Clamor 2025

CLAMOR UWB LITERARY & ARTS JOURNAL 2025

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

Copyright 2025 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 2025 Editorial Board: Katelyn Abbate Noura Abdelkader Jessica Alter Dania Baha Eldin Kacey Fritz Marissa Gubbels Mariyah Hicks Briseldy Hernandez-Ramos Dylan Hansen Alexis Sue-Yeon Kang Noor Alnaaz Islam Ava Ladiges Franchesca Nicole Lazaro

Dominique LeFrancis Raymond Karl Leung Vincent Li Long Ly Nya Simone Maddox Morgan Mead Elena Meshinchi Cassandra Myles T. Andre Mintz Liam Negron Amy Nguyen Minh Nguyen Tiffany Nguyen

Manmeet Oberoi Hassan Osman Adrienne Plummer Elena Ruzauskas Nuha Sabbah Sanya Sahni Roswell Sass Sirius Sheng Ella Carment Silvas Chandaline So Mian Ting Yeh

Faculty Advisor: Dr. Ching-In Chen Cover Image by Marissa Gubbels Cover Layout by Noura Abdelkader Mailing Address: CLAMOR: UWB Literary and Arts Journal University of Washington Bothell Box 358651 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

10

Creative Writing Natalie Alvis Peregrine

12

Hadiya Amjad My Skin

13

Danny P. Barbare The Carolina Wren The Poem

15 16

Nathane Cavalier Me gustarían 70 poemas Lost Past

17 19

NP Creed In A Chamber Where Swords Lay In Midair sincerely yours, Myself

20 22

Marcella Doan Today

23

Aamena Ellithy Changing Childhoods Sweet Girl

30 31

Jonathan Fletcher Whose Child Is This?

32

Evelyn Frankforter Passing Thoughts of an Indifferent Daughter The Last House on Marita Street

33 35

morgan fu-mueller for the escapists curtain call

37 38

Leiney Gamache Last I Saw You

39

Jacqueline Gordon Aurora

41

3

4

Romanticide

42

John Grey You Put Out Your Best China The Forest at Night

44 45

Dylan Hansen Siege the Sea

46

Christian Hardt Maybe Tomorrow

51

Briseldy Hernandez-Ramos Perfect Gift Wrapping

53

Mariyah Marneice Hicks I sat, and I watched, and I listened

54

Heikki Huotari fat chance what the definition of “is” is

55 56

Rowan Lee Hwa To my dearest, yet resentful.

57

Noor Alnaaz Islam ARRIVAL

61

Sarah King-Scott A List of Things Lost

63

Chantel Lam My Stars, My Moon, My Sun

64

Dominique LeFrancis Gardening

65

Wei-Yen Liao A Glow I Cannot Hold — After the Paused

66

Nya Simone Maddox What a Bee Sees

68

Jai Maharaj Moirai

69

Abigail Mandlin Re: Fork in the Road Remnants

70 73

Joan Mazza I Ask for a Sign Poronkusema

75 76

Joan McBride Do Not Steal from the Museum of Everyday Life Morning in the Infusion Suite

77 78

Mynisha McGrew A Letter to Myself My World

79 80

Pablo José Mejia Time Back Then Heartbeat

81 83

Corey Mesler Back

84

Denise Calvetti Michaels I Just Wish You Could See the Bee Asleep in the Rhododendron Bloom.

You Walk To Flush Memories

85 86

Zach Murphy Orbits

87

Tom Nettles (When You) Flew Away

88

Korede Oseni Airborne and Contexture

91

Mariel Pelegrino Where the Sun Meets the Sky

95

Kenneth Pobo A Valentine Our Basement

97 98

Anvita Prabhala Send?

99

5

6

Vitoria Ramos Stellar

100

Rose Rickey in the aftermath of bad news

101

Nuha Sabbah How I Arrived

102

Sanya Sahni Endless

103

Rajbir Singh Sandhu Things That Should Last Forever

104

Jane Snyder Constantinople

105

Angelica Urquizo Only Sin

107

Taro Williams They Struggle To Write Articles About You

108

J. Yuen labor telson

113 114

Kara Nilsson Haych

115

Roswell Sass they shut down the 3ds online shop last april

116

Visual Art Natalie Alvis Good Grief #4

117

Ari Chakraborty Butterfly and Two Flowers

118

Suet Yu Cheng Harmony

119

Rory Comstock Codependency

120

Reyanna Falcatan Filipino Smiski Husky Takeover

121 122

Kaylin Francis The Four Seasons: Spring/Summer/Autumn/Winter

123

Kacey Fritz Santorini Bliss

124

Marissa Gubbels Juno Like Mother, Like Daughter

125 126

Mei Hanway Rainier on 171st Street

127

Rowan Lee Hwa Wintry Autumn

128

Aundreah Jenkins Medusa’s Mirror Seeds Marked for the Cosmos

129 130

Erik Keevan Oppression, Again

131

Zachary Lanoux Cyberpunk Seattle

132

Wei-Yen Liao Ephemeral Veil of Aurora

133

7

8

Axel Madsen Sacred Heart Sheep Rock

134 135

Noah Medvinsky Noah’s Jiu-jitsu Journal

136

Prince Netters Look of Love Reflections

137 138

Hong Nguyen Golden Gaze

139

Dan “Apollo” Nguyen Self-Carcass

140

Patty Paine three works

141

Thao Pham My Root

142

Katherine Ray Healing Wounds The Little Things

143 144

Thea Rowden Fool’s Morel

145

Christina Scott Acceptance

146

Donna Sullivan Hockey Ladies

147

Barbara Thomas Anne & Sylvia’s Revenge

148

Mia Trajano Overtaken

149

Ashley Tsang Solar Synthesis

150

Cedrick Tsongo Flourish Selah / Stop and Listen

151 152

Angelica Urquizo Eden

153

Nathalie Vandenbrouck (a.k.a. SamArchi) Araucaria

154

Gabe Vu My Best Friend is a Bird

155

Balter Wang Control

156

Biographies

158

Web Exclusive

175

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A Word from Our Editors By sheer numbers, 2025 was one of our biggest years of submissions to the CLAMOR journal. We sincerely appreciate those who decided to share their talent with us for publication. We are excited to share it all with you, our readers!

This year is our 19th edition of the CLAMOR journal, and we hope to continue to provide a space for the creatives in the University of Washington Bothell community to uplift their works. As your editors for 2025, what we present to you now is the result of a year’s hard work: a collection of some of the best artworks in Bothell.

Our editorial team had an in-depth conversation about whether or not to include content warnings.

We discussed the potential impact these warnings might have on the viewer’s experience and whether they might lessen the emotional power of the pieces. Overall, we decided it would be more beneficial for our viewers to include them. We believe providing them is important in creating a journal space that is thoughtful, respectful, and inclusive of all readers, especially those who may be affected by certain themes. Including this discussion in our letter reflects the care and intention behind how we chose to operate this year’s issue of CLAMOR. As you enter our journal, here is a list of possible content warnings for this year’s edition: Blood Hate speech Homophobia/transphobia Mental health Misogyny/sexism Pornographic content Racism Sexual assault Suicide Violence or self-harm OD/Drug Abuse Animal Cruelty Child Abuse Ableism Religious Indoctrination/Trauma

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We are grateful for those in the community who have shared the right to publish their art.

Additionally, we look forward to seeing what future talents bring to CLAMOR’s subsequent editions!

Lastly, we would like to thank our faculty advisor, Ching-In Chen, and our program manager, Michael Gumayan. They both have dedicated countless hours to providing the team with opportunities to learn professionally through Student Media.

Thank you for being part of the CLAMOR Community, and we hope you enjoy our 19th edition!

Sincerely, The 2025 CLAMOR Editors.

P.S. We encourage all of you to also visit our online journal. Some works were better suited for a digital format, so not every piece we accepted was printed and included in this physical journal. By exploring both versions, you’ll get the full experience of the creativity and range our community has to offer.

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Peregrine Natalie Alvis

Even in a world that has poisoned you, Tried to make you stumble Has forced you to the ground, I watch as you catch yourself On slate wings spread, your head to the sky.

You make it look so easy To continue to grow amidst the rain, A golden shooting star taking flight.

I watch from the cloak of your shadow As you grow into your beak, Dive through layers of atmosphere, tears in your eyes, Reaching further than thought possible.

I watch you approach me, Muddled feathers of brown and black, Confident despite your growing pains, And I hope to be chosen by you.

12

My Skin Hadiya Amjad

Dragging my skin across glass Shards scattered and broken Digging into my flesh alas Mom, why isn’t your door open?

As reminders of your confusion Scars accumulate on my skin Dad, don’t worry, it’s an illusion All my bleeding is within Sinking like concrete in the ocean My skin wrinkles as I drown I’m choking on all your emotions Does my existence make you frown?

They’re all so noxious, it kills Words like acid bubble on my skin In the food, the soil, these pills I’ll try so hard, just to never win How I wish to see my skin and soul Dying and dangling from her door Your heart I worry is made of coal Why weren’t you here before?

Pretending this canvas is my skin With nail beds bruised and bent My paint brushes grow sharp and thin Turning my feelings into an event They don’t want to change Erasing memories on my skin

13

This family relishes my pain Can’t you see I’ll never win?

Goosebumps on my skin I hear their thoughts inside Please let my healing begin I just want to close my eyes Hot tears weigh down my skin I’m ready to begin trying This blood cannot be my kin Afterall, isn’t living the art of dying?

A mosaic of all their demands From the glass in my skin Physical pieces held in my hands As proof to myself, I did win.

14

The Carolina Wren Danny P. Barbare

The Carolina Wren sings on the gence fence with its tail cocked up, such a tiny bird to have a sweet, loud song.

It flies away.

Where is it at? Listen! Chirpy, Chirp! Chirp! Chirp!

15

The Poem Danny P. Barbare

Lighten up writes the quill and bottle of ink and the calligraphy paper will happily listen like a crowd the old fashion way.

16

Me gustarían 70 poemas Nathane Cavalier

Me gustaría aprender a cantar, para cantarte lo mucho que te quiero.

Me gustaría abrazarte en cualquier momento.

Me gustaría que me contaras todos tus lamentos y que en mí confiaras hasta el fin de los tiempos.

Me gustaría aprender a tocar la guitarra para escribirte innumerables baladas.

Me gustaría aprender a volar para a tu lado siempre estar en los días de lluvia, sol y paz.

Me gustaría regalarte rosas rojas, para verte sonreír cuando en agua las pongas.

Me gustaría escribirte 70 poemas, para que te acuerdes de mí cada vez que los leas.

Me gustaría, decirte todos los días lo mucho que te quiero, para cuando te sientas triste, leas y sientas mi cariño en pleno, en cada línea de los 70 poemas más sinceros.

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Translation (English) I would like 70 poems I would like to learn to sing, to sing to you how much I love you.

I would like to embrace you, at any moment.

I would like you to tell me all your concerns, and trust me until the end of time.

I would like to learn to play guitar, to write you many ballads.

I would like to learn to fly, so I could be by your side on rainy, sunny, and peaceful days.

I would like to give you red roses, to see you smile when you put them in water.

I would like to write you 70 poems, so you remember me every time you read them.

I would like to tell you every day how much I love you, so when you feel sad, you read them and feel my love completely, in every line of the 70 most honest poems.

18

Lost past Nathane Cavalier

I hear a damn clock... At night, it wakes me up.

I look on the walls, on the bed And under the rug, Then I rememberThere is no damn clock.

I tumble down a dark rabbit hole, Clocks and swirling air fill it all.

Lost mind, falling, trapped.

This will never end. At least, I hope, this time it’s easier to wake up.

I return to my bed, close my eyes.

And hear the whispers near my nightstand.

Soon enough, they’ll fade.

Waking me, in a vanishing memory.

Remaining in the past, at least this once.

But the damn clock announces night’s end.

The memory shatters again, I’m pulled back.

Untethered, drowned in emptiness, hunted by the Perfect details and the vision’s ruthless.

I hear a damn clock, it’s 3 a.m.

Returning to bed, disoriented, lost— Lost as the past I long for.

I close my eyes, surrender to sleep.

I breathe in the void— A harsh inhale— “Finally, I’m awake.”

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In A Chamber Where Swords Lay In Midair NP Creed

All is loud close the adrenaline tap taste an acidic liquid bathe in ardor and course salts lay in beds full of sweat soaked pillows unwashed sheets stained by time flexed and curved with harmlines every single fleshy inch full of caustic wasp stings a death plea would be warranted cindered bones ache in long waiting blood swells boiling in pilgrim cauldrons grey matter in acute react mode All is s h a r p shattered light through autistic windows a rich buttery heat on back of neck glistening suicidal thoughts dance about spiders eye outward from corners no allowance for patience or bother one more quick lesson in darefaith deprission fluxes as a still worm turns heavy needs fornicate with the tax with one twist it will all bleed All is spreading patience like a grecian urn steps like navajo warriors shadows do creep along well

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piss collection at maximum whispers flood ears and mind finger joints in sisyphean grips surge, switch, slice, slice simple mutates into grueling body shifts and dips and quakes long, slender megapython moments slither over knees and waist upending apathy to prick dry lips

harmlines - (1) plural; metaphorical “line” between self-harm and self-care that is skewed by chaotic circumstances made worse within a fractured mind.

(CREED, Line 7) darefaith - (1) incomplete desperate faith, based on fear, during partially unknown circumstances; (2) Cruel Hail Mary (CREED, Line 20) deprission - (1) uncommon mental health condition causing severe lack of mood or interest combined with irregular/irrational feelings of hate or anger towards various aspects of the current situation one is in.

(CREED, Line 21) megapython - (1) extremely long, curved, beyond serpentine; (2) something unfathomably long and complex drawn out over an extremely long period of time.

(CREED, Line 34)

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sincerely yours, Myself NP Creed

all the boys yell fag! kill that fag! cock smokin’ fag! fits fly, souls die, deadnames, run 100 footer, run! get that homo! skip away outsider, skip away. they, off a touch, run for the hills! then cry at the foot of The AIDS Tree, a quick slash then linger in the moment. it was defeat, it was not choice; it was pressure supreme! not one iota of enough, bleed enough, climax enough for anyone! even golden milt would be stale porridge! then woman, women, in between columns of the goddess. they, on touch, mad generation! collide on the rocks of time! bow down, try to pray for the way beyond a need for flesh, twinkie flesh, masculine flesh, femme flesh, just flesh! you lustfully approach men instead of women never will i leave you, never will i forsake you the missouri night, a twunk to feast on, a man kiss worth a million cuts, gallons of tears, a father’s hate! finally! what was needed so sweet, so human, so deep. i am not your fag, your chickenhawk, your scared switch. choose the more proper; godbull, master, magician of sins! cadge for fast mercy and kneel before your better.

22

Today Marcella Doan

You wake up with the sun.

It’s a slow, languid awakening, blurry images of white sunlight and twisted sheets, alarms and dings ringing in and out of focus. You open your eyes not reluctantly, but inconsistently, the world around you still sand slipping through your hands.

Your bedside clock, set ten minutes fast, blinks back at you.

Your morning routine is typical. Coffee, porridge, news — coffee, porridge, news.

You check your calendar.

You have a lot to do today.

Wrapped up in a house jacket, half dressed, half still asleep, you set out your plan.

It’s 8 AM. First there is a report — due tomorrow but to be done today. Tedious but not difficult, you know you can write it in half an hour if you try.

Your fridge is close to empty. A grocery run then, nothing too big, just the staples. Some bread, some cheese, maybe some oatmeal and tea.

Your clothes are beginning to pile, so you make a mark to throw them into the wash.

And finally — not finally — you want to go out on a walk.

It’s a beautiful day outside. The birds are chirping, the sun is shining. It’ll be a good break — a good reward — for when you’re all done.

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It’s 9 AM. You put your dishes in the sink. Or you try to, but the sink is overflowing too. You need to run the dishwasher. But the dishwasher is full from the last time you ran it, so you’ll have to empty it first.

You look down at the clean plates stacked on the lower rung, glance at the high cabinet that they belong in–your fingers flex.

To put away the dishes you’ll have to get your hands wet. You don’t like it when your hands are wet, all itchy and scratchy and too tight in your own skin. To put away the dishes you’ll have to open every cabinet and drawer. There are too many drawers, too many cabinets, too much rough wood on already sensitive wet skin.

You put down your mug. You put down your plate.

It can wait.

It’s 10 AM. You reach for your laptop, the one that you forgot to charge overnight, but it has battery enough.

You set yourself up in your chair, blanket on your lap, and open your screen with a little snap.

The document is blank.

What was this report about again…?

You don’t remember. You need to check your notes, online in the repository that you just need to search.

Ohhh, right. That.

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You title your paper.

You write your name, and you write the date, and you tab forward to the beginning of the page.

Your knee jiggles up and down with the movement of your foot, your fingers tap a consistent rhythm on the empty space below your keyboard and next to your track pad.

You can’t focus.

Your eyes slide over the document in front of you, once, twice, three times. You snap three times in a row as if that will wake you.

It doesn’t.

Maybe some tea will help.

It’s 11 AM. Your mug is in the microwave.

Beep, beep, beep.

You have two minutes.

You wander down the hallway while you wait, and catch sight of your laundry basket starting to spill onto the floor. You look towards the washing machine.

You have some time. You can load this just fine.

You open the door, heave in the clothes all at once, unbothered to separate them. Open the little tray and pour in the detergent. Close it all up, start it on warm.

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You feel good.

When you remember your tea, it’s cold.

It’s 12 PM. You’ve done a chore now. So you’re feeling accomplished, and tired — but you still can’t focus.

So, well… maybe it would be a good idea to take a break. Not a big one, just twenty minutes.

There’s a book that you want to start. A chapter or two that you want to consume.

Maybe that will get your head on right.

It’s 3 PM. You’ve finished the book.

The sunlight comes in slanted through the windows against the autumn wind.

Anxiety is beginning to swirl in your gut.

You… hadn’t meant to read so long. It hadn’t felt like that much time. It still didn’t feel like it was enough.

You stare down at the three-hundred pages that you had consumed as if they had betrayed you, weighing down your head with three-hundred pages of knowledge.

You feel, paradoxically, like you need a break from your break.

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You should get back to work.

You have so much you need to do.

The anxiety tightens.

It’s 5 PM. You stare down at your wet laundry.

You’d… forgotten all about it — and now it’s mildewed. You reach for the vinegar, stored perpetually by your laundry, and reload the machine, this time attempting to set an alarm on your phone.

You’re hungry. Have you eaten…? You can’t remember.

Your hands shake.

You open your fridge, searching, almost desperately for something to eat.

Protein, carbs, fruit, something to shake you out of the sink hole that is your own gray matter.

But it’s empty.

You forgot to go to the store.

You stare out at the slowly setting sun, thinking of holding the steering wheel in your hands, ducking your head from stray rays and navigating the traffic that spawns at the end of the day.

You shut the fridge.

It’s 6 PM.

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You’re back in your chair staring at your almost empty doc, the thought of your walk long since abandoned.

You don’t have time.

You had time. You did. This morning you had all the time in the world.

But it slipped, you slipped, and now the clock just goes tick, tick, tick.

It’s 8 PM. There’s a paragraph on your page. A thoughtless, formless introduction that took you over an hour to create.

Your head hurts. Stuffed with cotton and weighed with sand you want to take a break.

But you can’t.

You’re still running out of time. You can feel it solidify in your chest, the pressure not from above but within.

It hurts.

You have to remind yourself to breathe.

It’s 10 PM. Your face is bathed in blue light.

The sun has sunk well below the horizon, and a chill has taken residence in the room. Perhaps that roused you, perhaps your mind simply rose for air.

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You scrub at your eyes with one hand, the other closing your — still unfinished — report. You’re too tired to care about it now.

Your whole body droops as you weakly stand from your chair, exhausted from a day of doing almost entirely nothing. Your throat scrapes against itself as you try to swallow away the sleep you didn’t get — that’s right, you never did eat.

The thought to cook isn’t even considered before it flees.

You drag yourself to your bed and crawl beneath its warmth. None of it matters now. You need to sleep.

Tomorrow, you have so much to do.

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Changing Childhoods Aamena Ellithy

tell me about

your dad

childhoods

an uncle you

no longer

have

flowers

not seen

ever blooming

a great big

feeling ancient

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and changing

legacy of kin

once seen with

fondness and pride

a paradigm shift

stand tall, know

now dull

mountains change

Sweet Girl Aamena Ellithy

She told me her mother’s mother stayed for her sweet girl She looked into her eyes and chose to only see hope to see sweetness But weren’t her own eyes just as sweet her heart just as full as pure She stayed for sweet eyes for a sweet girl She stayed to feed her liver to grow her shins But if she could have carried her upon her back she would have If she could feed her an arm or a leg she would have And maybe she stayed for him and her for them together For isn’t she me my mother my grandmother A girl defiant Promising herself the world that she would be loved That there will be a love and a Sweet girl

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Whose Child is This Jonathan Fletcher

’Tis the season That your hands fist, mouth inverts And eyes moisten at the sight of any nativity Round the baby, the Holy Couple Your Mary and Joseph lost so early With eighty-year-old eyes, allow red and green to blue Forget the tinsel and mistletoe The Santa who swore you told him presents, not parents Forget the trees and ornaments The annoying carolers outside your house Barely in unison, each off-key Recalling a question you’d rather forget.

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Passing Thoughts of an Indifferent Daughter Evelyn Frankforter

My father covered the hole in our kitchen with a large plank of plywood. It creaked and shifted as a draft under the house breathed out under the wooden lip. At night, animals would scratch at it, and my mother would tease that it was the dead Indians that our house had been built over.

It was ugly, and it smelled. My house, my pets, the bottom of my school bag.

It stunk. Something wasn’t right, I felt it deep inside. I didn’t have the words for it.

The concrete in our backyard would burn our feet as we walked across it. It seemed back then that putting on our shoes was a ridiculous thought. We opted instead to run on the outside of our feet. Hopping between legs so that we wouldn’t burn them. Our lips would curl in and we’d squeeze our teeth down on the inside of our lips to distract from the pain.

When I went out to help my dad barbecue, my mother warned him that I was emotional and that I cry easy, so he better not say anything that would upset

me. I think she thought I was too young to remember.

When I was ten, I tried to teach myself to skate. I held my hands against the rough concrete wall of my backyard. It felt like sandpaper and if I pushed too hard against it, it would sting. I balanced myself on the board and tried to push myself off. My legs were nervous and uncertain and I steered myself into the wall, scraping my knee against the concrete. I ran to my room and cried under a quilt my mother had made me, holding my hand over my knee so the still sitting blood didn’t stain the bedding.

My mom made me watch The Fly when I was twelve. She promised to show me more David Cronenberg movies, there were a few she had not seen yet. After we watched M. Butterfly together, we did not say a word to each other. I went to bed and cried.

I was high the other day and I thought about my dad. Sometimes, I forget that I have a family. I do not think often about

33

them. I am closer to my girlfriend’s mom than my own. I still do love my mother.

When I call back on memories now, they look blurry and scratched, I can never see the faces, words sound like the muffled murmurs off an old record playing through a crackly gramophone. The walls of my memories feel soft and cloudy, like I could fall through them and be covered in rain droplets.

On warm days, my cheeks feel softer and warmer, and I look a little more like my mother.

I feel better than everyone else in my field. Not any more talented, but better.

A girl was staring at me from the other side of the bus stop. I always wait by the sign. She was like me. I could tell she wanted my attention. I saw it in how she shuffled around the edges of my vision and only looked in bursts in case I actually turned. She wanted me to look at her and lock eyes with her. So I looked at her. I strained my lip and raised my eyebrow and made sure she knew I hated her.

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I go to the park sometimes in the city so I can sit at the bench and judge everyone who passes by. I refuse to read, to eat, to distract myself. I don’t care if people see me staring, I think that makes it more fun.

My father covered the hole in our kitchen with a large plank of plywood. It creaked and shifted as a draft under the house breathed out under the wooden lip. At night, animals would scratch at it, and my mother would tease that it was the dead Indians that our house had been built over.

The Last House on Marita Street Evelyn Frankforter

It was almost unspoken at the time, but my

place down. Maybe he saw it too. Whatever

sister all thought it. We all saw it too. Not

had seen. Maybe, it told him to do it.

entire family, mother, father, brothers and when we were together though, not in any

spirit or ghoul or red caped devil my family

way we could confirm. It picked on us. It saw

My mother raised me on horror films. She’d

else was asleep. It hid behind corners, it stood

bedtime, careful not to wake my siblings and

us only when we were alone, when everyone

behind the shower curtain, it slunk outside our

windows. But, we always knew it… something was there. I don’t think it’s common to grow

up in a house your entire family is convinced is haunted. I don’t think other mothers would indulge that idea like mine did. When I was ten

years old and told my mother I saw a shadow watching me in the garage, she didn’t shoo me away or laugh at the silliness of the story. She turned cold and told me she saw it once too.

There were theories of course, stories about the family that lived there before us. Even

our neighbors knew the stories, although I

never met someone who actually knew them

personally. The stories were always similar though. Apparently, the family was awful, the

mother was a druggie, the dad a deadbeat,

sneak into my room an hour or so past my

she’d pull me away for a special midnight screening of whatever junk she found on the Syfy channel. Maybe this didn’t help, filling

my head with ghost stories. In retrospect, it all

seems so obvious. The house was decrepit, me

and mother loved horror, and we were poor and stressed. If anything, it was very likely

we would be tricking ourselves into seeing monsters.

But then again, I remember how it felt in the moment. I remember the nightmares I had, the

ones that were so real they felt like memories.

I’d wake up facing my window, what little

amount of moonlight that shimmered down

was only enough to see the outline of a person staring at me from just behind the curtain.

and the kids were totally out of control. One of

Then my bed would begin to shake, my stuffed

twice. He held a lighter in the cabinets next to

plush heads twisted backwards. And then I’d

the children had tried to burn the house down the stove. You could still see the charred wood on the roof of that cabinet.

But maybe he was right to try and burn the

animals would dance and shriek as their little

wake up again and scream and launch myself away, horrified and scared. I know it was only

a dream, but it felt more real than reality at

35

the time, I can remember it more vividly than my own true memories.

And then there were the times when I knew

it wasn’t a dream. I had fallen asleep on the couch one night and my mother left me

there to sleep. I had woken up at some point between midnight and morning. All I could see

were the dots of electrical lights that blinked from the DVR. I rolled over and looked to the

kitchen behind me, I could see it from beyond the Passover counter. My eyes adjusted to the

dark and I realized I was staring directly at him. I knew he was the same man, even if he

often. We’d share our stories of impossible things happening in that old house, of the people we saw who weren’t really there. Maybe

the house was haunted, maybe we were just scared people in a stressful time. Maybe it was

some cocktail of the two. But that house as it existed in my mind is how it will always exist to me. Now, it’s a campfire story, and maybe

the memory is better for it. It’s more fun than the truth. I don’t want my childhood to be

some sad story about a girl being raised in a shitty house with poverty clawing at her back and her parents shouting in the room over.

didn’t look the same. Hiding in silhouette. I

It’s more fun as a horror movie. A fun, rompy

there. Even while hiding behind my eyelids, I

up to watch on the Syfy channel in the middle

closed my eyes and convinced myself he wasn’t saw him, that shape he took.

My parents separated. The house was sold.

It was bought and renovated. It no longer

resembled the house I had so feared as a child.

It was sleek and modern. The hallway that I

ran down in fright had been removed to make

more space for a new expanded bathroom.

The horror of that place was evaporated,

replaced with marble countertops and faux wood flooring.

We bought a new house, a different house.

And that feeling, that presence was no longer

there. My family would bring it up every so

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horror movie. The kind your mom wakes you of the night.

for the escapists morgan fu-mueller

the heavy lotus fruit feels so nice in your hand, in your pocket. you break it open and it oozes light over your ordinary skin. where would we be, if there was nothing to look at in this world, to get lost in hopelessly, like a mariner at sea. this, your inoculation against despair. one thousand heroes behind your eyes, your shadow, apollo guiding paris’s arrow. life is so heavy. you’ll need a spotter. reread those old chapters and they’ll welcome you, your old friends, your warm bed, your joys and griefs. and teeth sink into fruit like one lover to another, like head into pillow, like a mariner at sea.

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curtain call morgan fu-mueller

you’re in a room full of everyone you love, and they’re all staring at a space just above your head. time drips, thick and sweet, from your mouth, and pools on the ground. it’s funny. it’s funny. you’re the only one laughing. the room is loud, and nobody is there. there are gunshots. the roof is collapsing. the fluorescents are laughing at you. you look down at the space where your feet should be and see only ozone. a loose gap in packed earth where a stone once slept. you know all the steps, but you don’t have feet to fall into them. you may not leave the stage. there is no intermission. the room is a room. the stage is a stage. you’re there, you always are. there’s somebody there, and he’s looking you in the eye. you’re sick to your stomach. you know all the steps, but there’s no music playing. the man has a record player, but he won’t drop the needle. how do you think this story ends? you go home with him, and he puts a knife to your neck, and you look up at him like a dog. there’s something in your mouth, on your tongue. you roll it around. he wrenches you open and it flies out. and it’s silent, and he’s silent, and he’s looking at you, but you wish he wouldn’t. you don’t think you’ll like what he sees.

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Last I Saw You Leiney Gamache

Your eyes were sunken when I last looked into them filled with a darkness heavy enough to sink a ship I asked the universe to let your eyes fill again to let them twinkle the way they did when you were well to let you see the way you used to and twinkle for just a moment but your eyes did not change Your hands were cold last I held them colder than the lakes we would go to in the mountains I tried to warm your hands in mine willing the universe to transfer my heat to you I bartered with the gods above offering everything I had to give you one more moment of warmth but your hands did not change Your body was frail last I saw you bones poked out from between your ribs forming ripples in the sheets that laid over your body I asked the universe to fill out your body offering my fat for the taking begged it to give you enough to fight another day but your body did not change Your skin was yellow when I last cleaned it the same color as the sunflowers you loved so dearly I tried to gently scrub the yellow off your skin to bring back the color you had once had I begged with the universe for your yellow skin to be a trick of the lights turning off all the lights so the room was lit only by the moon but your skin did not change Your voice was hoarse and brittle when I last heard it as if there was some force was holding down on your throat I told myself that your voice would come back

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created a world in which it was a day of singing had caused it to disappear I offered the universe to exchange your voice for mine hoped it would see the reason in letting you speak but your voice did not change Your mind was clouded last we spoke as if it had already left for another plain I whispered to the universe to let your mind return not caring how selfish it was to want to it there with me to hear your calming thoughts as shadows filled my brain but your mind did not change What I would give to see your sunken eyes again to see them flicker with excitement What I would give to feel your hands again to let them freeze my hands until they fell off What I would give to see your skeleton again to feel your bones poke into me as you held me in your arms What I would give to hear your words again no longer would I care that your voice was weak or raspy What I would give to know your mind for one last moment clouded and confused What I would give to have my mom again

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Aurora Jacqueline Gordon

All the love you could ever need awaits you in a dreamless sleep.

I set you on your journey, your smile soft, hydration packed in a satin pillowcase.

This, my dear, is everything we’ve wanted, a world all your own, all your pure creation.

I tell you the truth, the seventh deadly sin is no sin at all, but our greatest salvation.

Tender Love, I vow to guard your heart from every sordid scoundrel, every pernicious prince, every invasive inquiry concealed in a cloak of care and concern.

I vow to tend to the briars at your door, to cradle the precious thorns in my claws until they grow tall and strong and interlocked, mighty enough even to hold our tower aloft.

I vow to forever curl myself around you and stay by your side, even as candlesticks burn the last of their wicks and drop their golden embers on your bed curtains.

I vow to sink my teeth into anyone who dares disturb my lady’s sleep, who dares extinguish the flames —

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Romanticide Jacqueline Gordon

affirmation notes: ointment on the gashes. the handwriting hasn’t changed in a century or more. crack open dusty shoebox tales. fossilized mythologies alive in sacred pasts. once upon a time i knew a pastor who whipped his body with belts whenever he looked at a woman. it’s far too easy to get mixed signals from god. i’ve settled my score with divinity. sent my kaleidoscopic memories as burnt offerings. still grateful i didn’t choose bible college. basking in afterglow in emerald bay. sunk with the cliffs into a heavenly village. how it’s nice to be alone instead of feel alone. yet in the morning a cruel sun rises on the itchy air. indulge another family of loaded questions and inside jokes and stomach knots. donner pass is required reading. repress it all

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away. i sit next to wanting. journals of loathing cupped in calloused hands. harder. harder. harder. hush… just stop and hold this sculpted moment. has this become me, appeasing the conscience and misremembering as i please — the real and the imaginary holding each other like lovers in pompeii.

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You Put Out Your Best China John Grey

Such drab food, such fine china.

I am eating off a work of art and hating it.

Where are the sauces and spices?

Why do the hibiscus around the rim of my plate bloom so beautifully blue?

You tell me the set belonged to your grandmother but the recipe is yours.

The dining room is a contrast in generations.

A dead woman has my heart.

A loved one mortifies my stomach.

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The Forest at Night John Grey

The night’s darkness is a sickness I catch as I walk beside the river that tosses a thousand imaginary corpses up on its banks, their hands grasping at my ankles through the flowers.

A distant train howl steals away the one light that could have saved me, a locomotive full of mutes celebrating the safety of movement in their deliberate faceless way.

I see them for a moment as this midnight special curls around the hill, a brief steel grin on that bleak black slope, underlining how frail my footsteps are, and how powerful the unseen flow of water that mimics them like the duck-call of a grim, relentless hunter.

An animal scurries through the underbrush, chasing after the disappearing coattails of the train and I imagine the beast a widow, jerked away from the fresh grave of her lover by the howl of the engine, abandoning memory for the frantic whistle and hiss of now.

That sharp, unexpected noise, slips the forest into even deeper silence after it dies away.

Flashes of faces I saw momentarily through the cold cage of trees make me think how life is what is stolen by the last burst of silver wind. And death is what couldn’t jump that caboose, remains here, eyes cut off from the thread of others, fists full of empty air.

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Siege the Sea Dylan Hansen

The sea swept the shore. It waded in and out, leaving its disheveled scraps as it receded.

There was a time he would have thought it beautiful the way the waves played with the sand. He would have picked up a pen and closed his eyes, picturing the coldness of the gray sky, and the way the breeze whistled through his chattering teeth. He would have written until his fingers were sore. Until the heaviness of sleep dragged him far beneath the waves.

Now, when he looked at the sea, he waited. His lungs grew heavy and sweat beat his brow.

Beauty no longer came from the sea.

Blood did.

He held his rifle to his chest and waited for the shots to sound. Its cold metal sunk into him, an anchor dragging him down. All he’d wanted was to be a writer. His room was more bookcase than bedroom, scraps of half written poems and stories lost behind chairs and bookcases. In his room he was a lost boy falling into pages. But that was before

46

the war. Now he was a lost boy stranded at sea.

A plague had swept his town years before, so everyone locked themselves in their houses. He’d laid in his room and wrote of pirates and seamen, of treasure hunters and killers. He’d lived in his stories when the world stood still, and now it was moving too fast for him to write at all.

“Stay low, Private Connaly.” Major Tohrse’s voice rang through his ears, their coms nearly zapping his brain.

“They are coming.”

They who brave the storm and take siege of the sea.

They who make the waters run red and touch the sand with ripples of burgundy.

They who shot a hole through his best friend’s head, the taste of her blood sending him to his knees.

He could still feel it at night; the way It’s warm and sticky tendrils clung to his face, It’s iron reek shoving its way down his nostrils. She’d pushed him

aside without a second thought. Saved him from his own stupidity. She, with her golden curls and voice that could command a mountain to kneel, died like it was nothing.

One shot.

One ruptured eardrum and a whistle through the air and she was gone before his eyes. It was the sort of heart-ripping tragedy he would write about, but never in his life would he have imagined experiencing it. It left a hole within him.

The same size hole as the one in her head.

“Her name was Celia Severance,” he whispered. His breath tickled his lips in the cold air, momentarily obscuring his view of the sea. “You took her from me.”

“Pay attention, Private!” Major’s Tohrse’s voice came in so fast it crackled through the coms. Serin Connaly blinked, but it took too long to resurface from his thoughts. They were already upon him.

The nose of a rifle peaked through the waves, and he had just enough sense to

duck behind a boulder before the shots rang out.

“Dammit,” Serin cursed. He had to get out of his own head. He’d been drifting when Celia shoved him out of the way, his mind stuck on some mystical shore that had no hold in reality. “Not again.

Stay here.” He clenched his toes in his shoes and shoved his back against the cold stone. “On this ground. Stay here,” he told himself.

His mind kept fleeing; like arms reaching out for a loved one a finger’s stretch away. His mind wanted to fly atop dragons, race in a magic-filled battle — yet the real battle was before him and he was stuck behind a rock, hands so deep in the sand he thought he’d be swallowed up by it.

“I have to stay here,” Serin whispered. “I have to help them.” He curled the grains of sand through his fingers, anchoring himself. “Solid. Ground,” he ground through his teeth. “Stay in this world, or you will soon leave it.”

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A shriek pierced the air, bullets peppering the sky. They’d started their main assault.

sand with burgundy. Him washing the sea red.

“Don’t let them take this beach,” Major Tohrse yelled over the chaos. His voice was deep and cigar-torn. It rumbled over the gunfire. “Move!”

“Why,” he croaked as he repeated the fire, trying to push them back into the waves. “This isn’t what I wanted. Why did it come to this? Why did I have no other choice?”

Yes. Move. One finger at a time. Then a foot.

Move.

Do something. Do Anything. Get up and help them.

Get up and be something. If not a writer, then someone who can save his friends.

If not a writer, then a survivor at least.

Serin clutched his gun and stood, his muscles straining. The tips of rifles had grown to men and women with red banners running out of the water and onto the beach.

“Move,” he told himself. So, he did.

Serin pulled the trigger and his ambitions drifted away. It was now him staining the

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All he’d wanted…

All he’d lived for…just to become a soldier. A scream cut through the white noise of bullets and battle cries. He turned his head to it and his knees threatened to buckle. Major Tohrse had driven them back into the waves, a gun in one hand, a lighter in the other. “No,” Serin yelled, but it was too late. The Major tossed the lighter on a small string poking up from the sand. Serin Conally ran, but there was no getting there in time.

The shoreline erupted, the shockwave sending him to his knees.

“Major!” he yelled, crawling over torn off limbs until he reached the Major’s arms.

“I need a medic.”

“Well,” said the Major. He chuckled, coughing blood onto his cheek. “This is unfortunate.”

Not again.

“Major, we’ll get help. A medic is coming-” Serin started, but the Major lifted up his hand.

“Imagine us the way we lived,” the Major whispered. His grin was crooked, as if half of his face had already lost its life.

“You’re a writer. Aren’t you supposed to be good at that?”

“Tape and bandages can’t fix this,” he said. Serin’s limbs shook. He hadn’t looked — couldn’t look. Blood stained the lower half of Major Tohrse’s uniform.

Too much blood for someone to stop even if they were able to move him to the med tent.

“Don’t worry Private,” said the Major. His gray-blue eyes were glassy, but his lips were spread wide into a smile. “I will tell Celia what she meant to you.”

“We can still get a medic,” Serin told him. “Please.”

“Stop crying already.” The Major coughed again, and a chunk of blood was cast out of his mouth, landing on Serin’s cheek.

He froze, the tendrils of blood streaming down his face. No.

Not another one.

Serin opened his mouth to speak, but something had sunk in the Major’s eyes.

“Major Tohrse?” he said. The Major stayed there, eyes wide and glassy, staring at the sky with half a grin on his face. “Teddy! Please.”

He gripped his Major’s shirt, tears stinging his eyes.

“Celia Severance. Teddy Tohrse,” he said.

Serin lifted his head, turning towards the red currant sea. “Remember them dammit,” he shouted.

The Major’s words burnt their way into his skull. “You’re a writer. Aren’t you supposed to be good at that?”

Yes, he was a writer. Soldier or not, he

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would tell their story, and every soul who’d been laid to waste on this God forsaken beach. He’d write until his calluses tore and healed over. Write so no one will ever forget their names.

“Celia Severance. Teddy Tohrse,” he repeated. “Remember how they lived, and how they died for you.”

If he didn’t write their story, no one would. Even if they lost this war, this beach, he would write so future soldiers would know their names. So their families would know what they did.

He closed his eyes and let his thoughts wander.

Celia Severance was a backstabber from the day I met her. And it was that backstabbing that led to her saving my life. She would do whatever it took to win, no matter how dirty or wrong, but when it came down to it, Celia was the anthem this troop sang to. And Major Teddy Tohrse was the heart.

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Maybe Tomorrow Christian Hardt

Should I join them?

That was the question I kept asking myself every day. The question that kept me up at night; the one that refused to abate from my thoughts.

I still remembered it very clearly; it had all been so quick. I barely had time to throw a shirt and jeans on after reading the 6 A.M. text that morning.

“BALLISTIC MISSILE THREAT INBOUND TO KANSAS. SEEK IMMEDIATE SHELTER. THIS IS NOT A DRILL. REPEAT NOT A DRILL.” That had been three weeks ago now.

I am not too sure what time it was today but looking up the stone stairwell of the empty bunker, I could see sunlight fluttering down across the many steps.

It was probably somewhere between morning and noon, but down here, it didn’t matter too much.

Sighing, I began my daily routine of the solitary march up the lonely stairwell.

The begrudging trudge up the dank

corridor contorted my already twisted stomach with anxiety.

The bunker was well stocked. It had been meant for a hundred or more people, at least. There was enough non-perishable food and clean water for probably a decade. I am not too sure what kept the power going, but if the well-stocked supplies were any indicator, I probably didn’t have to worry.

Out of breath, I finally reached the top stone step. I let a few moments linger to catch my breath and to delay the incoming deluge of tormented thought and self-pity. Ducking down, I peered out the round thick glass window fixed in the blast door. Hundreds of charred corpses lay piled on one another, their final moments captured in a sickening black mashed-up puzzle of heads, torsos, and limbs.

Pressing my hand to the thick glass, it lay cold on my skin; I spoke aloud to reassure myself, “You had no time — they — had no time... They were too slow.”

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I shut my eyes tight; haunting screams of families echoed through my cobbled mind. A familiar gut-wrenchingly sick feeling returned to me as I recalled a desperate father holding his daughter up to the blast door window. I couldn’t hear him over the screams and loud roar of the blast wave, but I could still read his mouthing lips.

“Please — Please, at least take her.”

My shock had only allowed me to repeat two words, over and over again, “I’m sorry.”

I watched in horror as nuclear fire flash cooked them both; permanently fusing the two together to where they lay now– laying together right outside the bunker door below the window.

My eyes shot open as a sharp hateful intrusive thought came so loudly, I heard it as if it spoke directly in front of me.

COWARD Tears began welling up in my tired eyes.

I stifled a cry, and the tears finally fell —

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slowly rolling down my hot cheeks. The question at hand was more evident than ever.

Should I join them?

I took my hand away from the window; a steamed imprint remained.

Maybe tomorrow.

Perfect Gift Wrapping Briseldy Hernandez-Ramos

I remember being held onto before the final exchange inside the shelter that I puzzled us to fit without fault mirroring perfect gift wrapping your right hand caressing my belly button like you were carrying a loaf of bread into the kitchen, sealing every fragment of wonder between our parallel smile wrinkles You intertwined our embracement for survival, bliss, but especially hope for the future that could never be called ours, granted that you alluded to the future as such: ours Another glance to the absence beside your side of the bed reveals the height of the tallest tree and the steam of faultless guilt, my faultness guilt Do you see the mountains I moved for us now you left me wondering if you plan on returning for our parallel smile wrinkles to stare into another again for something that was not once in a blue moon Faultless are those unsaid words that I long to scream to you, Scarcely, it is too late

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I sat, and I watched, and I listened Mariyah Marneice Hicks

I sat, and I watched, and I listened Hopeless, fearful, drained

I watched the cuffs tightened as they took him away I watched the weight dig in as he knelt down

I watched his heart stop as his breath was gone I sat, and I watched, and I listened

I watched the door open as she lay in bed

I watched the latch trigger as he withdrew his weapon I watched her eyes close as she let go I sat, and I watched, and I listened

I watched his smile fade as he looked in their eyes I watched their fists thrust as he cried for help I watched him stop shouting as he let go I sat, and I watched, and I listened

I watched him jog freely as they crept up

I watched the hate shared as the shots were fired

I watched him crumble down as the blood spilled I sat, and I watched, and I listened

I’ve sat, and I’ve watched, and I’ve listened

I’ve been sitting, and I’ve been watching, and I’ve been listening I’m tired, I’m broken, and I’m no fool

I’m scared to know there is going to be another victim They say don’t hope for the worst

But the worst is already in their hands So easy to get these days

Our world is changing, our minds are moving, and our ways are unrighteous We are losing each other and at what cost

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fat chance Heikki Huotari

The ground that would be hallowed needn’t be. The flavor is enhanced by chance, fat chance. I’m either celebrating prematurely and excessively or neither prematurely nor excessively. Some circumstances are subject to my control.

It’s in the evanescent shadow of the earth that I, apparently all arms and legs, would only briefly sleep. I flipped a coin and God’s the good one, now what God says goes. The shape of space is right once every fifteen million years.

The man in manacles and spectacles is on call always. There’s a mitigating circumstance for every crime and vice versa. I would be a law-abiding citizen and from within the solar system I would make my wishes known.

For this occasion I have standing, i.e., I’m under duress. The soul is loath to look so no inopportune emotion grows. When you said, I thought you said that your demographic wouldn’t vote for Trump, I said, That’s not my demographic.

For each natural number n, the n-plus-first world war will end the nth.

Look not to where the figment of imagination is but where the figment of imagination wants to go. And lo the angel says, Clock-watchers of the world, cast off your causal chains.

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what the definition of “is” is Heikki Huotari

May I be excused from this scenario? There’s no place like the home away from home. There’s no bus like the bus without the bars. My door is always open to neutrinos. That the moon is made of cheese is not supported by the evidence.

It’s not a midpoint or an average so it’s not “just right,” i.e., to see whose shadow is whose, one of the protagonists must move. If there had been an avalanche it may have been innocent. Obeying holy orders, I would have been Baba Ram Das, be it briefly.

Briefly: are we here and now yet? A is what A is; if A is what B is then B is what A is; if A is what B is and B is what C is then A is what C is. Cake is baked in outer space and randomness be damned. Who was that empty suit? What was the eccentricity of that bygone ellipse?

The heart has handedness, the brain its place, true veterans need not parade, a window between rooms is an abomination and duress invalidates confession. Planck time mitigates the minor miracle and three of these ingredients are secret.

Faith be thy profession. Don’t change corpses in midstream. Don’t look a gift-corpse in the mouth. I see your thoughts and raise you. This sky is too perfect. This sky is too blue. So what do those who can’t teach do and what do those who can’t teach teaching do?

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To my dearest, yet resentful Rowan Lee Hwa

It’s been decades since I’ve reached out.

I have no excuse but to say I was quite occupied with the reality you threw me into. I’m unsure if I am fulfilling your desire correctly. If you do have a tablespoon of anima left, I hope you can give me an answer. To be honest, I never expected to recall you ever since you made your choice. This was a task that needed to be completed, and you were my only long pen pal.

I do not know where to start; our stories began with a fathom of bewilderment that only we recognize. I successfully took my root here, so it’s bewilderment that only you recognize, if you are still there. Do you remember? Do you remember that I was created through a playful conversation you and your friends had? Green text messages, possible names I might’ve been, digital laughter, and your ironic happiness. I understand you were shattered. I honor your efforts.

I honor the efforts you made to pick up the pieces with your little, injured hands, the tears you shed to glue those pieces, and the hurt you endured until you were tired of not being able to reconstruct.

I am also mature enough to honor the decision to create a new shape.

As you wished, you are happily forgotten in their mouths. Your dearest friends do not recognize you anymore, your incompetent parents believe you are gone in the past, and I arrogantly believed that I would remember you, yet also I have forgotten about you.

And I have substituted your presence as you hoped. I would like to ask you if you are satisfied. I remember when you were still visible, lying on my back and watching me and your dearest’s faces.

You maintained a lingering attachment to those who have hurt you, yet you didn’t dwell on yourself. At that moment, I loathed you. I needed you.

We are alike. Is it because your touch remains in me? Because I also love you, who was terribly indifferent and cruel to me. I want to ask if the days when I endured your weight on my shoulders had any meaning. For me to understand your disappearance, it took time of regression. You never told me your shoes were too tight; I was never told it was too painful that it burst you to cry. You

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didn’t have a mother who could loosen your shoe tie, and you didn’t have a father to buy you a new shoe that you could find comfortable.

“I am the worst, aren’t I,” your mother repeated.

“You are doing good by yourself,” your father told himself.

The hypocrisy that came with the strong smell of alcohol only brought about disgust. How could you love them? A heart wounded by words does not easily heal. Perhaps the violence coming from the mouth, worse than physical violence, was killing you. How come you felt love?

Your parents had a terrible habit.

A horrible habit of unknowingly slaughtering their children. Your pitiful mother exploited herself as a captive to fend herself in front of you, and your frivolous father deserted you with hollow promises and irresponsible apathy. It hurts.

I remember the story you often muttered.

You said that while your mother was out for work, you quietly counted the

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number of medicine bags in your room, piled up a lethal dose to gain assurance with a calm mentality, and chewed and swallowed all of them like a beast, forgetting the existence of water. You smiled and kept mumbling. You recalled that the noise in your head diminished and that you had found ease curled up in a corner of a dark room. But you said you felt the terror of time as you felt no difference regardless of how much time passed. You groaned that each second, each minute, and each hour weighed you down.

“Time is unkind, and the world moves along with it, so the desire to rest is not respected. You will soon find out. When you stop walking because of pain and look up at the sky, you will know that the world has long since left you behind.”

Because we, the poor, do not receive the love of time — You were smiling, no, you were crying? I am trying to remember.

You often, jokingly, say that you have parted, and will perish. And you gave me

a dreadful prophecy: “You too will perish twice, and then you will find serenity.”

Was it consideration? Was it resentment?

Do you remember when I blurted at you? Do you recognize how you glanced at me coldly and didn’t give me any responses as I prayed and collapsed at your feet? The world you threw me into was a lonely place with no one to rely on. Those were the days when I just desired to be loved, at least by you, because it was so cold, so cold. I knew that you were looking at me as a puppet.

You were the one who harmed me and patched me up to create your own utopia of perfection. In my eyes, even a single strand of your hair was cruelly beautiful, but in your eyes, I was a doll that had to be torn and patched up. What did you wish for?

“Beauty.” You spoke.

It was not worth asking. You could have been my most pleasing companion, and yet you chose to be my most sinister abuser. To tell you a brutal truth, you, too, were just a torn and patched being.

The only difference is that I was weaved with your utopia, but you were sewed with maturity. You were probably the one who knew better than anyone else.

“Growing up in the right shape also requires time and parental compassion.

Because my life was threatened by those two, I sewed the thoughts of an adult into a part of me that was not ready to grow up. How mutated am I…” After those words, I couldn’t refuse your touch any longer.

There was a day that I realized my objective was to kill you. The thicker my roots became, the weaker you became.

You lay there in the void, staring at me with eyes like those of a dead fish. An earthy smell made my throat feel rough.

It became difficult to breathe.

That day was spent with beloved friends.

I walked through the luxurious building, passing people who might be in the same situation as me. They may have also come to harm the one they once loved.

When the solemn gavel of judgment struck down the court, someone was

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dying. It was my turn; it was your turn to die and my turn to live. I believe I felt my shoulders becoming a little lighter.

After that, taking care of the rest of your funeral wasn’t hard. I changed the name on my passport and ID, updated my bank account, revised my employment documents, and altered my high school diploma. The only trace of you was your name on your Korean ID card. Soon, even that will disappear.

I wanted to ask if you regret it. Now, I am four years older than you. I am more stable than you, and your prophecy may be meaningless. Those illogical days, which only we knew about, are now forgotten by me. Now I can feel sorry for you rather than resent you. And I thought, I miss you. Is this the outcome you were hoping for? I am living well. I am loved by someone, I am passionate, I have made those who hurt you indebted to me, and I have tried to get up even when I fell.

Your father is still incompetent, but your mother is growing up. It’s up to her whether it will be consequential.

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Ironically, living away from them gave me great comfort.

Am I doing well? Have you found rest?

Are you satisfied with the fact that you sacrificed three years of your life to die without hurting anyone? I know I will never hear from you again, but the unanswered questions still torment me sometimes.

Yes, that’s it. I didn’t intend to vent my resentment, but I can’t deny that there’s a bit of complaint mixed in. This letter will be the last. There’s no need for me to continue holding on to the red thread that has already been cut.

OOOO, my sore finger. The child who wanted to crumble on her own. I loved you, so now farewell.

Always, Rowan Hwa

ARRIVAL Noor Alnaaz Islam

The Red Alder I kept looking [at] for entirety of last month, has nothing to look at now. I can sense the arrival of endings.

Zuzu has no care to spare, sprints and salivates — sun or rain, I can think of holiday season, cakes, lights, and mother but what of the awareness: once January arrives, nothing of anything remains.

Christmas is my second favorite festival of lights. Years ago, in my little town I asked him to leave never return, on Christmas eve.

He just wouldn’t budge, charging mother with large red eyes, “Do you plan on taking it to grave?” how could she kick her cousin out like that?

It became a whole thing!

I’m good at closing doors covering my ears Land disagreements kill.

Certain endings have arrived.

Bulky jackets await near doors Crows melt under naked silver sky All the nests are visible now My love for you grows no more.

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I must wait for the Red Alder to bloom again November be gone.

Maybe Zuzu will let me play with him Once early spring arrives.

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A List of Things Lost Sarah King-Scott

Since leaving home, I have been very aware of the possessions I lost.

A nearly complete collection of Dear America books, a cigar box full of rubber stamps, and a closet full of clothing.

It has taken me longer to realize all the intangible things I lost. There are many routines I used to have, things I used to do, that died away like rotten teeth. My sense of identity had to completely change so I was primed for survival somewhere between a rock and a hard place.

Now that I can decompress, I can feel all the places where something important was lost.

I list them in my head as I try to fall asleep. I used to make cards for my mother on her birthday. I used to shop for one expensive gift for each of my family members each Christmas. I used to stay up late watching Poirot on Amazon Prime with my little sister. Incredibly, I used to walk around my neighborhood and visit my abusive older sister to talk about my boyfriend. I visited the 7-11, the movie theater, and the park closest to my childhood home. I haven’t done any of these things in over a year now.

During the Bad Times, I moved away and then back. Some things returned. I still go to the same McDonald’s drive thru. Sometimes I visit the Safeway closest to my old house instead of the one across the street from my apartment. Maybe I can’t help poking the bear. Maybe I want to stake my claim on the landmarks of my adolescence and say, you can’t have them. You can take my books and my bedframe and my goddamned novelty mugs, but you cannot take away my relationships to the spaces around me. You’re going to have to find another grocery store, another thrift shop, another gas station, ‘cuz these ones belong to me.

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My Stars, My Moon, My Sun Chantel Lam

As the day grows colder and the night starts to fall, the expansive void that is the universe peeks through the clouds.

The pitch-black sky fills to the brim with shining stars, each glistening with their own beautiful radiant glow.

I sometimes think to myself, every minute there must be someone in the world outside, gazing longingly into the stars and moon.

Perhaps hypnotized by their brilliance, or maybe they wish to be among them.

Wanting to disappear into the sky, to maybe one day be gazed upon just like they are to the stars.

I am that someone in the world, but when I walk out into the night I am rarely ever staring up into the sky.

Instead I glance to you now darling, you glow with such intensity.

With your radiating warmth and your gleaming smile, you captivate me in ways the moon would feel jealous of.

And I too wish to be among the stars, to

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be within your heavenly presence.

As the days and nights repeat endlessly, one might start to feel indifferent towards their beauty.

But they do not look at the stars the way I do to you.

Every day I am more mesmerized by your seemingly unfathomable existence.

How could such a person like me live in the same world as something so resplendent and lovely?

Not only do you glow like the night stars and shine like the moon.

But you exude a warmth incomparable to even the radiant sun.

To compare you to the sun would be a disgrace, for I would never look at the sun in fear of the damage it might do.

Yet I stare at you with such fervor I fear I might lose myself in your charm.

The tenderness and sparkle in my eyes when I look at you are no doubt that you are my stars, my moon, and my sun.

Gardening Dominique LeFrancis

The experience when you’re looking at plants grow The feeling of the dirt under your nails The feeling of the dirt on your face

The feeling of having a garden with someone you love The love of plants you have with other people

The hat you wear that blocks your face from the sun

Wearing long sleeve shirts in the summer so you don’t get sun burned The feeling of gardening gloves on your hands The smell of pollen in the sky

The feeling of looking as plants finish growing, then harvesting them The feeling of seasons

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A Glow I Cannot Hold — After the Paused Wei-Yen Liao

休⽌符之後 你就像那道光 溫暖地照在我身上 卻無法直視 我感受的到你的呼吸 感受的到你在我身旁 你的身影卻如此模糊 是淚⽔嗎？模糊了我的視線 起床時我彷彿能感受到你的餘溫 彷彿能聽到你對我說的睡前故事 很久很久以前... 我永遠聽不到故事結尾 就跟我永遠看不到我們的結尾 突然轉過身 突然回眸 猛然發現你已不再 回憶是把⼑ 我任憑它千⼑萬剮 卻始終放不下 當我漸漸長出皺紋 妳任凍結在那⼀刻 妳看起來是如此平靜 妳看起來已經放下 妳看起來無須煩惱 妳看起來 就這麼停住了 好像沒有發⽣過任何事 好像按下了暫停鍵 我卻找不到播放鍵 妳就這麼劃下了休⽌符 我卻譜也譜不出我們的下⼀篇樂章 妳現在好嗎？能來我夢裡嗎？ 如有來世 換我當妳的姊姊 換我保護妳好嗎？

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Translation (English) You are like a beam of light, warming me with your glow, yet too bright to behold.

I can feel your breath, I can feel your presence near, But your form is blurred and distant.

Are these tears clouding my sight?

Upon waking, I sense your lingering warmth, As if I could still hear your bedtime stories — “Once upon a time...”

Yet I never reach the ending, Just as I will never see the end of us.

I turn, I glance back — Suddenly, you are gone.

Memory is a blade, Cutting me over and over, yet I cannot let go.

As my skin gathers lines of time, You remain frozen in that single moment — So serene, so unburdened, As if you have moved on.

As if time has paused, As if nothing ever happened.

The world pressed pause, But I cannot find the play button.

You have written the final note, Yet I cannot compose the next verse.

How have you been? Can you visit my dreams?

If there is an afterlife, Let me be the elder sister this time — Let me be the one to protect you.

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What a Bee Sees Nya Simone Maddox

I feel like it would be terrifying to have a huge blind spot in the middle of my vision, but I wonder if I would still be scared if it’s all I’ve ever known. Is it possible to miss something you’ve never had? You were born without a piece of yourself and so was everyone around you. Would you ever think that your life could be different? You’re able to feel, and smell, and taste, but there’s always something that will be missing. You can feel its absence, a black hole deep inside of you, but you don’t know why. Is it possible to miss something you’ve never had? The wind has you hunkered down on a beautiful sunny day, but you can still imagine. What would it be like to experience life as one of those big creatures that are so different from me? Would it be better to not be bound to this body? Is it possible to miss something you’ve never had?

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Moirai Jai Maharaj

It happens to my surprise Perhaps life is just a guise It was always to happen however There is one path in life’s great endeavor My decisions were all but fate Whether I can liberate myself of this I cogitate Clotho I beg to you to set me free Clotho won’t you please hear my plea Lachesis I wish to alter the course of my life Lachesis I wish for my life to be rid of strife Atropos the events that will happen must not Atropos the events that I feel are all for naught But mayhap my destiny holds something worthwhile But mayhap my destiny holds someone worthwhile Fate is pleasurable every once in a while

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Re: Fork in the Road Abigail Mandlin

(The following text is taken from the January 28, 2025 email of the same name, originating from the Department of Government Efficiency and directed towards the entire American federal workforce.)

During the first week of his administration, President Trump issued a number of directives concerning the federal workforce. Among those directives, the President required that employees return to in-person work, restored accountability for employees who have policy-making authority, restored accountability for senior career executives, and reformed the federal hiring process to focus on merit. As a result of the above orders, the reform of the federal workforce will be significant.

The reformed federal workforce will be built around four pillars: 1) Return to Office: The substantial majority of federal employees who have been working remotely since Covid will be required to return to their physical offices five days a week. Going forward, we also expect our physical offices to undergo meaningful consolidation and divestitures, potentially resulting in physical office relocations for a number of federal workers.

2) Performance culture: The federal workforce should be comprised of the best America has to offer. We will insist on excellence at every level — our performance standards will be updated to reward and promote those that exceed expectations and address in a fair and open way those who do not meet the high standards which the taxpayers of this country have a right to demand.

3) More streamlined and flexible workforce: While a few agencies and even branches of the military are likely to see increases in the size of their workforce, the majority of federal agencies are likely to be downsized through restructurings, realignments, and reductions in force. These actions are likely to include the use of furloughs and the reclassification to at-will status for a substantial number of federal employees.

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4) Enhanced standards of conduct: The federal workforce should be comprised of employees who are reliable, loyal, trustworthy, and who strive for excellence in their daily work. Employees will be subject to enhanced standards of suitability and conduct as we move forward. Employees who engage in unlawful behavior or other misconduct will be prioritized for appropriate investigation and discipline, including termination.

Each of the pillars outlined above will be pursued in accordance with applicable law, consistent with your agency’s policies, and to the extent permitted under relevant collective-bargaining agreements.

If you choose to remain in your current position, we thank you for your renewed focus on serving the American people to the best of your abilities and look forward to working together as part of an improved federal workforce. At this time, we cannot give you full assurance regarding the certainty of your position or agency but should your position be eliminated you will be treated with dignity and will be afforded the protections in place for such positions.

If you choose not to continue in your current role in the federal workforce, we thank you for your service to your country and you will be provided with a dignified, fair departure from the federal government utilizing a deferred resignation program.

This program began effective January 28 and is now closed. If you resign under this program, you will retain all pay and benefits regardless of your daily workload and will be exempted from all applicable in-person work requirements until September 30, 2025 (or earlier if you choose to accelerate your resignation for any reason). The details of this separation plan can be found below.

Whichever path you choose, we thank you for your service to The United States of America.

Upon review of the below deferred resignation letter, if you wish to resign:

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1) Select “Reply” to this email. You must reply from your government account. A reply from an account other than your .gov or .mil account will not be accepted.

2)

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Type the word “Resign” into the body of this reply email. Hit “Send.”

Remnants Abigail Mandlin

My grandfather is dying.

My grandfather has been dying for a long time.

He dies as he rises from sleep, brushes his teeth, pours his cereal, listens to the floorboards as they groan and creak.

He chokes on conversation, drowns in television ads, even as he punches a will into the elevator keypad.

I exaggerate, of course.

Everyone does. He is dying in the sense that we all are: not relying on our next breath. Passing from room to room.

One day, the microwave will break.

Or the refrigerator.

Or the stove.

It’ll seep oil and rust onto the carpet, like so much blood in our bodies, running thick and luscious, rose gold.

The afternoon light will die out of the third-story window and a bird outside will croak out its last warble.

We’ll all become obsolete.

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Like the horse-drawn carriage.

Like a dead battery or a three-legged table.

Even the stars are not made to last.

Yet, that demise will be detectable.

A ripple, a hiccup, a whirr.

It will be known, somehow, somewhere, that something has occurred.

When a doctor delivered my gallbladder, mangled, swollen, and ruinous, from my chest, the nurse assured me, “Don’t worry, everything will just right itself an inch over to the left.”

The vacuum will be sated, even if hair and nails clog it up.

For the machine never stops roiling, and neither shall us.

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I Ask for a Sign Joan Mazza

I Ask for a Sign and dream I’m walking alone, must cross a muddy stretch. No hesitation, though my sneakers will be a mess. Is the man approaching a threat? I nod at him to prove I’m not easily scared, keep moving forward, find myself in mud, can feel the sludge ooze to my neck yet I keep going. I can do this.

This muck will wash out. I stride with purpose, undeterred, know the sickening part of this turbulent passage will soon be behind me.

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Poronkusema Joan Mazza

— the distance a reindeer can travel before taking a break (n. Finnish)* Hiking this road of poetry for twenty-five years, daily poems for ten, I struggle to stay upright at the keyboard, find I have little to say that I haven’t said a hundred times. This road of words, sometimes treacherous with hidden, deep crevasses, monsters crouched and ready to pounce.

A surprise tsunami of emotions threatens to overwhelm.

Some mornings, I long for leisure, to take a long break, to lie down in the willows out of the wind and rain, to sleep without dreams. *from Lost in Translation: An Illustrated Compendium of Untranslatable Words from Around the World

by Ella Frances Sanders

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Do Not Steal from the Museum of Everyday Life Joan McBride Let your eyes wander over the shelf of empty journals

Don’t leave fingerprints on their dusty spines

Admire from a distance the safety pin sculptures

Beware of poisoned sharp points

In the south facing room — do not pry rhinestones

from curtains made from broken necklaces

Do not avail yourself of souvenirs from exhibits spatulas

opened bottles of gin

old Barbie clothes torn to hankies

or the Crayola-colored drawer of 57 lipsticks

Walk through the labyrinth of newspapers

stacked as high as Corinthian columns

experience how they lean in as your walk past

see how newsprint bleeds to dull grey

Before your tour ends — pick up a list

of tangible items often overlooked

but available to view online

because there is no reentry

to the Museum of Everyday Life

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Morning in the Infusion Suite Joan McBride

A young guy comes in dressed in a cow costume his mom the same.

He takes a deep breath as a nurse accesses the port near his heart.

Soon he will lose his whisper of a mustache and black curly hair.

Suddenly I am grateful for the whir of infusion pumps.

At the next appointment I’ll come dressed as a Bengal tiger dangerous and deeply endangered.

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A Letter to Myself Mynisha McGrew

It’s ok to be shy and timid Don’t hold it against yourself Someday you’re gonna blossom into something you couldn’t see So don’t let them tell you you’re washed Or that you’re a waste of space This world is big, so there’s plenty of space for everyone Don’t be afraid to fall Because no matter the amount of cuts, scrapes, or bruises you get Just grab a tube of Vaseline and those wounds will heal And I know that it can’t heal the pain of the past And a kiss can’t seal the hole in your heart The way that only love can But don’t be discouraged Life is not just a long unending line There’s bumps and blocks along the road But it’s not about what’s in the way It’s about how you overcome and get around those obstacles So no matter what keep on going You are amazing and destined for good I’m proud of how far we have come So let’s keep going

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My World Mynisha McGrew

Sometimes, I don’t know what to do I feel alone and scared in a world that I don’t belong in A world who only sees me as lesser than A waste of space I want to be somewhere where I am respected Seen as a human Flesh and bones Blood and tears To escape these dangers and vent, I pick up my pencil and write Creating a boundless multiverse filled with a creative getaway of endless possibilities In this land, poetry flows and my mind freely wanders My emotions run smoothly across the paper My safe space is when I write Because my broken mind can laugh, cry, love, and embrace the chaos that I happily call mine

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Time Back Then Pablo José Mejia

I thought about the time back then And the way that the music sounded About how the heart was exposed And the evening was supposed to be red But was blue I thought about how I tried not to look But caught myself stealing quick glances And the way the heat burned The way I never knew how the water felt The song that was never sung The eyes I would never look into again Only when I laid my head on my pillow And escaped to a place between real and make-believe I thought about how small I felt But was loaned the love to help me grow And how I left some debts unpaid I thought about the interlocked fingers that Have now gradually let me go To let myself glide through the wind

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And float across the water I will think about his return And the things I might say when I see him again

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Heartbeat Pablo José Mejia

Although it hurts I won’t undo the clasp Of the chain that I bear on my wrist I cannot stay forever bitter At a flower that blooms in a garden that is not My own I cannot let the fluidity of melancholy seep And flow through my veins I want the sun to shine for you And for the rain to fall upon you so that you are fed Give your hands to those who love you And as shoulders brush past Be at ease Knowing that the time spent together was not wasted Beauty will always be alive in friendship I know that it was breathing when we stood beside each other I heard its heartbeat in my ear

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Back Corey Mesler

for Sue

In our bathing suits my sister and I would play Monopoly at the picnic table in our backyard on the patio my father poured and graded not forgetting to add the date and his children’s names before the concrete set.

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I Just Wish You Could See the Bee Asleep in the Rhododendron Bloom.

Denise Calvetti Michaels To be sure I found a twig and lightly touched one of its legs.

You could say the bumble bee awoke, drowsy, lethargic, perhaps caught too late with its harvest of nectar, and lost her way to the hive — I’ve seen this before and hope to again and again, the bee awakening from dreaming, and what would it mean to fall asleep on the job, enraptured by the cargo one is ferrying back and forth?

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You Walk To Flush Memories Denise Calvetti Michaels

Recollections come in fragments you jot down quickly in shorthand.

Maybe, what’s been written is a woodland, dusk descending.

Walking the junior high school track, you ask yourself, Why do I write how I write?

You recall locations your girls ran cross country.

You remember daughters tasting sour blackberries, a nutbrown rabbit hiding under bent reeds.

Afternoons you read L’Arrière-pays when your mother was still alive and you were different, and poetry by Mei-mei Berssenbrugge — Hello, the Roses; I Love Artists; A Treatise on Stars.

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Orbits Zach Murphy

The cottonwood tree seeds collect upon the emerald grass like a first snowfall while I watch my tiny daughter kick a soccer ball toward my feet. As the soccer ball spins, I picture the earth rotating on its axis and revolving around the scorching sun. Years rush by, my daughter’s limbs grow longer, and my hairline recedes like an ocean wave. I hold her hand at the bus stop on her first day of school and my stomach sinks deeper than the lithosphere. What if the other kids make fun of the ears she inherited from me? What if she falls behind in class and can’t catch up?

Or what if — no I won’t even think about it. Speed ahead to when she takes her driver’s license exam. She’ll botch the parallel parking part, and I’ll secretly be relieved. She’ll pass the exam the second time around, and I’ll permanently be terrified every minute she’s on the road. She’ll bring her first boyfriend or girlfriend over for dinner and I’ll accidentally embarrass her by overcooking the mashed potatoes and talking about her stuffed rhinoceros, Mr. Blue. She’ll say she’ll never speak to me again.

She’ll experience her first heartbreak, and I’ll struggle to tell her that she’s going to get over it and that high school relationships are things you barely even remember when you get older. She’ll hear me and her mother get into a heated argument for the first time and she’ll realize that marriage isn’t always as sweet as the strawberries we used to pick together. She’ll apply for her first job and freeze up during the interview just like I did during my first interview, and then the shadow that is failure will fuse itself to her dreams. She’ll go away to college and experience her first bout of major depression just like I did. She’ll have doubts about her future and scrutinize every decision she makes. She’ll get lost in a sandstorm of her own thoughts. She’ll reflect upon her own reflection. She’ll ponder her own existence. Just like me. Just like… a human. The soccer ball reaches my feet. I halt it with my heel, perform a gawky dance in which I twirl around in a circle waving my arms, then kick the ball back to her. She laughs so hard that the birds have to raise their voices. Her eyes are bright stars. The sky feels a little less heavy when I see her smile. She chases after the ball and the earth continues its orbit.

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(When You) Flew Away Tom Nettles

I still smile at the rain on my windowsill I’ll still talk a man down from the ledge I still pick flowers mom and I think of you I am not ashamed and yet, it’s not enough.

I sent you money from the bank just last Saturday I don’t ask Flower who’s on the phone anymore When I broke my heart I told me that if you were here You’d kiss my cheek and make it all go away But unconditional is not what we have — that I know Resentment takes more than I — have to give So now I will learn to fly Strike gold and buy a home for you, mom, and I I can’t count more lost time But I won’t give you up Even if for now I must say, goodbye When you left I was young, And I couldn’t say That the choice of yours was wrong. That I would pay For all those years and moments that I knew we wouldn’t share Or that soft strangled cry when I forgot the color of your eyes

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Then you returned and it was as it’s always been Mother and son but you grew cold while I grew thin I heard the lies you told and endured the broken smile on your face I gave the money knowing I couldn’t give you a home Your affection I never tried before to win Now when you look at me you see what has changed From my leather jacket to the tear in my jeans, My hair cut and my hard chiseled face, Are the things you can’t hold onto and that will never be the same.

But unconditional is not what we have — that I know Resentment takes even more than I — can give So now I will learn to fly Strike gold and buy a home for you, mom, and I I can’t count more lost time But I won’t give you up Even if for now I must say, goodbye It kills me to tell you, I’m still your little boy But not as much as that tear on your face When I whisper it’s time

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Oh mom I have to live What I can’t do in your arms I swear I’ll show you the person I have become Make it up to you, affection I have never won Oh I hope, I pray now (Oh I hope you can forgive me, for flying away) So I can save my friend for life And you can find home on your own I’ll set you free Something I’ll never be But I’ll be happy as long as you’re safe No, I will find another place to call home.

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Airborne and Contexture Korede Oseni

Airborne We’ve arrived again at the place we wait to board the vehicle taking to us the same place We look at each other with hesitation sideways glances are the ‘hello’ and ‘hi’, the ‘are you on the same flight’, and ‘I suspect we are headed to the same place’ We wait for the rest we wait and see the bags begin to assemble alongside the people who own them dragged behind and on the back we are all taking something along The usual on-ground hostilities suspended for the entirety of the trip we are all trying to reach our destinations drama free A tight smile to the air hostess eyes on the roller bag as it collides with a seat’s armrest and hopefully not a foot another polite one to the person at the exit seat inadvertently obstructing mine by the window We do the dance of politeness

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of “excuse me” “no worries at all” and shuffle to the assigned seat and that’s it We’ve come to an end of the routine we become anonymous again and disappear when the tires hit the runway.

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Contexture I forget, remember what we ought to be doing here phone’s 100 percent charged offline movies wait to be watched laptop too, essay I was editing before now waiting to be touched I remember, i brought two books one poetry, second prose All these options untouched, staring at the orange cone lined concrete. trucks to load baggage slowly line up The right wing of the airplane exhales and returns to its position i tune out the airhostess instruction for emergency landing I was headed somewhere I landed somewhere other than this pre determined destination it was somewhere fictitious it was better than what i had in front

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Staring at the field of burnt grass I learn I did not want to come back

My dreams are shattering, disappearing in a way that made me unrecognizable even my options are not enough to hold my interest I look across the seat row, sight someone on their computer instinctively open mine It takes five minutes to remember where I previously was in the document.

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Where the Sun Meets the Sky Mariel Pelegrino

I see you where the sun dips low, In amber hues that softly glow.

A fleeting warmth, a quiet sigh, Your spirit painted on the sky.

You linger in the autumn breeze, The whispered rustle through the trees.

In little things, you find your place — A favorite song, a fleeting trace.

Your laughter lives in falling rain, A rhythm soothing, soft, not vain.

The moments small, yet deeply vast, Where love transforms, though time has passed.

A seashell pressed into my palm, A gentle wave, eternal calm.

The world speaks back in subtle ways, A bridge to you through fleeting days.

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And though you’ve gone, you’re never far — A shimmer where the evenings star.

In life’s small wonders, you remain, A quiet joy that soothes the pain.

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A Valentine Kenneth Pobo

The card opens to a light red heart, says You are the greatest person in the world.

I can’t send this.

I need a more muted message, a kindly gray.

And no candy.

He has diabetes.

And no roses.

He prefers Sudokus. So I offer him a book of Sudokus — beneath steaming logic I’m here.

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Our Basement Kenneth Pobo

I go down the wooden stairs to the basement.

My dad’s workbench.

The washer and dryer.

The ping-pong table my grandfather made.

In summers it’s cooler there, the basement stronger than July.

If I fall asleep and wake in the dark, I stand by a window hoping a sleepy sun will seek out enough light for me to find the stairs back up.

Sometimes no light comes.

I wait, move slowly in darkness, as if in a dream. The light is the dream, the basement the cage.

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Send?

Anvita Prabhala

Hello. How are you?

It has been a long time, yes?

I’m glad you are well

we are strangers now

when did that happen to us

how long did it take

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Stellar Vitoria Ramos

tiny

harvested

wanderer

helium, hydrogen

stands

first generation stars

on the threshold of

children of gods

infinite nothing

carbon, iron, oxygen

tremulous incandescence

scattered seeds

dense root,

light years across

waits

protostars spinning

for release

igniting

the wanderer shifts

the cold realm

a warning echo

of space

pulses

in a colorful

the surrounding black

array of becoming

blinding explosion

galaxies spiral

the wanderers

planetary orbits

grasp

bespeckled moondust

leaves nothing

black holes

untouched

hollow voids

quarks take

in between

their first breath

tiny wanderer

protons before

cipher born

neutrons atomic nuclei

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Unraveled everything

in the aftermath of bad news Rose Rickey

are you hanging in there / we have ice cream in the freezer / I’ll call you when I know more / I’m still in shock / I’m not surprised at all / do you want to hold my hand / do you want to watch a movie / do you want to go for a walk / do you want a glass of wine / a mug of hot chocolate / something to warm your bones / something to soothe your heart / have you read anything good lately / can you send it my way / will it make me forget / will it help me cry / will you just hear me out / let’s make a plan / let’s be there for her / let’s be there for each other / let’s cherish every moment we have / let’s try to let go / let’s hold on tighter

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How I Arrived Nuha Sabbah

To the land of olives I swam along salt shores stinging that seeped into my wounds As she clung to her breath Beating to the sound of a drum The path was forward Desperate but hopeful to what use?

As the rhythm stopped As everything froze Sweet bones planted within the earth’s crust A mother’s love is eternal, they say Dancing across the sky Amidst metal doves Off to the land of sharp mountains and many trials Here I came after much walking I grew into a decent woman I still feel it your love

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Endless Sanya Sahni

The skies and the seas beckon me to join them To fall infinitely through the air, never reaching a ground To drown infinitely in the water, never running out of air Endlessly, without touching the bottom of the ocean My sense of existence is the only thing i latch onto All i ever see is blue, endless blue My latch, my anchor is the reason i fall and drown There’s nothing to do but everything to be There’s no birth, no death, just life endlessly

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Things That Should Last Forever Rajbir Singh Sandhu

The smell of a childhood blanket, even after it’s been washed too many times. It’s a scent that lingers softly, carrying the memories of warmth and comfort through the years.

The crisp feeling of a new notebook before the first word is written.

Each unmarked page feels like a small promise, full of possibility and potential.

Friendships where silences are just as comfortable as laughter. These are the moments where words aren’t needed, and the connection speaks for itself.

That first cool morning after a long, hot summer, with crisp air on your skin. It’s the kind of morning that feels like the world is starting fresh, full of quiet energy.

The sound of a parent’s voice calling your name. A familiar and steady sound that holds love in every syllable.

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Constantinople Jane Snyder

One Friday, when my daughter was in fifth grade, the teacher sent the students home with teddy bears. Theirs to keep, but they had to write a story about the bear.

Amy wasn’t impressed. She got a real Beanie Baby in her stocking every Christmas, knew the bear was a knockoff, junk left over from the Fourth of July.

“See how his Uncle Sam hat is glued on.”

Sammy, as she called him, didn’t care for her either. “Amy’s nice and all,” the story began, “but she’s boring.” She couldn’t even think of an adventure, Sammy complained, had to ask her mother, who suggested a ride on the Valley Transit April Special Istanbul Express.

world of narrow paths past shops full of soft-colored, finely ground spices sifted into pyramids, rugs in a thousand patterns, lamps made of tiny glittering bits of glass fitted together, piles of silk, gold jewelry, silver.

“Whassup, Princess Peach?” a vendor called to her. “Chillin’ like a villain?”

That made her laugh, and she stopped at his stall. The other vendors told her no, come to my shop. Mine! No, mine! Mine, for I am the only honest man here.

Sammy breathed in the aromas of freshly brewed tea, the grassy scent of saffron, looked up at arches in the ceiling, each arch rippling in, out.

The next thing Sammy knew they were in the air. Whirling darkness, and the sound of metal scraping on metal, then below, a glittering blue.

The bus driver pointed to the Hagia Sophia on the ride back. He’d miss this, he said, when he had to go back on his route to the mall.

“The Bosporus, the sea strait separating Europe from Asia,” the bus driver told them, dropping them off at the entrance to the Grand Bazaar. “Back in an hour.”

The story ended with Sammy wanting more adventures with Amy.

They walked through and entered a

The teacher praised Amy’s use of descriptive language. The students loved the idea but thought the bus should have

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gone to Disneyland. An hour would be enough for the Haunted Mansion ride.

Wasn’t it cool how the ghost hitchhiker gets in your car at the end? Hanna said Small World was her favorite. Splash Mountain, others said. Indiana Jones.

Pirates of the Caribbean, where the pirate sleeps with a pig.

She kept it in at school, got mad at home. “Why did they have to mess with my story?”

Oh, why did everything have to be so serious with her? “That was a compliment, how involved they were.”

Anyway, I asked, hoping to introduce a note of levity, didn’t Sammy write the story?

She carried Sammy by his hat over to the kitchen counter where I kept the milk carton I used for compost, dropped him in with the coffee grounds, potato peels, egg shells. “Stupid bear.”

I told her then I’d loved the story, so good, so funny, I said again and again, but she didn’t believe me.

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Only Sin Angelica Urquizo

I forget what the only sin is Someone told me recently — it changes; dependent upon who holds the highest power What is the only sin when I’m in power?

Has every repeated sin slid backward in time, collecting into a weight that tugs at me day by day?

Is the only sin my abandoning them rather than mining each to be turned into precious stones I might adorn unapologetically?

The only sin costs every penny, every final lick of virtue strung into a necklace of diamonds hanging from my neck, all facets shimmering, each a spotlight to hide their shadows tight around my throat, all sharp edges and glare My only sin is slinking it off at night to set between my teeth, candy necklace chipping the pearls of my hungry mouth

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They Struggle To Write Articles About You Taro Williams

“I am an emotional plagiarist, stealing other people’s pain, subsuming it into my own until I can’t remember whose it is any more.” -Sarah Kane.

Was your hair curly? Brown? Maybe even had a couple of split ends from all the convenience store hair dye?

They struggle to describe you because they want to get it right.

The police report that was recently released was no good. They filed it in a hurry between shifts. Even the hard copy that made its way to the courthouse had donut crumbs all over it. But your parents don’t mind because that’s the kind of disrespect they’ve come to expect from our underfunded council services.

There’s an empty bedroom in the apartment flat now. But don’t worry, your grandma is coming soon, and tomorrow her fragile body will fill your bed. She’s in town to console your parents in their time of need. Right now, your mom needs her mom, almost as much as you need both of them. Hopefully, having the family’s matriarch under the roof will help stabilize the situation.

Your Grandma’s stoic nature has always been good for that, to help keep a sense of calmness. She picked up that personality trait from growing up in the north of England, somewhere near Manchester. But you know how she doesn’t like to talk about the town she’s from. She’s a part of the generation that’s still ashamed of heavy accents. The only thing that’s really northern about her is her sarcasm and unfortunately that’s not helping us much. We’re trying to find a missing person.

And yet, those fools at the local paper are still struggling to write an article about you.

Newly grads all nervous and anxious, they’re still showing up to the office dressed like university students. Blue jeans and casual dress shirts everywhere. Up until this point the whole team has only had to write about little things:

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Mayor Romano announces plans for the city to purchase new garbage bins.

St Andrew Technical School wins the local county Rugby Tournament.

Community Centre braces for budget cuts after federal budget announcement.

We are not the kind of newspaper that writes about a missing person. This is the kind of newspaper that writes the same headlines that all the other irrelevant common papers print. All across the country, it feels like we’re all typing those same sentences.

I’m looking around the office, and I see all the clippings about research we got on your file. We haven’t interviewed your parents yet, and they aren’t in any state to sit down with a reporter for a meeting. They are still in shock from the whole ordeal. Their faces with no affect hold their tongue, emotionless and bitter, like a detained schizoid.

We all have our moments of anxiety. What your folks really need right now is to talk to a therapist, or maybe even a priest if they’re religious. Then again, nobody’s an atheist in times of crisis.

They keep on staring at me, your parents, with frightened hollow eyes. Glaring in disbelief that this is all happening. Looking at me, sitting in my cubicle in my stupid monkey suit, trying to get answers from me.

Everyone hates tabloid journalists, including me. We’re all just a bunch of vultures.

Nothing but a bunch of preppy assholes whose job is to chase down tragedy after tragedy. Somedays, this line of work really eats at your soul.

The only leads we’ve managed to get about you come from that dreaded police report, or from your friend Veronica.

I assume it’s a fake name, like, Veronica, really? Nobody has a name like that around here. It sounds like the name of a character straight out of a sitcom. She walked in

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earlier, with her bright purple hair and animated personality, and immediately started chatting away.

Veronica says she’s worried about you. Describes herself as a ‘sort of’ friend of yours.

Definitely not an acquaintance, but certainly not your best friend. Claims she met you at an AA meeting. She spoke highly of you and about all of the progress you’ve made in combating your drinking problem.

Unfortunately, due to the anonymous nature of the ‘twelve-steps’ program, we can’t use any of Veronica’s testimony. She must have known that, and I think she only came into the office this morning to vent her grief. That would explain the obvious fake name.

Like, ‘Veronica’ really? Oh, come on girl. She’s clearly just here to find someone to dump her raw emotions onto.

And so, I spent my morning holding space and playing the role of unofficial therapist for an hour. Afterwards, I wished ‘Veronica’ well, and then thanked her before sending her on her way.

A more senior co-worker tried to tell me afterward that I didn’t have to sit and listen to that chatterbox. Especially when her testimony is clearly useless to us. But I guess I’m too polite to interrupt. It’s the Canadian in me.

During her incoherent waffle, ‘Veronica’ told stories of you. I heard rumors about your habits. How you would spend many late nights strolling the East End co-ops.

Somewhere in that awful sketchy neighborhood where all the meth-heads live. Allegedly partying with the wrong crowd, she gossiped about cocaine and tequila without any soda.

Did you ever take off your clothes while visiting those brutalist flats? How many cigarettes did you manage to bum? Your legendary charisma manages to transcend those back rooms.

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Your mother and father don’t want to see you in that way. They want to hold onto this image of you as a little girl. The child who took karate lessons, and swam at the local swimming pool on weekends. That care-free young child playing in the warm sun.

The girl who would try to play her father’s guitar in the evening. Badly singing Taylor Swift and Bruce Springsteen songs with a shaky youthful voice. That person… that’s who we’re trying to describe here.

And with that minimal amount of information, they continue to struggle with writing articles about you.

We have to come up with something quick, social media is starting to blow up with posts about your sudden disappearance. All of your friends are worried, sharing images of you with the captions, “Have you seen her?” Now, there’s a real risk of misinformation spreading, so we have to move fast.

The fluorescent lights overhead begin to flicker, which almost makes me lose my cool. I hate those cheap lights above me.

Someone in the meeting room suggested that we emphasize that this was just ‘a girl’.

Someone else opposes, insisting we refer to you as ‘a woman’ out of respect. We must treat this story with the sensitivity and care that it demands.

Only, when does one become a woman anyway? When she opens her first credit card account? When she drinks her first lager? When she experiences heartbreak for the first time?

Twenty-one is still a young age, despite what the media wants everyone to think. It’s a time when an adolescent still carries awkward bones around. Joy Division still sounds hopeless, instead of bleak, at twenty-one.

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Are you a lost little girl, who rebelliously ran away from your suburban home? Are you a missing woman, a Jane Doe, who vanished from the scene? Or, maybe abducted by aliens from another galaxy?

What if you’re now Ophelia? I would feel awful if that were true. That we arrived too late and found you drowned in flowers from overwhelming grief. That everyone and every system in this town failed you.

It’s a story we have all heard. In Dublin, Moscow, Bangkok, Vancouver, Miami, or Nairobi; a young pretty woman goes missing and all the locals freak out. A fable that has been spoken all around the globe.

Your Grandma has never cried in front of anyone since the age of sixteen. And it doesn’t look like she will break that tradition today. But she is eating a bar of American chocolate, which seems to be an action that surprises your balding father. The stress is getting to both of them. Imagine having to hold in all this terrible news — before the bombastic sound of police sirens arrives.

Yesterday, a young woman was reported missing by the police department. She is twentyone years of age but is described by friends as looking older. Has curly brown hair, or possibly bleached blonde. She was last seen around the Baker’s Woods. Her family would greatly appreciate anyone with information to contact the officials.

There, can we all at least agree on this paragraph?

Your co-worker raises his hand in objection…

Fuck me. This feels like wartime censorship.

I’m going mad with frustration and it’s turning my wrinkly face maroon red.

It’s going to be a long day at the midtown office.

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labor J. Yuen

that’s the wind the bodies under 40 and their way of dancing resist the temptation to linger and witness the result

one is forced to leave the other behind the latter was leaning on a wayside crucifix what was firmly rooted lies rotted not through divine force

what a storm thoughts came and went the judgement, lies, betrayal, dishonor the bone is the body’s best friend

the structure is creaking please move a little closer who said justice is justice

(Ida Börjel, Peter Handke, C.L. Young)

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telson J. Yuen

Ekphrasis of “The Scorpion and the Frog” I must have gone down to the river a thousand times before I dared to ask.

I went down and waited, and crawled home, went down, and went away, and still while going away, I carried its weight.

I could not help it.

I stuck my eyes in the mud, hid behind cattails, restructured my face a hundred times in the glass of the water.

It clung soldier to shore, my legs to your back.

I could not have put down my body.

I could not help but to drown.

I could not, could not, could not.

(A frightened animal yearns always to return; they say this about burnt children and fire, the poison-weaned and harm.

They say that they made it up very gently, as she had absolutely nowhere else to go.)

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Haych Kara Nilsson

a sound so Harsh, but so harmonious, living somewhere between glory and ignorance, i am both holy and Hostile. happiness dwells within me when Hate is locked away. with my cut, clean edges, i Hurt and am Harmful, but will heal you if you allow me. i am a contradiction, caught between honesty and Heartlessness. i can only hope that one day, i will mend the bridge that holds me together, to live a life both whole and heavenly.

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they shut down the 3ds online shop last april Roswell Sass

pink like flower blossoms yellow with age i somehow never lost your stylus or charger but you’re too small for my hands i’m not six anymore but i miss the days when i would hide under the covers and play a game at night when i wasnt supposed to be up and if mom came down the hall id hide it under my pillow but the glow of the screen and the digital piano of accumula town gave it all away. im in college now and i brought you to my big boy apartment to play a pokemon game that my brother gave me so i waited until night to turn it on and play with my earbuds in and all the lights off so i could somehow go back to those days but nobody was down the hall waiting to catch me just my alarm for the morning to bring me back to seven am dark blue reality

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Good Grief #4 Natalie Alvis Digital Photography 117

Butterfly and Two Flowers Ari Chakraborty Pastels on Paper 118

Harmony Suet Yu Cheng Digital Photography 119

Codependency Rory Comstock Digital Art 120

Filipino Smiski Reyanna Falcatan Digital Art 121

Husky Takeover Reyanna Falcatan Digital Art 122

The Four Seasons: Spring, Summer, Autumn, Winter Kaylin Francis Textile Art 123

Santorini Bliss Kacey Fritz Acrylic Painting 124

Juno Marissa Gubbels Oil Painting 125

Like Mother, Like Daughter Marissa Gubbels Digital Photography 126

Rainier on 171st Street Mei Hanway Watercolor 127

Wintry Autumn Rowan Lee Hwa Digital Photography 128

Medusa’s Mirror Aundreah Jenkins Digital Art 129

Seeds Marked for the Cosmos Aundreah Jenkins Digital Art 130

Oppression, Again Erik Keevan Collage/Poem 131

Cyber Punk Seattle Zachary Lanoux Digital Photography 132

Ephemeral Veil of Aurora Wei-Yen Liao Digital Photography 133

Sacred Heart Axel Madsen Digital Photography 134

Sheep Rock Axel Madsen Digital Photography 135

Noah’s Jiu-Jitsu Journal Noah Medvinsky Digital Photography 136

Look of Love Prince Netters Digital Art 137

Reflections Prince Netters Digital Art 138

Golden Gaze Hong Nguyen Digital Art 139

Self-Carcass Dan “Apollo” Nguyen Digital Art 140

three works Patty Paine Polaroid Photo 141

My Root Thao Pham Digital Photography 142

Healing Wounds Katherine Ray Digital Photography 143

The Little Things Katherine Ray Digital Photography 144

Fool’s Morel Thea Rowden Digital Art 145

Acceptance Christina Scott Charcoal Drawing 146

Hockey Ladies Donna Sullivan Gouache & Watercolor 147

Anne & Sylvia’s Revenge Barbara Thomas Watercolor on Linocut Print 148

Overtaken Mia Trajano Oil Painting 149

Solar Synthesis Ashley Tsang Painting 150

Flourish Cedrick Tsongo Digital Photography 151

Selah / Stop and Listen Cedrick Tsongo Digital Photography 152

Eden Angelica Urquizo Cut & Paste Collage 153

Araucaria Nathalie Vandenbrouck a.k.a. SamArchi Digital Photography 154

My Best Friend is a Bird Gabe Vu Oil Pastel 155

Control Balter Wang Digital/Art Photoshop 156

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Contributors’ Biographies

Aamena Ellithy Aamena Ellithy is a first-generation Muslim Egyptian. With a focus on fairness and equity, she is committed to shaping a more just society. She is passionate about honing her writing skills both in poetry and prose. If she isn’t doing homework or studying for the LSAT she’s baking something sweet, reading, or cuddling with her cat.

Abigail Mandlin Abigail Mandlin is a University of Washington alum with her Master of Fine Arts in Creative Writing and Poetics. She is a novelist, poet, short story writer, literary magazine founder, publisher, and editor-in-chief.

Angelica Urquizo Angelica Urquizo is a poet who seeks magic in the mundane, often finding inspiration from the natural world, mythology, shadow work and the overall human experience. She explores her expression mainly through poetry and collage, but also dabbles in fiction, videopoetry, and fiber arts. She is earning her MFA in Creative Writing and Poetics at University of Washington Bothell and has poetry in Stripes Literary Mag, Feral and Marrow Magazine. You can find her on instagram: @acraftyname Anvita Prabhala Anvita Prabhala is an undergraduate student at UW Bothell who enjoys writing poetry in her spare time. This is the first time she has ever submitted any of her works to an official publication.

Ari Chakraborty Ari Chakraborty is an artist who took Visual Arts during high school and has art experience elsewhere. She loves making art and believes that art is a valuable part of her soul!

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Ashley Tsang Ashley Tsang is an undergraduate and passionate artist who specializes in abstract drawings and paintings. She believes in the power of creative expression through artful storytelling and enjoys learning about color theory and other artful mediums in her free time. For interest in collaborating and commission work, please feel free to reach out at at92@uw.edu!

Aundreah Jenkins Aundreah Jenkins is an undergrad studying the field of Interdisciplinary Arts. Wary of making messes, she primarily illustrates digitally in Clip Studio Paint, but still loves traditional mediums and crafts.

Axel Madsen Axel Madsen is a senior at UWB majoring in Data Visualization and has a wide array of different hobbies. He has loved photography for much of his life and has taken pictures since he was a little kid hiking in the North Cascades. Growing up in the northwest he has developed a strong love for nature, travelling, and exploration. Other than photography he also loves drawing, making pixel art, and developing games.

Balter Wang Balter is currently a junior student in UWB who enjoy photo shooting and photo editing.

Barbara Thomas Barbara Thomas is a UW Bothell Alumni (2009) who went on to USC for an MA in Gerontology. While at UW Bothell she was a Literary Editor for Clamor and had publications in the UW Bothell Policy Journal. Since then, she’s held various advocacy positions related the aging community, including advocacy work related to older LGBTQ+ folxs. During COVID she started painting and set up a small studio in her office where she spends most nights after signing off from work. Barbara lives in Bellingham with her wife Cate, daughter Ayla, and two dogs Rolo and Lenny.

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Briseldy Hernandez-Ramos Briseldy Hernandez-Ramos is a writer who emphasizes writing Creative Nonfiction. She is a first-generation college student attending the University of Washington pursuing a career in publishing and social work.

As she finished high school, Briseldy graduated and received both her high school diploma and an Associates of Arts and Sciences degree from Wenatchee Valley College. Along with this, Briseldy is a literary journal editor, global scholar, an intern for Rural People’s Voice, in Sage Leaders’ Political Leadership Council, and is part of several organizations that focus on activism.

Cedrick Tsongo Cedrick Tsongo, a Congolese artist currently pursuing his study in the United States, and has a diverse interest in the arts, especially photography. Through his work, he shares the world from his unique perspective. Cedrick encourages us to see beyond boundaries and explore the limitless possibilities of creativity. For him, the boundaries of our creativity are endless.

Chantel Lam Chantel Lam is a designer and programmer based in Washington. In her free time, she explores themes of love through creative prose, poetry, and song.

Christian Hardt Christian Hardt, age twenty-nine, grew up in Birch Bay, Washington and attended school at Central Washington University. He currently works at the Hanford Site near Richland, Washington, working as a contractor for the Department of Energy. Christian enjoys writing, watching sports, and playing with his dog, Murphy, in his free time.

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Christina Scott Christina is a 3rd year student at the University of Washington Bothell pursuing a major in Data Visualization and a minor in Visual and Media Arts. Visual art, specifically drawing and painting, enables her to find craftsmanship in everyday life, creating different ways to look at the world around herself.

Corey Mesler Corey Mesler has been published in numerous anthologies and journals including Poetry, Gargoyle, Five Points, Lunch Ticket, Good Poems American Places, and New Stories from the South. He has published over 45 books of fiction and poetry. His newest book, The World is Neither Stacked for Nor Against You: Selected Short Stories, is from Livingston Press. He also wrote the screenplay for We Go On, which won The Memphis Film Prize in 2017. With his wife, he runs Burke’s Book Store (est. 1875) in Memphis.

Dan “Apollo” Nguyen Dan Nguyen is a self-proclaimed artist who enjoys drawing what they like (men) and attempting to make people go mad by their art. Beyond that, they’re an average guy who chose to major in CS despite having more passion for art, all to try and make video games.

Besides living a double life online, they suffer from coding and wallow in self-loathing most of the time.

Danny P. Barbare Danny P. Barbare resides in the Upstate of the Carolinas. The Carolina Wren is the state bird of South Carolina. His poetry has recently been published in Birmingham Arts Journal, The California Quarterly, and Cardinal Sins. He lives with his wife in Greenville, SC. Denise Calvetti Michaels Denise Calvetti Michaels teaches Psychology at Cascadia College in Bothell, WA. She earned an MA in Human Development from Pacific Oaks College and an MFA in Creative Writing & Poetics from University of Washington, Bothell. Denise is a member of the Climate & Social Justice Initiative at Cascadia College.

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Dominique LeFrancis Dominique LeFrancis loves to write poetry and reads tons of it. She loves her dogs, and fish. She hopes you enjoy her entries as much as she enjoyed writing them.

Donna Sullivan Donna Sullivan currently works in UWB’s School of Nursing and Health Studies. She holds an AA in Fine Arts, and earned her BA in Interdisciplinary Arts as well as her Master of Education from UWB. She enjoys working in watercolor, gouache, acrylic, oil, and mixed media digital collage. Typically working in a surrealistic style to present socio-political commentary or explore psychological and emotional themes, Donna also likes to highlight everyday moments of shared joy. Through art, she strives to deepen her understanding of the human experience and contribute a positive creative voice in the world.

Dylan Hansen Dylan Hansen is a student at UW Bothell working for a major in Media and Communications. She has published two short stories and is working on a novel.

Erik Keevan Erik Keevan is a horror writer, playwright, and poet with a focus on mental health and societal problems. His work has been published in Brushings Literary Journal, Tales from the Crosstimbers, Horror Tree’s Trembling with Fear series, and performed as part of the Victorian horror troupe Phantasmagoria. He is currently pursuing his MFA in Poetics and Creative writing at the University of Washington to make sure that he becomes sufficiently pretentious.

Evelyn Frankforter Evelyn Frankforter is a writer and Culture, Literature, and the Arts student at University of Washington Bothell. Her writing frequently focuses on embracing and explaining emotions and feelings that are often thought to be undesirable. She writes from her home in Bothell, Washington, where she works on her forthcoming debut novel Crying Dungeon.

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Gabe Vu Gabe is a freshman undergraduate student who likes to draw in his free time.

Hadiya Amjad Hadiya Amjad is a full-time neuroscientist-in-training and part-time writer. Her poetry reflects the inner feelings of healing from a damaging childhood. When she’s not writing or studying the brain, Hadiya enjoys to taking care of her plants and spending time with her chosen family.

Heikki Huotari Heikki Huotari, on a hunger strike in opposition to the war in Vietnam, was courtmartialed for refusing to eat. Since retiring from academia/mathematics, he has published more than 400 poems in literary journals, including Pleiades, Spillway, the American Journal of Poetry and Willow Springs, and in six chapbooks and six collections. He has won one book and two chapbook prizes. His Erdős number is two.

Hong Nguyen Hong is an engineering student at the University of Washington (Bothell) with a passion for art. She enjoys creating pieces that carry deep, multi-layered meanings and resonate with others’ emotions. She believes that art and science are interconnected fields, and when combined together, they form a beautiful world.

J. Yuen J. Yuen (they/them) is a psychology major at UWB who continues to enjoy petting their two cats and wishes that writing came easier to them.

Jacqueline Gordon Jacqueline Gordon is a Seattle-based poet whose work focuses on depicting the many global and personal impacts of climate change. She holds an English degree from UC Davis and her work has been published in Open Ceilings Magazine. She also puts out work on her own website, carpenoctumpoetry.com.

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Jai Maharaj My name is Jai Maharaj. I am a passionate writer whose work explores a wide variety of themes. Some of which include personal motifs and individual philosophy. In much of what I do, I draw inspiration from TV shows, movies, music, and video games. I love creating works with deep narrative and emotion. Currently I am a pre-major, going into the physics field. Along with writing, I engage in other forms of art such as music and photography.

Jane Snyder Jane Snyder’s stories have appeared in Blue Lake, Quibble, and Heavy Feather. She lives in Spokane.

Joan Mazza Joan Mazza worked as a medical microbiologist, psychotherapist, and taught workshops on understanding dreams and nightmares. She is the author of six self-help psychology books, including Dreaming Your Real Self (Penguin/Putnam). Her poetry has appeared in The MacGuffin, Atlanta Review, The Comstock Review, Prairie Schooner, Slant, Poet Lore, and The Nation. She lives in rural central Virginia.

Joan McBride Joan McBride was recently featured in a three-woman anthology, North Creek. Her poems previously appeared in Raven Chronicles, Sky Island Journal, Nightshade, and Clamor. She holds an MFA degree from Spalding University. Joan is a retired elected official and lives in Kirkland.

John Grey John Grey is an Australian poet and US resident, recently published in New World Writing, North Dakota Quarterly and Tenth Muse. His latest books Between Two Fires, Covert, and Memory Outside The Head are available through Amazon. Work upcoming in HaightAshbury Literary Journal, Amazing Stories and River and South.

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Jonathan Fletcher Jonathan Fletcher holds a Master of Fine Arts in Creative Writing from Columbia University School of the Arts. His work has been featured in numerous literary journals and magazines, and he has won or placed in various literary contests. A Pushcart Prize, Best of the Net, and Best Microfiction nominee, he won Northwestern University Press’s Drinking Gourd Chapbook Poetry Prize contest in 2023, for which his debut chapbook, This is My Body, was published in 2025. Currently, he serves as a Zoeglossia Fellow and lives in San Antonio, Texas.

Kacey Fritz Born and raised in Seattle Washington, Kacey’s visual art experience resides in wall murals, charcoal, and acrylic paint. She is currently a student at the University of Washington studying fine art. She has worked with clients to create wall hangings and large-scale murals in their homes and/or education spaces. Her true passion is working with clients to develop personalized visions for their unique spaces. To her, art has always been a safe place to explore emotion and a tangible way to create joy, so she chose this path to help pursue her goal of uplifting others in a creative way.

Kara Nilsson Kara Nilsson is a senior at UW Bothell majoring in Data Visualization and enjoys the creative classes that are part of IAS. Katherine Ray Kat Ray is a full-time student at the University of Washington currently pursuing a B.S. in psychology as well as a B.A. in art with a photomedia concentration. She has an interest in exploring the connections humans have with each other, our built environments, and the natural world. A passion for photography was fostered at a young age by her grandparents, all of whom she misses dearly. She loves books, hockey, and fluffy pajama pants. Yes, she would love to see a picture of your dog.

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Kaylin Francis My name is Kaylin Francis. Working with fiber has led me on a journey of self-discovery and taking chances. I fell in love with fiber at the age of twelve, and that love has continued to grow and evolve over time. It all started with cross-stitch, then moved to needlepoint, then on to making traditional quilts, which led me to making fiber art.

All this has led me to earning a BFA in Craft at the Oregon College of Art and Craft, in Portland, Oregon, where I added natural and synthetic dyeing, felting, weaving, and screen-printing to my fiber repertoire.

Kenneth Pobo Kenneth Pobo (he/him) is the author of twenty-one chapbooks and nine full-length collections. Recent books include Bend of Quiet (Blue Light Press) and Loplop in a Red City (Circling Rivers). His work has appeared in Asheville Poetry Review, North Dakota Quarterly, Amsterdam Quarterly, Nimrod, Mudfish, Hawaii Review, and elsewhere.

Korede Oseni Korede Oseni is a Nigerian poet, writer and interdisciplinary artist. Korede writes across various genres including non-fiction, prose, poetry and multimedia. Korede’s work comprises themes of abstraction, immigration, identity, African and Nigerian culture and experiences. Korede obtained an MFA in Creative Writing & Poetics at the University of Washington Bothell in June 2024 and published her first collection of poems, Thoughts of a Wandering Mind, in 2022. Korede is a UWB MFA Alumni, Pride Scholar, and Gamut Literary Series Curator from 2022-2024. Her work has appeared in the UWB Clamor Journal, UWB Library Community Reads and elsewhere.

Leiney Gamache Leiney Gamache is a senior at UWB majoring in Interdisciplinary Studies of Social Science and minoring in Policy Studies.

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Marcella Doan Marcella Doan is a Computer Science and Creative Writing Minor at UW Bothell. She loves to write and hates it when her brain sucks her down into an endless loop, so she decided to put it on pape — only after staring at it for a day of course.

Marissa Gubbels Marissa is a graduating senior majoring in Interdisciplinary Arts at the University of Washington Bothell. Since childhood, she has been creating art, seeing it not only as a passion but also as a way of connecting with others. As an empath, Marissa cares deeply about the people around her and the world she lives in — values that continually inspire and shape her creative work. After graduating, she aspires to build a career in visual effects and stage design for concerts, combining her artistic vision with technical skill to create immersive experiences. Outside of her artistic pursuits, Marissa enjoys figure skating, traveling, making jewelry, photography, and spending time with her dogs Juno and Periwinkle.

Mariyah Marneice Hicks Mariyah Hicks is a 1st year undergraduate student attending the University of Washington Bothell, to major in Media and Communications and minor in Business. Mariyah was born and raised in Great Falls, Montana. Mariyah has a passion for dancing, writing, public speaking, and doing hair. In her free time, she enjoys cooking, working out, exploring, and just about any creative activity.

Mei Hanway Mei Hanway is a 4th-year student at the University of Washington Bothell, studying Business Administration with a concentration in Marketing and a minor in Visual and Media Arts. She has been passionate about drawing and painting for as long as she can remember. Mei works across a variety of visual media, including drawing, painting, photography, digital art, mixed media, and sewing. She enjoys every aspect of the creative process and has learned a lot through trial and error. Mei can get lost in the fun little details and often spends hours working on commissions from her business, MeiH.creates.

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Mia Trajano Mia Isabella Trajano is a 19 year old UWB Student, with an associates arts degree in Fine Arts pursuing an Interdisciplinary Arts Bachelors Degree. She’s passionate about creating art. morgan fu-mueller morgan fu-mueller is a Psychology major, an artist, a writer, and a huge fan. They work in the Writing and Communication Center, and on the UWB CROW Board. They have had a lifelong passion for metaphor and big long words. Their work is about love, and love, and love. Find them on Instagram @gaming.phd, and on campus by the sound of jingling.

Mynisha McGrew Mynisha McGrew is a Senior at University of Washington Bothell. She loves writing poetry in her free time, because it’s a way of expressing herself freely with no restraints. She also enjoys drawing, painting, anime, and building legos.

NP Creed NP Creed is a graduate of the UW Bothell School of Interdisciplinary Arts and Sciences.

He works to better his life with words and actions while learning about being on the spectrum, facing severe depression, and being part of new experiences in an everchanging world.

Natalie Alvis Natalie Alvis, 26, a recent graduate of UW Bothell has interdisciplinary experience in the arts with a focus on writing and poetry. Her work focuses on introspection and how the self fits into the world.

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Nathalie Vandenbrouck (a.k.a. SamArchi) Sam is a multidisciplinary artist who earned a Master of Architecture with a specialization in urban planning and 3D rendering. Further studies in 2D and 3D digital softwares and ceramics expanded Sam’s creative approach. Training as an Environmental Steward with the Tilth Alliance deepened her understanding of the natural world. Coursework in Public Art & Ecological Restoration along with Image & Imagination taken at the University of Washington enriched Sam’s perspective. Currently based in the Pacific Northwest, Sam continues to explore the intersections of art, design, and the environment.

Nathane Cavalier Nathane Cavalier is a Mexican poet whose work explores intricate and hidden meanings, inviting readers to discover personal interpretations within each line. She believes poetry speaks to everyone, regardless of language.

Noah Medvinsky Noah Medvinsky enjoys doing jiu-jitsu and wanted to involve passion with art.

Noor Alnaaz Islam Noor Alnaaz Islam is a poet, performing artist, and philosophy scholar, based in Seattle.

Nuha Sabbah Nuha Sabbah is a visually-impaired Palestinian-American artist and student at the University of Washington Bothell. With a deep passion for self-expression, she channels her personal experiences into poetry and visual art. Her work explores themes of identity, adversity, and emotional expression, weaving words and images into compelling narratives. As a poet, Nuha captures the beauty and complexity of her experiences, while her visual art speaks to her creative versatility. Balancing academics and artistic pursuits, she aspires to make a meaningful impact through her creations, celebrating the richness of her roots and inspiring others to embrace their own stories.

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Nya Simone Maddox Nya Maddox is a sophomore at UW Bothell who enjoys reading, visiting parks, and collaging in their spare time.

Pablo José Mejia Pablo Mejia (who writes under the name “Pablo José”) has been writing poetry for a number of years. He uses poetry as a format of journaling — writing about events, places, and people past and present alike. He writes with a uniquely distinct sense of intimacy and is not afraid to be genuine with his interpretations of the source material from his personal life. He is a self-published author. His first publication, “Blue Recollection”, was released in May of 2024, and his second publication “Tied Iron Fence”, was released Christmas Day 2024. All of his publications are available on Amazon.

Patty Paine Patty Paine is the author of Grief & Other Animals (Accents Publishing), The Sounding Machine (Accents Publishing), and three chapbooks. She edited Gathering the Tide: An Anthology of Contemporary Arabian Gulf Poetry and The Donkey Lady and Other Tales from the Arabian Gulf. Her writing and visual work have appeared in Blackbird, Adroit, Gulf Stream, Waxwing, Thrush, ctrl-v, The South Dakota Review, and other publications. She is the founding editor of Diode Poetry Journal, and Diode Editions, and is Director of Liberal Arts & Sciences at VCUarts Qatar.

Prince Netters Prince Netters was born black and queer in Southern Louisiana. They are an academic in practice and and artist in theory.

Rajbir Singh Sandhu Rajbir Sandhu, a senior at the University of Washington Bothell began exploring creative writing through his coursework, discovering a passion for expressing ideas and emotions.

Beyond writing, he enjoys other creative outlets, like cooking.

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Reyanna Falcatan Reyanna Falcatan is currently a University of Washington Bothell Senior! Reyanna Falcatan graduate Spring 2025 and am ecstatic to share the artwork. Reyanna Falcatan comes from a Filipino-American background with a great and supportive group of friends and family.

Rory Comstock Rory (he/him) is a digital artist that likes to explore complex themes through animal characters.

Rose Rickey Rose is a sapphic writer and musician who loves her two cats and hates capitalism. She dreams of writing stories, composing video game soundtracks, and eating good food for the rest of her life.

Roswell Sass Roswell Sass (they/them) is a third year IAS student double majoring in Culture, Literature, & the Arts, and Environmental Studies, and is also a UW Bothell Student Ambassador. Born and raised in Seattle, they like to explore themes such as childhood nostalgia and growing up trans in their work. Their hobbies include digital art, digital writing, starting and never finishing video games, and wearing headphones all day.

Rowan Lee Hwa Rowan Lee Hwa is a photographer and writer. She favors portrait photography.

Sanya Sahni Second year student at UW Bothell, absolutely loves cats and chocolate.

Sarah King-Scott Sarah K. is a writer and visual artist from Shoreline, Washington. She has previously been published in Clamor 2021 and has showcased her visual art at Lifelong Art Walk.

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Suet Yu Cheng Suet Yu Cheng, aka Rainie, is a junior at UW Bothell currently taking up a Bachelor’s Degree in Interdisciplinary Arts. She firmly believes that art has great relevance and significance to individuals and society. She hopes that her works can trigger thinking and resonance among viewers, promote communication and interaction between people, convey ideas through art and arouse people’s attention and understanding of important social issues.

Taha Hasan Bhatti Taha Bhatti is currently a junior at the University of Washington Bothell, working towards a degree in Computer Science & Software Engineering.

Taro Williams Taro Williams (he/they) is a Canadian multidisciplinary artist and writer raised in the east-end of Tkaronto/Toronto. His work has previously been published in School Schmool (2022, 2023), Ex-Puritan (2024), Auvert Magazine (2024), Moss Puppy Press (2024), the Asian Arts and Cultural Trust (2024), Your Impossible Voice (2024), The Hemlock Journal (2024), Squid Magazine (2024,2025), and Manic World Magazine (2025).

Thao Pham Thao Pham is a senior at the University of Washington Bothell pursuing a degree in Supply Chain Management. Her artwork often reflects her cultural heritage and personal journey, using a blend of traditional and contemporary elements to tell meaningful stories.

Born to Vietnamese parents, her creative work is inspired by themes of identity, family, and the connection between past and present. Beyond her artistry, Thao is passionate about solving complex problems in global supply chains and aims to combine her analytical skills with creativity to create impactful solutions. She enjoys traveling, and reconnecting with her roots through cultural expressions.

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Thea Rowden Thea Rowden spends most of her time outside of class either drawing, reading, writing, or playing video games. None of her hobbies have helped her tendonitis and other wrist issues, which she continues to ignore. Thea likes the color blue way too much, and uses it in almost everything she draws.

Tom Nettles Tom Nettles is an aspiring fantasy writer, novelist, and poet living in the greater Seattle area with his four cats and two dogs. Tom has learned that what makes stories so important is their transformative power to change how a person perceives themselves and the world around them. He works to expand this sense of possibility as much as possible, and to create stories that people can learn from, become challenged or comforted by, and grow into.

Vitoria Ramos Vitoria Ramos is a queer neurodivergent hybrid writer born and raised in the Pacific Northwest. She writes about the universe, the natural world, desire and memory.

Wei-Yen Liao Wendy is an Environmental Studies major with a minor in Gender, Women, and Sexuality Studies. Originally from the vibrant island of Taiwan, she is passionate about exploring the intersections of environmental issues and social dynamics. Beyond her academic pursuits, Wendy enjoys playing the piano, singing, and capturing moments through photography. She firmly believes in the importance of self-care and environmental stewardship, advocating for a world where people and nature thrive together.

Zach Murphy Zach Keali’i Murphy is a Hawaii-born writer with a background in cinema. His stories appear in The MacGuffin, Reed Magazine, The Coachella Review, Lunch Ticket, Raritan Quarterly, Another Chicago Magazine, Little Patuxent Review, Flash Frog, and more. He has published the chapbook Tiny Universes (Selcouth Station Press). He lives with his wonderful wife, Kelly, in St. Paul, Minnesota.

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Zachary Lanoux Zachary Lanoux studied Culture, Literature, and the Arts at the University of Washington Bothell. He is a photographer based in Seattle, Washington and specializes in nature and cultural photography. He strives to capture and document the world around him with minimal personal influence and biases, while at the same time creating works that evoke an emotional response and invite story telling through the viewer’s lens.

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Web Exclusives

Alexis Kang, I Dream of Nihility, Visual Art Amal Deria, Beyond the Forest, Visual Art Angelica Urquizo, Desire, Creative Writing Ann Howells, Here Ghosts Walk, Creative Writing Anoop Prasad, Niagara River Rapids, Visual Art Anoop Prasad, Lunchtime Buzz, Visual Art Ariel Burns, Pastoral Solitary, Visual Art Ashley Tsang, Sunny Side Up, Visual Art Asia Ashley, On Tomorrow, Creative Writing Aurelia Jacquelinne, Acceptance, Visual Art Briseldy Hernandez-Ramos, Minecraft Audios and I, Creative Writing Cedrick Tsongo, Flourish, Visual Art Christian Hardt, Wake Up, Creative Writing Coleen Tecson, Girlhood=Resistance, Visual Art Dan Nguyen, The Storm, Creative Writing Donna Sullivan, Red Guitar Blues, Visual Art Ella Silvas, Homage to Tabaimo, Video & Audio Emilia Hommestaad, Leaves That Fall Where I Walk, Creative Writing Erica Gill, Disembodied, Visual Art Erik Keevan, Word Spiral, Visual Art Erik Keevan, Spectrum, Video & Audio Frances Frances, Franny Sloane and the Fornicator, Creative Writing Heikki Huotari, wherein I practice what I preach, Creative Writing Hong Nguyen, Dream of Flying, Visual Art J Alter, HYPERSTIMULATED, Visual Art Jay Reyes, Waianae Crossing, Visual Art John Grey, Life Goes On With Heavy Equipment, Creative Writing John Tavares, The Rains, Creative Writing Jonathan Fletcher, The Oregon Trail, Creative Writing Joy Nashaat, Please Stay, Creative Writing Kairi Oswald, It’s Routine, Creative Writing Kaiser Lee, HAZE (Splashart), Visual Art

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Kalid Jama, Puntland: A poem of strength and grace., Creative Writing Kenneth Pobo, Forever, Creative Writing Khoi Nguyen Pham Tran, Jump, Visual Art Leanne Machado, Green Stop Sign, Creative Writing Leen Ghazal, Comparison.. The Thief of Joy, Video & Audio Manmeet Oberoi, Static, Video & Audio Mariyah Marneice Hicks, Moving Forward, Visual Art Mian Ting Yeh, Rushing Blue, Visual Art Minji Choi, Where I Am From, Creative Writing Natalie Alvis, Aisthetes, Visual Art Natasha Gardner, Flesh-Tide Rift, Visual Art Nathane Cavalier, Beyond the lies, Creative Writing Navarre Kerr, Replenish, Visual Art Navarre Kerr, Transcedence, Visual Art Nawal Abdullahi Haji, What is Womanhood?, Visual Art Pablo José Mejia, Owner of the CD Player, Creative Writing Paul Soper, Dying Breed, Visual Art Paul Soper, Digitized Tangibility, Visual Art Paul Soper, Vicarious Myriad, Visual Art Sarah Khalil, Empty Promises, Creative Writing Sarah Khalil, Heartbreaking Things, Creative Writing Sarah King-Scott, Bad Days, Creative Writing Shoshana Epstein, A triad of thoughts, Creative Writing Sirius Sheng, Shackles, Visual Art Sophia Vanderheiden, Memento Mori, Visual Art T. Andre Mintz, Statistics, Creative Writing Tori Thach, Burning Flames, Video & Audio Valierie Rathsabanhdith, Escapism, Visual Art Valierie Rathsabanhdith, Me Against the World, Visual Art Wei-Yen Liao, Edge, Creative Writing Winola Tan, Algae in Climate Change, Visual Art Clamor

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Clamor

cla-mor | verb | \’kla-m r\

1. to make a loud uproar, as from a crowd of people; popular outcry 2. to publicly express (as of support or protest) 3. to make a vehement expression of desire or dissatisfaction

Clamor is the University of Washington Bothell’s annual Literary and Arts Journal, representing the best creative practices in literacy, visual, and media arts from across our campus and surrounding community.

Our goal is to support and promote captivating, inspiring, and lively art in the forms of visual, literary and media work. We provide artists and authors with publication opportunities through our print edition, media publication platforms, and website. We foster community by reaching beyond UW Bothell Campus borders for creative works and by offering audiences quality recording, viewing and listening experiences.

Staffed by an editorial board of current UW Bothell Students, Clamor accepts submissions annually in Autumn & Winter.

Visit clamor.submittable.com to learn more!

We are graciously supported by the UWB Services and Activities Fees Committee.

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