, TIME’s vastness will disappear.

With life merely dust, SPACE reigns supreme.

A cycle of life and death.

A chaotic journey of creation and nothing.

This is certainly a cosmic truth.

In the vastness of roundabout routes.

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A Poem For Everyone I Haven’t Seen In A Long Time John Grey

It’s how I will remember you: outside the gates of a factory, in line for a chance at a job.

Better than recalling all those jokes about your weight.

Or your lousy taste in music.

Or the headband you always wore, thinking it was cool. When I drove by, most everyone stood, but you were lying spread out on the sidewalk with your sneakers in the gutter. By some miracle, you were hired. For third shift.

So you slept all day. Never more frequented your usual hangouts.

So I never saw you after that.

That’s how little it takes sometimes for a person to disappear from my life.

Jo moved to a different apartment building. Carrie went sour on the

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coffee in my favorite cafe. And you played nursemaid to a boiler for a living. I mention these things to other people in my circle.

Be careful, I say. There are risks inherent in knowing someone.

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On An Island John Grey

This is the island.

I drifted here in sleep.

It is a lush dark green but remote and unnerving.

Could be an island of the dead with solemn hooded figures floating through tree shadows.

Or a hallowed landscape, sap-sated, flush with fertility.

I am an exile like Arthur in the Avalon mists, split off from my consciousness, finding solid ground and unexpected, grave but sensual surrounds.

Uncertainty breaks me down.

Desire fetches me up.

I am mulch for the new beginning.

Or the flower that claims its own inviolate space.

How much of this is who I am or who I wish I was?

I awake with the question unanswered.

But dreams, thank you anyway.

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Full Circle

Jess Chia Hughes It Comes in Full Circle Take me to the woods So I may rest Till I can’t breathe No more Let my decaying body be consumed by the fungi The Vultures of the forest Let my corpse Give back to what’s Been lost It comes into full Circle I’ve consumed the decaying Corpse of fungi Since the day I could eat solids Now as my dying corpse Looks at the trees And hear the birds scream One last time Let my body feed You, that way I Give back to What has been lost 29

A Birth from Another View Connor James

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Conjoined Memories Connor James

A Short Selection of Material Memories Raining in Michigan fall while waiting for the bus. Cold but warm enough. Dry enough for the minutes to pass. Think about hockey every time. A little itch that can’t be scratched.

Maybe can be scratched. Scared that it’s only a wound. Still waiting for a Michigan bus in fall rain. Still in the rain for Washington. It’s not from here even though it’s from here. Unique that way.

It’s unique because it’s mine. Still has all the original bits even when I add stained life to it. It’ll be finished in another ten years.

Possibly. Or never. Too precious to create but too precious to leave. Trees bound by flesh.

Feeling real. Like dreams are worth something.

Regret that it’ll always be underused. Some parts careful to keep and share. Some only here. Collection of memories and shame and promise.

A collection. Nice. Ouch. Different. Ann Arbor first time dish. Raw fish displayed and delicious. Marinades and sauces weaving through experiences and cultures. A taste of all please. Both here and there. Back of a restaurant named for a movie. Blunt in what it is. With friends for dinner. Not all friends stay friends even if they’re next door. Time wears down the connections that snap with distance.

Others strengthen. Year 1. Year 2. Year 3. Year

4. Year 5. Go to Japan. Beautiful and differently familiar and new. Try the tastes. Spectacular.

Please my kingdom for a vegetable. *** Collected Concepts of Memories Black jacket, aged 13 years, lack of smell, nylon rough but smooth, fuzz worn short to nubs, pockets inside and outside with trick alignment, small breast pocket for secrets, zipper is inverted since it’s German, not because it’s a woman’s cut, waiting for the school bus in the rain with jacket and hat, feeling cool feeling silly, walking through fall streets Leather bound journal, sweet spice leather, smooth soft, small scratches and scuffs, cloth tassel, rough belt, smooth sharp of cream paper, faint wood beneath the leather smell, Christmas gift, too treasured and underused, half finished with random thoughts, interviews, secrets, poems, worlds Balsamic reduction with ponzu and chili sauce, cold, sweet, savory, dressing, familiar and different, burns, linger fish funk and ferment, new, high school eating hot wings, lost because cough, Japanese food in college, Japan in summer

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At the Bottom of the Ocean Laid a Tree Samantha Johnson

In the void of pressurized oxygen and hydrogen

It shuddered awake, it glowed, and faintly the

laid a giant tree, with roots firmly into the untouched sand. The tree humans were never supposed to reach, to see, to touch ever again.

Far from their reaches, it hoped that they’d forget its existence. For it held grudges on us long before we were born. It hoped to lay undisturbed ‘til the end of time.

tree came into view.

*** I slipped into the cold, brisk ocean. I began sinking deeper and deeper, watching the sunlight become farther and farther away from me. My body trembled in fear as pressure compressed my skin inwards. I thought I would be crushed under the weight of the ocean. My body grew heavier and heavier as hours passed. The sound grew unnaturally silent as I could hear only my heartbeat in the dark void. My skin crawled unnervingly at the extreme awareness of the sounds of my body.

The next thing I remember is my body hitting the ground, causing the sand to swirl around me. It was unhappy I was there and so was I. It didn’t like to be moved. Suddenly I felt another being’s presence. Barely keeping my body upwards in a hunched-over state, I began walking towards it as it loomed in the dark.

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My body crumbled from the gravity, the sand, or the tree. I wasn’t sure. I tried to scream in agony, but the air forced itself back down my throat. The tree shook in fury.

“Why are you here?” it demanded.

I didn’t know this answer as the sand pushed me towards the trunk. I heard it hum as goosebumps traveled down my spine. Though I was partly glad, it took my focus from my heartbeat.

“I’ve watched you grow up. I was there when you were all born and all I asked was for peace.

Surely I should have known you’d come back eventually.” The trunk hummed in a deep growl as the lights diminished from the tree.

The bottom fell silent as my heartbeat filled my ears. I couldn’t break the silence that slowly ticked away my sanity. I begged the tree or the sand to talk. They never did. So we sat there in silence as the sand consumed me. How long we were there, I could not tell, though I knew we moved slightly backward before the tree spoke again.

“I guess I can forgive you. You’ve been here long enough.”

I wiggled free, trying to fight my way to the surface, and emerged from the tree with tails and gills. I was finally able to speak. Though I said nothing.

The tree hummed one more time. “Thank you for joining me in silence, old friend.”

Forgive me for what I do not know. I was never able to dive deep again, nor did I want to hear the utter silence of the below. I left the tree in peace.

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Garden Party Nina Jouval

“Where are we going?” asks Emily.

“You’ll see,” Ava whispers while leading Emily through the emerald pine trees. Weaving through the forest, Ava gently grasps Emily’s dainty hand and begins to move faster and faster with anticipation and excitement glowing from her cheeks. With the sunlight peeking through the branches, Ava suddenly stops.

“Okay, here we go.” And with just a few steps, the sisters arrive in nature’s sanctuary. Bright hues of green engulf the entire scene with joyful birds playing and singing. There is not one artificial object in sight. The girls audibly sigh, letting out their worries and breathing in the fresh air. Emily leaps around the tall grass and wildflowers on her tippytoes like a ballerina as Ava prepares the picnic blanket, the quilt that mother made for them. She plucks each item one by one from her sunny yellow picnic basket and meticulously assigns each meal and utensil in its place. The floral tea cups and saucers, the tiny cucumber sandwiches cut into perfect triangles and precisely wrapped in wax paper, the goat’s cheese and wheat crackers arranged on a small wooden cutting board, the berries that were picked from their garden early that morning. Emily returns from

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dancing amongst the birds and halts at the sight of the beautifully prepared garden party.

Saltwater forms at Emily’s tear ducts and the ends of her lips slowly turn upwards into an ambiguous smile.

“Oh, Ava. It looks just like how mom used to do it.”

Green House Meta LeCompte

My partner and I went plant shopping

Later, when we were home, you took the

today. I bought a pothos and they didn’t buy anything. Afterwards, on our walk with the dog in the park, my partner talked about owning a restaurant.

pothos out of its pot. Then, you put all of its soil in the kitchen sink.

“See, we would brew beer in our basement.

And our yard would have a garden full of tomatoes, carrots, mint, rosemary, and peppers.”

“Look at how small this root is!”

Then, they changed the subject to school.

“I could study botany or business or even become a pilot. Did you know it costs $65,000 to become a pilot?”

“Look at how big this root is!”

“They are competing with each other.”

You walked out to our patio and grabbed three pots and separated the pothos by their root size. So now, we have three different potho plants instead of one. And our home is that much more green.

“That’s a lot.” I said.

But they quickly replied with, “No, it’s not a lot.”

So I agreed, “I guess it’s not that much, considering what it’s for.”

While we were at the park, someone got engaged. Their friends gathered to drink champagne, cheer, take photos of the happy couple kissing in front of roses.

I thought... I never want to get married.

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Undressed Meta LeCompte Time and time again I plead them to wrap my neck, fluid dance with hands.

It’s my own fault I had a seance in my bed I said “Come! Come!” and they did.

I crave a floating forehead, arms to rock me, floor creaks, frames collapsing, fingernails.

Bodies want more bodies.

To become a root.

Leave me as an old man.

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Daphne

Alysa Levi-D’Ancona The book of us rolls into glass, tilled then kilned as shards starred become constellations—Apollo for Daphne, whose extremities salve inky cuts. Bay leaves sway in sun rays so we vow to stay in bed, charting where your constellations will be for other lovers to see, while I sink my roots into the flooring, wondering how immortal my laurels will be when they read the story of you and me.

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Creed of Angels Corbin Louis

My angels Come with me into the gauntlet of klonopin For glory and tacos Across lake city into the dead ends and rain Come with me in through the basement window nodding with cotton mouth from chewing the spiderwebs of burnt libraries I have read the tomes I have read the look on all your faces— jubilation and killing sprees The way you ate 13 pills like 13 cornfields which is 13 bottles of gatorade We licked the sky clean from its plate The dream of spit ropes The symbol of wet roads in november when the leaves look like coffee grounds from the 8 nights we never slept Come with me Somehow I have kept myself motivated Through the most demoralizing binge and long haul toward payment I have kept myself sacred to your text which says your gray face tongue placed back between the

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jaws before cremation I read and read from the book of pipes As the makeshift hammer swings into your heart a thousand tubes of pvc burning the cherry between our hands I have smoked with dead heavens And I’ve gotten sober to celebrate the long dread work shift What is necessary What is earned What is chance that I am still at the creek Where and what is gone as I search distilled plumage for broken parts to stitch fever kisses Come with me even if you can’t Come to the bench mark where the cigarette sings on a hilltop as the mute lake eats tuesday and moons us with bare skin I have sacked my delusions No one should suffer for a poem And you should not die for a coded tribute I’ve learned it’s better to have a friend than a book but oh how the ash page dances And I say angel And I say scumbag lord And I drive and drive wishing for the cigarette crown made neatly in your rooms

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Labor Angels!

Corbin Louis

when you put down the shovel or mouse and the Red Bull hits your brain— may your shift end forever just for a moment as you sit and do nothing on the clock and the clock dies and the Absolute breaks and Utopia is a rumor you told yourself for the last thousand lives maybe all there is between thin lines dreamed and rest is joy around and what’s demanded

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In The Genes Abigail Mandlin I read in a book that trauma can be passed down through the genes.

It’s why a shiver runs up your spine, when you see a spider skitter across the floor.

Perhaps you’ve never been bitten by a spider. Perhaps you’ve never even seen a spider before. But when you see it, somewhere, someone sewn into your genetic makeup goes, “Oh no, not again,” and echoes the sentiment through your very corporeal form: raising the hackles, energizing the blood. It’s a hug from afar: a little warning, reverberated down the family line.

When I was a kid, I put band-aids on my skin where there were no wounds.

No one taught me to do this. In fact, my parents discouraged it, viewing it as a waste. But something told me something was there; I may not have been able to see it, but the blood was gusIn the hing, in another timeline. The pulse was racing, in another life.

It’s a veritable fact that women are more likely to suffer from mental illness.

Perhaps it’s in their nature to keep their problems to themselves, internalize them.

Perhaps it’s the way that they’re raised. But whatever the case, women experience more anxiety, more depression. Is it in the genes?

In the genes?

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In the genes?

When I was a kid, I put band-aids on my skin where there were no wounds.

Because I knew something was there. My ancestors were reaching out. So when I put band-aids on my skin, it was as though I was saying back to them—saying back to her and her and her—that there was no need to worry anymore. Saying with my borrowed lips, “There, there, the hurt is gone now. You can put down your sword.”

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When I Told My Mom Abigail Mandlin

When I told my mom I didn’t think I’d ever want to have sex, she said, “Who hurt you?”

Because to her it was apparently more plausible— more statistically likely, more palatable— to be a victim of sexual abuse than asexual at age fourteen.

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When do we fly back home?

Muhammad Mazz

My fingers follow the trail of pigeons in the sky, As they come back to their known home, These pigeons are part of every story my dad tells me They are long tales of the long days spent under the blazing sun On the hot pavement.

Full with sounds of the people and children in the alley Arousing with the smells of Pakistani snacks that are cooked along the streets These tales are long and nostalgic for my dad, Red, orange, green, blue, a hazy hue The chilis being sold on the street by an old man, Fresh oranges in the stand next to him, Rickshaws and cars blasting their horns.

A sea of people flooding the streets.

Green and white Pakistani flags on every corner on a loud and eventful independence day, Smog that fills the sky, Though no one notices as they are too busy spending time with family, Nothing beats the aromas, the richness of colors, and the sense of belonging then back home, It was the total opposite in the United States.

My mom and dad were overcome with blackness, It was a different palette of colors here, a path of uncertainty and fear of the unknown, Learning and unlearning, New traditions and a new system, My siblings and I provided guidance to our parents. (be more metaphorical)

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They depended on us, A duty we served, Expectations set so high, we forgot how to be children, We promise our parents they will go back home just like the pigeons, Once they are free from their responsibilities, Once my siblings and I are successful in achieving my parent’s dreams, Or the American dream, Until we go back home.

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Metamorphosis with Many Details Left Out Joan McBride

A building of glass and steel stands where Central Elementary School once stood.

The building was yellow sandstone within a wide ring of asphalt and gravel playground.

An overcrowded room with an audience overheated in their January coats.

The room was full of children I didn’t know and my mother made me wear boys’ shoes.

I approach the dais and take in the audience – many familiar faces – faces writ and weathered with town history.

I stood here 9 years old in a dark foyer lined with taxidermic animals – the weasels’ sharp teeth beginning to yellow.

I sit down behind my name plate along with colleagues.

Or am I sitting outside the principal’s office waiting for my angry father to pick me up?

Is the gavel about to strike or am I in 4th grade trying to explain to Mr. Story if he makes me eat the split pea soup I will throw up?

He did and I did.

I am in a building on the hill overlooking my hometown – a life-vest of a town that saved a serial-drowning girl – a buoy in an unfathomable sea – a joyous ark of belonging.

Is this the town that save me after too many adolescent tragedies, too many pills after losing my mother? And saved me how – a safe place to walk at midnight,

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discovering lightening with Kristi, shopkeepers who were kind because they knew my family struggled?

There was once an elementary school of Red Rover and reports on Brazil.

Now there is a city hall, and I am in council chambers so full the fire marshal makes the overflow stand outside.

And the city council, with one voice, changes my nameplate from councilmember to mayor.

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On The Spectrum Joan McBride

I am a different kind of human outside the normal flow of time.

Drawn skyward, I jump towards freedom in a blue realm.

I wave hands and write into the air to remember symbols and letters etched against the sun.

Drawn skyward, I jump towards freedom in a blue realm often spinning like a merry go round. I understand symbols and letters etched against the sun.

An endless loop of carouseal music plays in my head.

Often spinning like a merry go round, I understand unchanging things are comforting.

Endless carouseal music plays in my head I jump to meet the clanging in the air.

Unchanging things are comforting.

I choose to stay as I am.

Hurtling through time with a desire for a watery past I am a different kind of human outside the normal flow of time.

52

Stolen Black Souls Mynisha McGrew

Little Black boy, asleep in your mother’s arms Did you see one day, your life would be over before it really began?

Little Black girl, holding daddy’s hand Did you know that once you laid your head down, it would be your final breath?

When I was born, it was just my mother and my siblings Daddy was no where around But mama always told us to let her know where we are at all times To give updates on our whereabouts As kids, we thought she was keeping us on a leash while our friends ran free But at 12 years old, the headlines showed Trayvon Martin A 17-year-old black teen, shot to death by a white man Reality hit when they set Trayvon’s killer free delivering a slap to our faces Because we clearly saw the guilt That’s when I realized that my mothers leash was a way for her to know where we were Because if something were to happen, she would know where to find us Because when she constantly said “I love you” she wanted it to be the last thing we heard from her should we perish Little Black boy, running on the court Did you know that when you took a jump shot, you would be shot?

Little Black girl, hair done real nice Did you know your own mother would style it just the way you like it for your casket?

It shouldn’t be this way My mother shouldn’t have to tell me to watch how I walk, how I breathe, how I talk Because they’re looking for a reason to steal your voice It shouldn’t be this way When cops say “Hands up!” our response is “Don’t Shoot!”

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Because we’re begging for you not to steal our lives It shouldn’t be this way That I have to be afraid to fall asleep Because it might be the last time I ever sleep While they sleep peacefully in comfortable beds It shouldn’t be this way For the color of my skin to be seen as a crime, To be a justification of a pulled trigger It shouldn’t be this way Little Black boy, walking down the street Did you know that when you hugged your mother, it would be the last time she saw you? Little Black girl, walking in the mall Did daddy tell you to keep your hands visible, so people won’t see you as a criminal?

You say Black lives matter But honestly we live in different realities While you wish for your dream home, car, and career, I dream to be seen as a human being Not defined by my skin That I don’t become the next famous hashtag Blowing out birthday candles wishing I make it to 22 Praying to live another year Another month Another day Praying that one day, my life will actually matter Little Black boy, Little Black girl Did you know one day, your Black little soul would be stolen?

54

“Dirt Meditation”/Crave to Connect Hannah Mendro

I have my father’s hands– squeamish hands, hands that shy from dirt and grime, nucleus of each atom cringing back until all that makes contact–only negative charge and empty space.

Find a place where you can touch soil.

I did not mean to today, but this idyll found me, unexpected peace hidden within sound of traffic in the distance. It would do.

I stepped off the boardwalk, looking for the forbidden signs, finding none.

Two steps off the path felt suddenly like a restricted venture, but I was alone– the woman in the distance did not turn to look.

The soil was dryly damp exposed only in patches beneath grass, leaf-mulch, flecks of moss– the texture of over-floured dough when I dared to probe it, and that gave me courage– something I know how to touch.

Dig your hands into the soil.

I didn’t. Could not bear to bore my fingers beneath the surface, let furrows of dirt climb

55

beneath quick-bitten nails. I depressed, felt it bend away from my touch, electron to electron, repelling. When I pulled my hand away, a chunk clung to me, smeared my skin when I dusted it away.

I have my mother’s blood–pulsing with fire and haste, yet craving stillness.

I can bear mud in splatter, in smear– acquired in motion, not this slow deliberation. I pressed my palms to grass instead, let my head hang.

Tried not to think. Failed.

That thought is too much there, empty space of atoms between me and the world, like the mask between my face and the air. Still I breathe.

I could not stave off the thought. But I pressed my hands into the grass, and I felt my blood slow. Felt myself, at last, not itching to rise.

56

Hanahaki Disease Nicolette Natividad

Is it butterflies in my stomach or the pain of unrequited love?

The flowers growing inside of me resemble the ones I have always wished to give you.

This thing of beauty slowly killing me from the inside out, But the real pain comes from you.

57

Edge of the grass Sky O’Brien

Puncture the remains the distant green eyes

the stretchers

of glassed-in people the knife-edge forest carving a face a deadly lush of night the dark eagles looking there

flying a blues

in the upstairs room show me your will

your wildlife

your sundeck brain all I have is a good green face

my exaggerated millions

my workroom sentence is it greener sit up

this matter?

am I amateur?

kiss my neck my death on the edge

of the grass

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Forest dream #3 Sky O’Brien

Think of the pine tree The hammock Where the blue rhino runs Under a blue moon Dancing softly on his matter The lush night warm Think of the blue tree The naked man A warm forest Around his hair What’s the matter?

There he is again, the rhino He was blue & green A question for the sundeck Universe A sentence blooming In the middle Of a glassed-in kiss

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Forever in my heart Krissy Oh

I Remember when I first met you Your simple smile filled the room as if there were a thousand lights Your kind words affected me making me feel butterflies inside The way you always treated others reminded me of your kind eyes I Remember feeling lonely and unappreciated Yet your jokes and little comments always managed to brighten my foggy days I wish I could feel your warm hands in mine once again Calling out my name you helped me regain strength I Remember being in your arms for what felt like forever Feeling as if nothing was impossible when you were by my side Seeing you scared and frustrated I took a step away feeling afraid I wanted to apologize for leaving you that rainy afternoon I Remember missing you every day I wanted to tell you how important you were to me Because being together with you was all I ever needed Your absence has only made me realize how empty my life has been I Remember you saying you loved me I wish you were the one who still cared So I can stop crying over anything you’ve said or done I remain feeling hopeless and broken without you I Remember how I will always regret never telling you these feelings Wanting to see you one last time I still continue waiting You were always there for me at my best and worst Yet all I could think of was the reasons why we were falling apart

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I Remember your voice and how it’s probably changed now Trying to impress you I did anything I could Getting your attention was all I ever needed You never noticed me leaving me to feel defeated I Remember your lies Living in a dream that was too good to believe Wanting to be the one you loved As your touch was the only thing that kept me alive I Remember all the times we shared on that trip You staring at me left me with questions Making me laugh, making me cry You will always be a part of my heart I loved you and I hope you loved me too

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Silenced

Mary Olivanti-Duerksen Who Opens the Window?

Trabajo a abrir la ventana Who is the I referred to? The I who opens, neither the she-I nor the he-I but the zhe-I And the window. Is she a beautiful window? Doe zhe evoke feminine beauty in her construction or masculine strength in his panes?.

The i-zhe who opens the window seeks to be hirself: all present in all forms no categories by he-ness or she-ness. I’m zhe and proud! (Say that one out loud,) Llama la cuchilla para si mismo. But who calls? Who is you? He, she, it, orblah, blah, blah?

What does zhe call her knife? Cuchilla? What if it is a cuchillo? A knife or a blade?

Let’s queer this one-¿who thrusts the ‘blade’ into hir? ¡Ello é un espadachín! ¿Ella é una vaina? He is a swordsman and she is a scabbard? That’s fucked. zapatx, gatx, Un gatx tiene zapatx atx, atx, atx, atx!

The shoes of the cat are not boy or girl shoes, they are cat shoes pelo, problemo. pelx, problemx My hair is no one’s problem but mine and it is immaterially girly or boyish I love mi amadx, y nada que ustedes necesariamente quién es.

Amado,o,o Amada,a,a,a Quien es? Who gives a fuck? (pause) (sing) Si mi corazon esta abiertx, si mi vida esta redimidx If my heart is open, if my life is satisfied En esta ¨´X´¨ es todx mi vidx. In this X is all my life. ¡Soy sostenido, soy liberándose, soy libre!

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How They Do It Body slamming zhe trying to get to she, Not your idea of she, zhe fakes the pass trying to get some peace but someday zhe will be free.

The nightmare seizes me as I blank out.

Forced arms, twisted back into the dress I scream, “ nooo, no, no oh,” feet slip and slide as I run frantically in place seeking to escape the shrieking tone.

“That dress! Take off that shirt and tie NOW, you can’t wear that! Get your slip and your pumps, stockings. One foot! Now the other! Not your loafers put those on!

Buckle the strap!”

Zhe brings up the buried she from below, forces hir underground and impels her to the surface, restrained by force and shamed by some force zhe does not even understand.

I cry silently, “make your statue of that greasy clay and put a fucking dress on it!”

The interminable voice grinds on, “There, was that so bad? Show us your pretty smile honey.”

What the fuck is that protruding in front, caught in the mirror? It was not there last week “Damn!” No keeping that front as flat as it was.

I sigh, swear, whirl from the silvery betrayer.

Crushed by that outside force which makes no sense inside.

A glimpse, as I wrap the he inside the zhe no one heard it or listened, but zhe saw.

For a moment, I see through hir eyes which glisten with slow tears.

Watching as they glittered, and skittered down the no longer flat front Skittered and caught in the stupid smocking, zhe watching the drops caught up in the carefully stitched threads and gathered fabric.

The very fabric itself designed to be yet another onslaught, The shrieker has planned one for every waking moment I am persuaded to try this outfit and that hairstyle Forced to taste food zhe already knows zhe will not like.

Let hir get on hir bike and flee, be zhe, entire and unbound.

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Spanish Moss Something about Spanish moss intrigues me.

Threads chase the dust motes in the bright sunshine Something which seems unreal Signs of decay? Signs of growth?

The live oaks drip innumerable threads from elderly branches Never telling their secrets, merely extending the cascade of filaments Weightless fibers laden with the burden of history.

When the wind disturbs the fibers you can almost hear the voices A common enough thing in low country, still, I hear their sounds, the moss is my witness.

Them, they, West-African chanters, rice planters, enslaved peoples.

I hear the slosh of bare feet through the rice paddies, interrupted by the pitiless tone of the overseer.

Then a new sound, the thud of the trunk gate as it opens and closes at the tide’s behest Delicate accretions of tilansia usneoides tease my hair as I pass under the branches.

Does calling it by its botannical name make it truer, less ethereal?

Perhaps it is I who am ethereal, the moss and its stories are true.

It stays to hold and release the stories, the voices, the ancestors.

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Fire

Sarah Petrov another one born another flame ignited another one told their dreams will be reality by the same people in power that act so noble they wear their badge they pay for their name they teach what they couldn’t do and they tell us to find our gasoline as they take the same hose that extinguishes our freedom that pressurizes us into conformity that erodes what was once our unblemished sense of wonder until we’re drowning in a flood of greed money power and so desperate for oxygen we grab onto the hose that remains

65

Trouble

Sam Prudente No-one knows me like Trouble.

Grief comes close, but good! Trouble?

Leagues advanced from good griefs.

Rumble in my belly means rumble

down the street.

F*CK!

You come at me before coffee, and oh so casually barge into my shoulder on the wide pavements you take for granted, where I live and where where I come from pavements do not exist

Pavement ed by waves of typhoons across a canvas pavements here colored beyond by numbers

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crackby wear & tear tsunami rain & splattering roofs of parked trees be colored in the lines, not colored but by blood type

Your Power Has Been Restored Crystal Sackman Suddenly I woke up.

Eyes wide for the first time.

Deep, sharp inhale sends oxygen surging through dormant veins.

Sad, settled apathy bursts into flame, Igniting the machinery of me.

A light strand gently pulled, clicks Sparks deep in me these glowing capacitors.

Illuminating a view into myself that was always there But was draped in darkness, Boxed, locked away, a perfect preservation.

And now suddenly I can see.

This grand new capacity to love myself, To walk my own halls, To open wide my windows, And let this wild wind surge.

Fanning the flames, These gears lock in motion, Roaring to life.

Burning touch on fingertips, Such exhilarating possibilities that now ignite.

Spinning, glowing with unprecedented heat.

Stand back and watch, This arcing energy cannot be controlled, Can no longer be contained.

There’s no going back, The circuitry Is forever changed.

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SP // LIT Elisa Sagisi

a girl split in

two ways

you’re not black enough you’re not mexican enough why don’t you speak spanish? what else are you mixed with? how dare you decide my identity for me I am made from the deep roots of an immigrant family descendant from chihuahua and chicago I am not split I am whole oh you’re just a slut how about a threesome? bisexuality isn’t real aren’t you dating a guy? my sexuality is valid and it’s real I like guys and girls my sexuality is not your fantasy I am not confused I am not split I am whole I am not able to choose one or the other this is who I am from the tips of my toes to the top of my head I am Afro-Mexicana I am

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Bisexual unsure if I have a place in this world the fear and anxiety metastasize the voices of judgment scream but in this storm, I stand with pride and show love to all there is nothing wrong with me no matter what

those voices say

I am whole.

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TWO ROADS DIVERGED Elizabeth Salinas

The difference between

Road A

is self-discipline . . . . . .

Road B . . . . . .

a- heroine (-hero) -and a heroin

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Dinosaur Caves Terry Sanville

Eddie came up with the idea and while I com-

We headed south from San Luis Obispo, the

plained, I ended up playing along as I always did with my roommate’s wacky schemes.

cranked-up radio playing Sunshine Superman.

“Let’s go down to Dinosaur Caves and sleep on the beach. I’ve got a bottle of wine and a couple nickel bags.”

“My stash is under the seat,” Eddie said. “Roll us a number, will ya?”

“It’s a school night, idiot. I’ve got an advanced differential equations exam in the morning.

Getting stoned won’t help.”

Eddied sighed. “All right, all right. We’ll just stay for a while. But I gotta get outta here.

Goin’ nuts.”

“Will they even let us back in the dorm?”

“No sweat, man. I’m cool with the night monitor.”

Scattered rain clouds rolled in off the Pacific and spread across the late October sky. In a cold wind under a three-quarter moon, we hustled from our college dormitory and into Eddie’s year-old ’66 Pontiac GTO, a high school graduation present from his uncle. I’d climbed around Dinosaur Caves a few times before, but only in broad daylight. At night the cave would be pitch black, with the sea crashing ashore on its doorstep.

“Sure, Eddie. Whatever you say. Aren’t you afraid the cops might catch us in the caves?”

“Naw, they won’t be looking. Nobody goes there on weeknights.”

“I can’t afford to get busted and kicked outta school. Those guys end up in Vietnam.”

“Jeez, Aaron. You’re such a pussy. Just roll the number and take a long toke. You’ll calm down.”

“I don’t want to calm down. I need to be careful.”

“For Christ’s sake, live a little, will ya.”

The car’s big engine rumbled in the night, hauling us along the deserted freeway. We

71

breached a gap in the coastal mountains,

pery from rain and ocean mist, with sections

turned south and entered the town of Shell Beach. Eddie yanked the car onto an offramp. Following a frontage road, he drove to an open field that bordered chalk-white cliffs and the Pacific.

having eroded, leaving only a minute ledge to step on. Eddie handled the trail like a mountain goat while I clung to the rock face and edged sideways, stopping to let my heart slow its sprinter’s pace. Reaching the bottom we moved through a break in the hole’s rock wall that opened out onto a small beach.

“Isn’t this place great?” Eddie said. “I used to come here before games to get my head straight. Nobody can see you from on top of the cliffs.”

“Did you bring a flashlight?” I asked.

“Yeah, in the glove compartment. Grab the wine and come on.”

We left the car and walked to the center of the field where a chain-link fence with “No Trespassing” signs cordoned off a huge hole that dropped into blackness. The sound of crashing waves echoed from its depths.

“Over there.” Eddie pointed to a section where the fence had been cut.

“You sure about this?”

A tunnel started just inside the fence and dropped underground. Eddie pried back the chain link and entered, his broad shoulders barely fitting. I followed. We came out onto a narrow shelf inside the hole, about ten feet below ground level. Sea sounds filled the vertical chamber.

We moved along the descending path, slip72

“Yeah, I can already feel it helping with my math test.”

“Ah shut up and help me spread the blanket.”

We sat on the beach and stared at the ocean, the moonlight silhouetting flat-topped sea stacks offshore, home to gulls, cormorants and pelicans. Eddie unscrewed the cap of the wine bottle and tilted it skyward, then passed it over.

“Roll us another number, will ya?”

I nodded and busied myself in Eddie’s flashlight beam with the Zig-Zag papers and funky grass. We sat and watched the waves

lap at our patch of sand and stones, not

hissed as it rolled up the tilted strand. In

talking.

the distance, sea lions barked and a siren wailed on the highway. Eddie polished off the remains of the wine and lay back on the blanket. I continued staring at the sea stacks.

I imagined what it would be like to build a fisherman’s shanty on top of one and live there above and surrounded by the ocean, fishing for my meals and sharing them with the gulls. The fantasy made me smile.

Eddie finally broke the silence. “Do ya know why they call this place Dinosaur Caves?”

“What? They find some bones in the shale?”

“No, nothing like that. During the ’40s some idiot built a huge concrete brontosaurus near the tunnel entrance. He tried to create some sort of tourist trap. But I guess it never took.”

“Did I tell you coach dropped me from the team?” Eddie said.

“Yeah, I remember the brontosaurus,” I said and giggled. “My folks used to drive my sister and I up the coast and we’d see it from the highway. It was huge. But the damn thing didn’t have a head.”

“What? What are you talking about?”

“He said they didn’t need me as linebacker, that there were better players that deserved the spot.”

“You really musta been a real mama’s boy,” Eddie said and took a deep toke off the J.

“Jesus, that sucks. You only have a couple more games left in the season.”

“Excuse me for having a normal childhood.”

“Yeah, well no tourists visit my valley hometown. Anybody there is trying to get out.”

“Yeah, and coach told me not to come back next year. I think it’s because they found a baggie of grass in my locker after some asshole ratted me out.”

“You’re talking Shafter, right?”

“Are they gonna tell the school?”

“Where else?”

“Coach said he wouldn’t if I went away.”

The silence built between us. The ocean 73

“But you were playing well.”

napalmed. Who the hell sends snapshots of dead people? Freaked me out.”

“No, I wasn’t. I probably wouldn’t make the squad next year.”

“Well, the good thing is now you’ll have more time for your studies.”

“My studies? Yeah, right. I’m one term away from flunking the fuck out.”

“That’s tough.”

“Yeah, well I’m startin’ to feel like your headless dinosaur. Can’t see a way forward and too dumb to figure it out.”

“What will you do?”

“You’re not dumb, Eddie. Maybe a little scared . . . but not dumb.” I shut up, not knowing what more to say.

“Well, normally I’d go back to work for my uncle at his grocery in Bakersfield. But I’m not crazy about seeing my family. They were so proud of me being the first to go to college; gave me a big send-off party.”

The clouds cleared and the moon rose over the sea, creating a silver light path to the horizon. We passed a joint between us, not talking, letting the rhythm of the waves put us to sleep.

“Hey, you could always go to JC and try a different major.”

Eddie shook his head and sighed. “A buddy of mine from high school tried that. The draft board got him before he could change schools.”

*** I slept maybe three hours and woke with a start. A loud rumble came from inside the cavern and a blast of air forced its way through the opening to the beach.

I shook Eddie. “Did you hear that, man?”

“Where is he now?”

“Huh? What?” He sat up and rubbed his eyes.

“In Vietnam, fighting somewhere in the Central Highlands. He sent me Polaroids of this Montagnard village after it accidently got 74

“Did you hear that? Sounds like something happened in the cave.”

“Let’s check it out.”

With a multitude of groans, we rousted ourselves, ducked through the opening in the cliff face and entered the pitch-black shaft.

A huge pile of broken shale greeted us. Eddie shone the flashlight upward. The eroded path we had descended had collapsed onto the cavern’s floor and the tunnel near the upper rim had fallen in. A sheer rock wall faced us.

“What the hell,” Eddie muttered.

“Yeah, there’s no way we can climb back up there.”

the blanket, retrieved the empty wine bottle and heaved it into the black ocean, making like he’d thrown a game-winning touchdown pass.

“We’re not screwed,” I said. “But we’re gonna get wet. There’s a sandy cove just south of here, not more than a quarter mile. We’ll be swimming with the current.”

“Hey, man, you’re the one on your high school swim team. I’m a frickin’ linebacker . . . I sink better than float.”

“So what are you gonna do? Stay here and get pounded by the waves?”

We returned to the beach.

“Maybe the tide won’t get too high.”

“We can wait till morning and yell for help,” Eddie said.

“Don’t think so. Nobody can hear us over the sea sounds. And then there’s that.” I pointed to the rising tide. While we had slept, the water had advanced up the beach, nearly reaching our blanket.

“When the tide comes in, all of this will be under water along with the bottom of the cave.”

“There’s seaweed clinging half-way up the cave’s walls. How do ya think it got there? And if you’re inside that cave when the tide comes in, the surge will flatten you.”

Eddie sighed. “Well, I’m not ready yet. Roll me another joint, will ya.”

I studied the sea then sat next to my friend and hurried to comply. We had just taken our last toke when a wave rolled up the beach and swamped us, the water shockingly frigid.

“So we’re screwed.” Eddie plopped down on 75

We stood dripping and scrubbing at our

using his strength to pound the water rather

faces. A second wave broke around our knees and pulled us toward the sea.

than part it. In a few minutes his strokes slowed.

“It’s time to get wet,” Eddie said and giggled.

“I . . . I don’t know about this . . .” Eddie said.

“Yeah. You’d better lose those jeans cause they’ll weight ya down.”

“Slow . . . steady,” I hissed. “Go with the flow, don’t fight it.”

“But my car keys and wallet . . .”

“But . . . that’s what I . . . do best.”

“Give them to me. My shirt pockets have buttons.”

We swam past white bluffs that glowed in the moonlight. Sea lions barked their encouragement. The beckoning sandy cove seemed miles away, across a sea that started to whitecap as the wind picked up.

Another wave broke and pushed against us, this one reaching above our waists.

I pointed. “Swim straight out past the waves and turn south. I’ll be with you the whole way.”

“What the fuck?” Eddie shouted and stopped dead in the water, blowing hard.

“Just seaweed. Keep swimming.”

“Now this is scary shit.” Eddie smacked a fist against each bicep, let out a loud war cry, and charged into the surf, about as graceful as a bull entering a swimming pool. I couldn’t help but laugh. I followed him through the surf and glided over the water while Eddie bulldozed through it.

Beyond the surf line we turned toward the glowing lights from houses perched along the cliff tops. Eddie struggled to make headway, 76

Eddie continued to struggle, his breaths sounding like blasts from a humpback’s blowholes.

“Slow down,” I yelled. “Roll onto your back . . . and rest.”

But Eddie kept battling forward, pulling long strands of bull kelp with him as he thrashed.

“Keep going. I’m right here.”

“Can’t do this . . . any of it.”

“Yes you can. Don’t wimp out on me.”

Eddie’s arms and head barely cleared the water as he pushed forward. I stared at the sandy cove that seemed frozen in place, neither advancing nor retreating. The coastal current pulled us southward toward a new set of cliffs and sea caves with no place to climb out.

great gusts like it does at the trailing edge of a storm. After several more unsuccessful dives, I pulled for shore.

With my final strength, I crawled from the sea onto the beach, shivering in the night air and sobbing. But my mind followed Eddie southward, through the black water, drawn by currents that took him far from the grasp of school, family, football, war, and time. A headless dinosaur? No, not Eddie.

“Come on . . . we gotta get ashore.” I glanced sideways. Moonlight gleamed off the roiling sea. Eddie had vanished.

“EDDIE,” I screamed. I sucked in a deep breath and dove, waving my arms frantically underwater, searching the black depths. A hand gripped my arm, squeezed, then ripped itself away before I could react.

I continued to search, grasping at empty water or getting tangled in kelp until my lungs reached the exploding point. I surfaced, choking, coughing, but managed to scream, “EDDIE!” The sea lions had quieted. Only wind and wave sounds filled the night. I scanned the surface but saw nothing. The wind blew in 77

no eye movement Michelle Schaefer

She had a waking dream She stood thirsty in the rain the drain, the clouds, the gutters roared with water her mouth filled and swirled it flushed, it gulped and choked on a river that grew all around her the focused sound. Her eyes heard a flood She could not hold, could not take back, could not control.

She cut her feet on the sharp corners of her own reality.

Holding her captive her calloused soul bitten with the distinct markings of pride. She saw her own unremarkable image graven among others. Herself unloved, unsatisfied and undeserving wrapped in a blanket of want.

Slave and master together the ordinary stroke of the sun hovering hopeful.

Warm and rested bearing down She awoke in the middle of a dreamless harsh winter with only the entitled luxury of being a sheep.

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Fools

Irene Shin Silence is the virtue of fools Rumor is a side dish for fools April is the holy place for liars The day of lies that can be forgiven, april fools Silence is the choice for a coward But it is the opportunity for fools Silence degenerates the world as fools want Anger advances the world from fools When the world turns into noise Most afraid of noise will be fools

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Not Today Wendi Shively

I am lost.

Who I am and where I am.

My stomach is fluttering with a thousand butterflies on fire.

Rise up on the tips of your toes.

SCREAM! No, not poems, instead: the sound of nails on a chalkboard or the chilling cold that freezes one’s extremities.

Do not sleep bundle unfurled.

Sickness, disease, malignancy.

Why is life so fleeting?

I can still feel the silk on my skin.

Despair fills my cup.

Life must go on, but not today.

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Do you remember what it was like?

Alexandria Simmons When you had to stretch to reach the door handles; when you hugged Mom and you encircled your arms around her legs? When did you stop asking her for snacks?

When did she stop making you lunches?

Reminisce about a first-world privileged childhood, one where you don’t remember the cold because he dressed you in bundles as abundant as her love.

You know you were not an easy child When you can’t count the trips to the Principal’s; When medicating you was her chore of misery; When sports was the prescription for aggression, and When you were Angst’s accomplice in Occupying her home.

The fact is, when you remember the world being so big, She’ll never forget her baby, so small.

You’ll remember the rushing wind in your ears, When you ran across a playground Catching clouds in plastic bags; You’ll remember scaling the metal monument that’s now a slide below your height, 5’5”.

And she’ll remember her tiny goblin Scrambling into the bus for school, Scrabbling off and home into her arms And around her legs.

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a note on healing Samaya Sullivan

do you know what it’s like to live having already been emptied? the songs we have not yet sung a death we didn’t deserve trying to crawl out that ash again & again come morning, i’ll try again. it’s a form of brutality how little is within our power. the old world rendered us into dark matter. paradise is a world where everything I am is the center of everything– we earned this paradise.

I lay down in it with my own nerves and blood. history is what it is. it knows what it did. but here there’s healing cry if you need to, in the rain dancing between the storm

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to dance. to whatever you please. everything is a sanctuary someplace that loves you back

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inequality

Samaya Sullivan how do you reconcile a life mirrored in crystal, so rife with unending difference to one’s own? plentiful crop and soil, dry and unsown cognitive dissonance opulence and my own immanence turning to heaven as i search for answers in a boundless sky of watercolor washes atop an expansive bed of shimmering water a sky so oppressively large that i am reminded of my own vulnerability, defined, and that the frivolity of brilliant color above sits perpendicular to the dullness of the realization that i am not of this world. magnify the space between us the superfluous the unending ladder to climb the untouchable sublime there’s both beauty and horror in experiencing a life so thoroughly foreign

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homebound Devin Taing

a lavender light brushes by a crested sky, withering toils though the weathered roads crack still in our tread home the sky turns alone verdant cascades fall from lush rounded peaks above rolling hills dive deep with oneiric breaths from the rivers to the roots echoes, ebbs, & flows

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sitting under the streetlight Devin Taing

silence of late night; dreamlike slumbering peace. the soft hum from a streetlight sates my soul’s midnight caprice for a song of stillness as it floods the street with flickering warm light and the serenity of a dream. my sole lucida in my moonless sky, highlighting the night’s serein-like haze, drifting sideways in a windborne sigh, as ephemeral horizons tinged cerise fade. what lucid lights seep through the fog magnify, circumstellar refractions of the light on the street flood flickering warm light and the serenity of a dream.

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EACH

John Tustin A tree falls in the storm and the others stand idly by, looking in other directions, rooted as before.

A single cloud breaks away from the rest and the sun concentrates on it until it’s dissipated.

This bed is just big enough for me – I know that now.

Each fish in the school moves with the others but is traveling alone.

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THE CROWS IN THE GRASS John Tustin

On my daily path I approach the crows in the grass and they look up from their reverie long enough to clamor for me, calling out my arrival to each other but they do not ruffle and they certainly do not fly off when I get side-by-side with them.

They can feel the lamentation in each vibration of my steps, the distracted worry in my posture and they know I am no more harmful to them than a blade of grass or a stroke of wind, They call out to me after I have passed them by, telling me not to fret so much and they will worry about me until tomorrow when they see my approach, harried and melancholy, along the very same daily path.

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Stretching Minyoung Yoo

In the early morning, Sunlight pours into the room.

She approaches me silently.

Though I’m closing my eyes, I can feel her gaze.

She soon stretches out.

With elegant gestures.

She draws a smooth curve, Soft fur sparkles in the sunlight Along with the rhythm of her body.

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Hanged Man Celina Yu

My glasses without glass, Polished to perfection, Paganini’s reflection, realized.

A quartet of blue marred By white waves. I let go, afraid.

It stared back at me, myself With rosy cheeks and Clear complexion, glass.

And I, a hanged man.

Flaunting the little I have Like fools, a dime a dozen. A Caprice of self-worth, a pendulum.

Four and twenty nights amble idly by.

You would’ve done well to forget Me, but not forgive my transgressions.

Punishment is to live sans will.

Powerlessly.

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Cupid

Lawrence Zephier-Reed I don’t think cupid knows what he’s doing.

He’s been shooting love from a bow that he got at the dollar store right after taking too many shots.

He is closing the wrong eye to steady his vision and the arrows ricochet into random bar stool conversations that dress up as “nothing lasts forever” after six months.

He wants us to pay for the museum he built of our attractions just to taunt us with the right person but at the wrong time.

I don’t think the bow is for you cupid, Maybe try something like setting up bear traps.

At least then you’ll know that you’ve been using the wrong heart to take your shots with.

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To The Sun

Lawrence Zephier-Reed The note said you would be going on vacation and you’ll be home in a few months, but you didn’t tell me that heavy showers would be taking your shifts and would pour on me making my knees crumble like the wicked witch of the west.

My heart aches from your sudden disappearance.

I already miss you waking me up in the morning and turning my eyes to coffee.

However long your vacation is, I hope that you still write me clouds and remove your fluffy clothing by mid day.

When you return, brush my face in the morning as you usually do, i’ll know it is you.

Love, Honeysuckle

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Rue de Rivoli Simon Jouval Photography 94

The Pale King from Hollow Knight

David J. Kim 3D Graphic 95

Self-Portrait, Unhappy at 19

Tushigmaa Ariunbileg Oil on Canvas Paper 96

Dreaming of Being Back Home Zhewen Chen Digital Drawing 97

Educator Exodus / Mask up, Children Cheryl Chudyk Collage 98

The 5th Round of Remote Learning

Cheryl Chudyk Collage 99

Lost But Already Found David Dinh Chalk and Pen on Paper 100

Tech Tyranny: The Last Card, 2022 Dana Doran, The Baroness of Eads Oil on Canvas 101

Light In The Darkness Jason A. Estrada Vargas Photography 102

Laugh

Madison Galiardi Sculpture 103

The Wind Weeps - Detached Fractures Anmei Gao Mixed Media Collage 104

Whale is dying

Xuanxuan Han Digital Drawing 105

Green Sunshine Jess Chia Hughes Photography 106

Smoke Screen

Matthew Keenan Photography 107

Talvassus

Danyl Stephan Kok Digital Painting & Poem 108

Lost

Josh Kong Photography 109

Wish

Kerly Lynce Photography 110

Dahon

Marchie Sayas Photography 111

Kitty

Marchie Sayas Acrylic on Canvas 112

Max and Bowser

Christen Solberg Acrylic and Glue on Canvas 113

Jaguar

Viola Tabares Acrylic on Rock 114

Mariposa

Viola Tabares Acrylic on Canvas 115

Beautiful and Gloomy PNW Kylie Weaver Photography 116

Bristlecone Pine, Nevada

Eric Westman Acrylic on Canvas 117

Yakima, Washington Eric Westman Acrylic on Canvas 118

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Contributors Ro Al-Ghosien is a freshman student at UWB. She has always been interested in writing and words ever since she was a young child, but creative writing courses at UWB have helped her develop a passion for poetry. She enjoys writing as a form of self-expression.

Tushigmaa Ariunbileg is an artist with a passion for oil painting and graphite drawing. She loves to capture the people around her and concentrates on portraits.

Martin Arriaga is a first generation Mexican American and is currently a senior at UWB majoring in Media and Communications. Creative writing has become a pillar of his academic career. He lives in Lynnwood, WA with his fiancée and two cats.

Aeriel Rae Adajar Asirot is a proud Filipina-American attending the University of Washington Bothell as a Senior; currently majoring in Culture, Literature, and The Arts. Her goal is not only to create and share her work but also to showcase the beauty of vulnerability and passion. Her work expresses bits of her own personal life experiences as well as pieces that others can relate to and find a bit of themselves within it.

Danny P. Barbare resides in the Upstate of the Carolinas. He attended Greenville Technical College. Works at the University Center as a janitor. Has recently been published in Pennsylvania Literary Journal, North Dakota Quarterly, New Feathers Anthology, and DASH. He lives with his wife and family and sweet dog Miley in Greenville, SC. His poetry has been nominated for Best of the Net by Assisi Online Journal and has won The Jim Gitting’s Award.

Christian Barragan is a recent graduate from California State University Northridge. Raised in Riverside, CA, he aims to become a novelist or literary editor. He currently reads submissions for Open Ceilings Magazine at UC Davis. His work has appeared in Pif Magazine, Moria Magazine, and Coffin Bell, among others.

Robert Beveridge (he/him) makes noise (xterminal.bandcamp.com) and writes poetry in Akron, OH. Recent/upcoming appearances in Homolgy Lit, WordCity, and The Erozine, among others.

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Katharina Mei-Fa Brinschwitz (b. 2000) is an interdisciplinary artist whose work includes animation, video, installation, images, performance, and poetry. Her art practice asks us to look at the intersections of ourselves and others with greater compassion. If you are willing to soften, her artworks are pools of reflection for courage and metacognitive alchemy.

A. Bunney is an author and artist from the Pacific Northwest. Her work focuses on memory and how it intertwines with imagination, history, and the environment. In 2021, she graduated from UW Bothell with an MFA in Creative Writing & Poetics, and her thesis, “long exposure,” explored uncertain perceptions of reality, long exposure photography, and Edgar Allan Poe. She has been published in The CROW (2021), Clamor (2020, 2021), and The Journal of Occurrences (2018).

Celestial Carvalho is a senior, currently enrolled in IAS - Community Psychology, at the UWB campus. She is an avidly eccentric admirer of pointillism, surrealism, and creative writing. It was because of her passion for writing, that when asked to write about the history and times of the clitoris, she chose to write a poem about this often misunderstood, forgotten, and powerful sexual organ. With this poem she wants to empower readers to understand the history of the clitoris, the anatomy of organs that some of us own, and to not be afraid to embrace your clitoris in the literal, educational, and metaphorical sense.

Virginia Cassady is a senior at UW Bothell majoring in educational studies. Though much of her time is taken up being a student, she can often be found exploring the mountains, forest, and all things nature.

Win Chantieng has a strong belief in photography. Every picture he has taken represents his belief in arts and each picture has a different meaning depending on the expression of colors.

The simplest things that make up the world, the appreciation is the voice that most people have taken for granted as part of common reality.

Sandy Chen is a student at the University of Washington Bothell. She is a health studies major pursuing a career as a PA. In her free time, she enjoys reading, different visual creative arts such as drawing, and recently writing poems.

Zhewen Chen is very sensitive to art. He always hopes that art can save himself.

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Cheryl Chudyk is a Canadian collage artist based in Kirkland, WA. She has a background in dance and photography and dabbles in painting, writing, comics and illustration. She is a cofounder of sharphandsgallery.com, is the newsletter editor of The Northwest Collage Society and is a member of @thecollageclub on Instagram. She is always looking to make collaborative pieces with other artists. Weekdays you can see her at her day job and receive a COVID vaccine.

Mary Christine Delea is the author of The Skeleton Holding Up the Sky, 3 chapbooks, and numerous other poems published in various journals and anthologies. She is originally from Long Island, NY, and now lives in Oregon. A former university professor, she currently volunteers with a few nonprofits. Delea also makes quilts and beaded jewelry. Her website, which includes a blog where she posts weekly poetry prompts, is mchristinedelea.com.

David Dinh is majoring in Media and Communication Studies with a minor in Visual and Media Arts at UW Bothell. He plans to go into Marketing and Social Media Design to help out small businesses while also drawing and walking in parks as his pastimes.

Andrew Djermani was born in Toledo, Ohio in 2002. Moving to Washington at the age of 5, he spent his free time reading books or doodling on blank pieces of paper. It wasn’t until 2014 that he fully embraced his skills and talents and went on to improve both his drawing, reading and writing skills. Today, he majors in Interdisciplinary Arts, studying for a career in Graphic Design.

Dana Doran, The Baroness of Eads is an alumni of UW Bothell and former Clamor editor.

Her oil paintings have been published in Clamor seven times since 2013. She graduated magna cum laude in 2014 with a degree in interdisciplinary art where she learned, very successfully, to incorporate messages into her visual art. Today, she is semi-retired in Tennessee. Known as the Baroness of Eads, she paints most days, exhibits her work when convenient, blogs on WordPress and accepts commissions.

Amy Eldridge is a first-year graduate student in the Master of Fine Arts program in Creative Writing and Poetics at the University of Washington, Bothell. She is a co-curator for the 20212022 Gamut Literary Series and frequently creates works within the realm of realistic fiction and crime fiction. Her writing has never been published previously.

Jason A. Estrada Vargas is a Senior majoring in Interactive Media Design and Media & Communication Studies. Jason loves to capture the sensational beauties that our eyes can see on this Earth through the lenses of his cameras.

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Tricia Fuentes is an MFA Creative Writing and Poetics student at the University of Washington, Bothell, graduating in 2022. She enjoys creative expression through writing, though she loves to experiment in visual artforms as well. As the daughter of a refugee and descendant of a long line of strong women (and the world’s most caring dad), she draws strength and inspiration from her family. Her other interests include music, drinking too much coffee, and binge-watching shows with her partner and her kids. She also loves to party with her large, boisterous Cuban family.

Madison Galiardi is a third year UW Bothell student studying Community Psychology with a Minor in VLPA. They explore creation and artistic invention through many mediums including sculpture, videography, digital or traditional painting & drawing, music production, or whatever they feel like that day! By making artworks and expressing themselves through creative projects, they hope to find themselves a little more with each piece.

Anmei Gao is a first-year student at UW Bothell, an artist, and a writer. They enjoy using music and poems as their muse for creativity. Although they find comfort within digital mediums, they often find themselves working outside the box and trying new approaches for different ideas.

John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in Sheepshead Review, Poetry Salzburg Review and Hollins Critic. Latest books, “Leaves On Pages” “Memory Outside The Head” and “Guest Of Myself” are available through Amazon. Work upcoming in Ellipsis, Blueline and International Poetry Review.

Xuanxuan Han is a junior at UW Bothell currently taking up a Bachelor’s degree in Art. She was born in China and grew up in China until 19 years old, and she came to America as an international student. She started drawing ever since middle school. grace houck is a Whidbey Island poet and student. They plan on becoming a teacher, changing the world, and writing thousands of poems. Their greatest goal is to have their words mean something to people.

Jess Chia Hughes is someone who has many identities such as a queer autistic ColombianAmerican student whose a senior at UWB pursuing two degrees in American and Ethnic Studies and Media and Communication Studies and a minor in creative writing. She likes pursuing different mediums of art: writing poetry and sometimes fiction, film and video editing and singing. She loves learning and exploring new things and wants to showcase that through her art.

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Connor James was born in Michigan, living in Roseville, Romeo, and Ann Arbor. He graduated from the University of Michigan, receiving his BA in English before working as an English Language Consultant. In 2019, he placed first in prose for Macomb Community College’s ARTIFEX magazine with “Flashes from a Storm.” Presently pursuing his MFA in Creative Writing & Poetics at UW Bothell, Connor James enjoys using science-fiction and fantasy to explore themes of humanity, existence, subversion, and belonging. In his free time, he enjoys video games, Michigan sports, and relaxing with his partner and two cats.

Samantha Johnson is a University of Washington Senior graduating in Winter with a Bachelor’s in Culture, Literature, and Arts with a minor in Creative Writing. She earned her Associate’s Degree in Arts and Sciences from Everett Community College. She was born and raised in Washington state. Her interests include writing, gaming, and comics. She plans on becoming a full-time novelist in the future.

Nina Jouval is a 2021 alum of the University of Washington Bothell and majored in Media and Communication Studies. She enjoys creative expression through writing and photography. Some things that keep her sane include movies, music, cats, and puzzles.

Simon Jouval is an amateur aspiring film/digital photographer. He hopes it may turn into a profession one day. Another one of Simon’s passions is music, of which he often plays guitar, and spins records in his free time. Genres he enjoys range from psychedelic rock, to hip hop, to metal etc.

Matthew Keenan is a Seattle raised photographer, taught himself how to use a camera and edit photos for a little over a year. He mainly does street photography.

David J. Kim is a 3D hobbyist and student at the University of Washington Bothell.

Sarah King-Scott is a Washington-born poet. Her first poem, “Bonsai”, was published in the American High School Poets Topical Anthology in Winter 2019. Since then, she has gone on to write several more poems about race, gender, and the folly of youth.

Danyl Stephan Kok is a person of thought. Many of his works are centered around the idea of the mind and its limitations. He accumulates thoughts that he wishes to share without having to conform to the limitations of the physical world, but that is simply impossible. To him, the various means by which humans communicate thought can only assemble an idea so accurately. He constantly explores more effective ways of communicating thought with as little interference as possible, and he recently dipped his toe into the idea that common experience is vital to fill in the incompleteness of such a representation.

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Josh Kong is a senior at the University of Washington (Bothell) majoring in Media and Communications. He enjoys taking photographs of landscapes and nature which are often taken while hiking.

Justina Le is a graduating senior in Interactive Media Design at the University of Washington Bothell. She is passionate about self-expression through art and design and uses this creative outlet as a branch to share her thoughts and emotions with others. She works with countless mediums both physical and digital to produce works of art not only for the enjoyment of others, but also for herself.

Meta LeCompte is a writer currently located on Duwamish land, pursuing her MFA. When she’s not writing surreal prose, she can be found skiing, swimming, or snuggling with her two cats.

Harking from Trieste, Italy, Seattle, and Chicagoland, Alysa Levi-D’Ancona is pursuing her MFA in Creative Writing and Poetics at UW Bothell. You can find her writing in The RavensPerch and Stories That Need to Be Told 2021. Levi-D’A ncona weaves themes of liminality, culture, language, belonging, and magical realism into her writing, throwing in the occasional absurd joke. @alevidancona.

Joe Lollo is a senior at UWB majoring in Culture, Literature & the Arts and Media & Communication Studies, pursuing a career in education. They were an editor for the 2021 Clamor publication, and have had academic, creative, and journalistic work featured in Clamor (‘20, ‘21), The CROW (‘21), The Husky Herald (‘18-present), and The Bellevue Bastion (‘17, ‘18). Joe presently works as a Peer Advisor on campus, as well as earning the title of “resident tall person” at any social gathering at a height of 6’2”.

Corbin Louis is a Seattle singer and poet. His work explores disability and addiction. The artist is an MFA alumni of UWB and 2018 Jack Straw Writers Resident. Corbin’s poetry has been featured in Best American Experimental Writing, Button Poetry and more. You can find his work at corbin-louis.tumblr.com.

Erin Hawkins Luchesi is a Junior at the University of Washington Bothell pursuing a major in Interdisciplinary Arts.

Kerly Lynce is an undergrad at the University of Washington Bothell, studying Media and Communications.

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Abigail Mandlin is a University of Washington, Bothell 2020 alum, with a Master of Fine Arts degree in creative writing. She currently splits her time between teaching high schoolers English and writing creatively on the side. She lives happily with her two cats, eagerly awaiting the next stages of her career and looking forward to more future personal growth.

Muhammad Mazz is a first-generation college student at the University of Washington Bothell pursuing a degree in Business Administration and minoring in Media and Communications.

Joan McBride’s poems have appeared in Raven Chronicles, Clamor, Yours Truly, and Nightshade. She studied creative writing at the University of Washington and The Evergreen State College and is currently a student of Dianne Aprile and is working on her first book of poetry. Joan recently retired from the Washington State Legislature and formerly served as Mayor of Kirkland, Washington.

Mynisha McGrew is an African American student born and raised in Seattle Washington. She is pursuing a degree in Health Studies at University of Washington Bothell. Writing is a way for her to express her feelings and to share her experiences. She writes a lot about social justice and issues that affect the world and hopes to reach out and connect to people who feel and relate to the messages.

Hannah Mendro is a UWB/CC library staff member and Cultural Studies graduate student at UW Bothell with a passion for wordplay and storytelling. She loves to explore the spaces left blank in frequently-told stories, and to delve into the emotional core of quiet moments.

Danny Miranda is a senior at UWB majoring in Media and Communications with a minor in Visual Arts. He is also the Station Manager for UWave Radio. On the side, Danny is a photographer with an emphasis on night portraiture and candid photography. Their work can be viewed on their website dannymirandajr.com or their Instagram @whereisdandan.

Jorid Muñoz is currently a Junior at UW Bothell majoring in Society Ethics and Human Behavior.

Nicolette Natividad is a Junior in the Media and Communication Studies major at UW Bothell.

Poetry has been a love of hers for many years, but this is her first time branching out to publish.

She loves films and TV, acting, friends, family, and making memories that last. She hopes to leave her mark on the world somehow, and hopefully this will be her starting point.

Lance Nizami had more than 285 poems in print (not online) in recognized poetry journals, some recent publications being in Dreich and in The Ogham Stone, as of 21 December 2021.

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Sky O’Brien (he/him) is a student in the MFA in Creative Writing & Poetics at the University of Washington Bothell. He writes for Dispatches Magazine.

Krissy Oh attends the University of Washington, Bothell. She is majoring in Media and Communication studies and minoring in Business Administration. She enjoys writing, taking photos, and editing videos as those are skills she will need to continue with her studies, and find future opportunities in her field.

Mirai Okamura-Culpepper is a self taught, Japanese, Black and Native American artist. He draws influence from the flow of nature, mythologies, and contents of the unconscious. What started as a hobby in 2017 has evolved into an exploration of the mind. Mirai likens his mind to a cauldron. Thought, symbols, shapes, colors etc… are ingredients. Within the cauldron they mix and intermingle, creating new forms along the way. When he draws, it is a spontaneous burst of creation which draws from the mixing pot. Through learning, reading or being observant, the pot is refilled, only for the cycle to begin again.

Mary Olivanti-Duerksen (zhe, hir, hirs) is a nonbinary multimedia poet and translator.

Hir work engages the world of words and grammar, seeking to de-gender gendered language (Spanish and Portuguese) as well as to consider the spectrum of identity resident in the natural world. Zhe currently focuses on the intersectionality of language, gender and justice. Zhe has been published in The Crambo, Clamor, Obra Artifact, and has performed in Brazil, Venezuela and the US. Sarah Petrov is from Seattle, WA but moved to the East Coast and then back to the West Coast again. In the eight or so times she moved and the chaos that came with it, poetry and art always served as a refuge.

Sam Prudente is a troublemaker who struggles to see clearly. He/They grew up in Guam & Papua New Guinea, then went back to the Philippines for a first shot at college. After ousting dictators & dealing with street violence, t/he/y thrived in advertising & theatre, championed LGBTQIA+ rights, and helped create an industry for ESL. Class of 2019 for BA in Culture, Literature & the Arts, Sam graduates with an MA in Cultural Studies this year, and plans to pursue a Ph.D. Crystal Sackman is a marketer, artist, and go-getter. A lifelong Snohomish County native and UWB alumna (IAS CLA ‘08), Crystal spends her time laughing with her family, experimenting with texture paste and paint, translating engineering jargon, and endlessly ruminating on life.

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Elisa Sagisi is a fourth year student double-majoring in Law, Economics, and Public Policy and Society Ethics and Human Behavior with a minor in Diversity at UW Bothell. She is originally from Lakewood, WA and takes pride in her heritage as a Afro Latina and being a first generation student. Her roots in creative writing start from when she was just 10 and has been encouraged to continue to share her work throughout her life.

Elizabeth Salinas is currently writing and working on her first (adult) romance novel “Pittsburgh King.” Elizabeth currently studies Creative Writing at the College of Liberal & Professional Studies at the University of Pennsylvania (Penn LPS Online). When Elizabeth is not working or writing, she is busy being a JCPenney Operations Associate/sales rep in a customer/ sales-driven environment.

Terry Sanville lives in San Luis Obispo, California with his artist-poet wife (his in-house editor) and two plump cats (his in-house critics). He writes full time, producing short stories, essays, and novels. His stories have been accepted more than 500 times by journals, magazines, and anthologies including The Potomac Review, The Bryant Literary Review, and Shenandoah. He was nominated twice for Pushcart Prizes and once for inclusion in Best of the Net anthology.

Terry is a retired urban planner and an accomplished jazz and blues guitarist – who once played with a symphony orchestra backing up jazz legend George Shearing.

Tori Satterfield is a non-binary, multiracial, Latinx social justice activist who writes about their lived experiences with trauma, poverty, and houselessness. They hope providing insight into these issues will inspire empathy and compassion in their community and nurture relationships across differences.

Marchie Sayas is an aspiring graphic designer. She takes simple things and tries to make them complex. She doesn’t settle for less and will work extra hard to reach and surpass her goal.

Michelle Schaefer is a UW Bothell alumni. She expresses herself through the power of words.

She believes that not everything happens as it should but eventually always happens. She believes in hard work and perseverance as the only options for achieving success.

Irene Shin is a student who hates all discrimination and hatred.

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Wendi Shively grew up in Northern Virginia and has lived in Western Washington for the last 25 years. She will be graduating in Spring 2022 from UWB, majoring in Community Psychology with a minor in Creative Writing. She is a lover of animals and nature. She is mother to two children, Amber and Niko, and to her four fur babies, Wilbur, Sasha, Luna, and Ella. She loves the adventure of travel and being creative. She hopes to publish her written work in the form of a book someday soon.

Alexandria Simmons is a life-long writer of prose, and a converted poet, falling in love with the writing form quickly and deeply as a form of self-expression and as a means to herald differing perspectives on a controversial society. She completed her bachelor’s degree from Seattle Pacific University in 2017: Literature with a concentration in Creative Writing and Communication and is currently spending her days working hard to earn her MFA in Creative Writing and Poetics at UW Bothell. Her recent work focuses on humanity, mental illness, clashing perspectives on realism, and femininity.

Christen Solberg is an artist based in Shoreline, Washington. She has lived in the Pacific Northwest her entire life. She and her husband have four fur children: Fonzi(Maltese Poodle), Ferguson (Chocolate lab), Pistachio (Golden retriever), and Mildred (Chihuahua). The love of her life, Fitzgerald Scout Marshall, crossed the rainbow bridge in December. She misses him every minute of every day. Her heart breaks for anyone who has to go through this and she only hopes that the painting of your beloved pet can honor them as well as bring you peace and love.

Samaya Sullivan is a Community Psychology major in her final year at the University of Washington Bothell after transferring from Shoreline Community College. She is a half Filipino and bisexual woman, and has been writing poetry for the better part of a decade. Samaya’s work serves as an emotional outlet for her, often revolving around themes such as social issues, mental health, heartbreak, grief, and love. Though she studies psychology, Samaya dreams to one day publish a book of her own poetry. She reminds everyone to love endlessly, fight hate, and live it big time.

Viola Tabares is a senior majoring in Educational Studies with a minor in diversity. She started painting at a young age, feeling inspired from her grandmother. Art is her escape from school work and homework, it brings her peace. She enjoys painting nature in relation to people. She hopes to be able to share her art more with the public in the future. She does acrylic paintings, watercolor paintings, makes clay jewelry and enjoys painting on rocks. She looks forward to her future in education and hopes to implement art in her teachings.

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Devin Taing is an introverted UWB student studying mechanical engineering who enjoys witnessing nature and pondering the relationship of humanity to the world. In what scarce free time is available as a STEM student, putting into words the complexity of the natural world and its personal meanings are one of his greatest joys.

Cora Thomas is an Artist. Advocate. Academic. When all three coalesce into a single project she feels as though that’s her best work. The natural world inspires her drive to create every time. Other interests that capture her heart include film, digital storytelling, podcasting, photography, mindfulness meditation, and hiking. Her number one favorite poet is Mary Oliver.

Cora is an alumna of the UW Bothell MACS program and works at the UWB and Cascadia Campus Library.

César Torres (1994) is a Venezuelan writer and translator. He studies Classic Literature and has translated poems from Latin and Ancient Greek into Spanish. In 2021 He wrote the little book parodiae, a mixture of poetry, visual art and diary notes.

John Tustin’s poetry has appeared in many disparate literary journals since 2009. fritzware. com/johntustinpoetry contains links to his published poetry online.

Kylie Weaver is a senior at the University of Washington, Bothell, dual majoring in Media & Communications Studies and Society, Ethics, and Human Behavior. Through visual mediums, she has come to fall in love with the PNW and its gloomy beauty by spending time in nature and embracing its rawest forms. Within a fast-paced world, nature has taught her patience, appreciation, and the importance of self-love.

Eric Westman started drawing at an early age, but didn’t take up painting until later in life.

He idolized Salvador Dalí and M.C. Escher, which drove his passion to create surrealistic art. It was when he took a landscape and color theory class that he discovered the underlying beauty and deeper meaning in landscape art. His goal is to create 30 works that feature the Pacific Northwest, and show them in a gallery. Most of his current works are derived from photos he took while hiking, or driving around Oregon and Washington.

Matthew Livezey Whitehurst was born lowercase-d deaf, growing up in Belgium. He moved to Washington State in 2016, earning a BA in Cultural Studies & Interdisciplinary Art from The Evergreen State College in Olympia. There he studied film and animation, producing a few short animations and a feature-length film in collaboration with two others from his class. Now he finds himself working on an MFA in Creative Writing & Poetics at UW Bothell.

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Simon Wolf has his MFA in Creative Writing and Poetics from the University of Washington Bothell. His work has been published with Leveler Poetry, Seattle’s Poetry on Buses, and featured in ‘Coastal Poets - A Reading and Film Festival’. These poems come from his experience with the Duwamish river and the lines the river has pushed him down.

As a cat person, Minyoung Yoo has observed this adorable, sometimes quirky creature.

Meanwhile, she accidentally encountered a cat-shaped artwork in the “Drawing in The Air” series, artwork by Korean installation artist Lee Sang-soo. Minyoung was inspired by his artwork of expressing a cat in a curved line. So she wrote a poem called “Stretching.”

“Stretching” is a friendly poem depicting the moment a cat stretches and approaches you. The poem describes the cat’s soft fur, light steps, and elegant gestures gently.

Celina Yu is a freshman currently enrolled at the University of Washington Bothell.

Lawrence Zephier-Reed is a new poet learning how to express his loss, love, and passions in literary form. He is a loving, caring, and mature individual who desires growth and adventure.

A long story for a young man who has been through so much and wants to learn how to express his feelings in a healthy form. He is a Native poet from the Hualapai Tribe in Peach Springs Arizona currently graduating in the Engineering discipline. He hopes you all enjoy his words and can take some positive things from his writings.

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Digital Media Visit our website for additional digital content: clamor-journal.com Christian Barragan, The Last Observer, Short Story Robert Beveridge, Well, Yes, That’s the Joke, Poem Katharina Mei-Fa Brinschwitz, Their Ambivalent Dance, Poem A. Bunney, According to Georgia, Short Story Celestial Carvalho, Amor Veneris, Poem Win Chantieng, Minimalism, Photography Sandy Chen, Amethyst, Poem Cheryl Chudyk, It’s All So Hard to Swallow, Prose Poem Dana Doran, The Baroness of Eads, King Cock, Oil on Canvas Dana Doran, The Baroness of Eads, New World Order: Flight of the Elites, 2021, Oil on Canvas Amy Eldridge, “Dummy Cartridges”, Short Story Tricia Fuentes, SAINT BOB OF THE VIADUCT, Short Story Anmei Gao, Abyssal Zone (Creative Writing), Prose Anmei Gao, Abyssal Zone (Visual Art), Watercolor and Ink John Grey, Short Flight, Poem Grace Houck, mcdonalds in nyc #1, Poem Jess Chia Hughes, Broken Glass, Short Story Connor James, The Three Books of Reality, Poem Sarah King-Scott, My Revisionist History, Our Uncertain Future, Poem Justina Le, Absquatulate, Video Meta LeCompte, Gratitude, Prose Alysa Levi-D’Ancona, The Passed Down War, Poem Joe Lollo, Postcards From Tacoma Narrows, Photography 132

Erin Hawkins Luchesi, Conclusion, Video Abigail Mandlin, Hey, Ladies!, Poem Joan McBride, Shave, Poem

Danny Miranda, Night Adventures, Photography Danny Miranda, Paint Job, Video

Jorid Muñoz, Cannot See, The Forest for The Trees, Digitial Colleague Lance Nizami, Air, Poem

Lance Nizami, Evolution, Poem

Lance Nizami, Prediction, Poem

Mirai Okamura-Culpepper, Infinity, Pastel on Newsprint Sarah Petrov, Healing, Pastel on Paper Sam Prudente, Blinding, Poem

Crystal Sackman, Bring Your Whole Self To Work, Digital Colleague Terry Sanville, Chasing Par, Short Story

Tori Satterfield, Waiting for Spring, Short Story

Wendi Shively, It is Hard to Think of You, Prose Poem Alexandria Simmons, Textile Memoirs, Poetry

Alexandria Simmons, Cycling Identities, Video Devin Taing, Summerlike Smile, Poem

Cora Thomas, Until What’s Left, Poem

César Torres, Three scenes from an unfinished play, Poem

Matthew Livezey Whitehurst, An Echo & Twelve Formidable Leaflets, Poem Simon Wolf, This city takes a river to be, Poem Celina Yu, Idolatry, Poem

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