Issuu

CLEVER FOX L I T E R A RY M AG A Z I N E

1I SS U E

002

Letter from the

editors

Since our first issue back in June of 2021, a lot of exciting changes have happened to the Clever Fox team. One thing has remained the same though, and that is our love for literature and our enthusiasm for sharing beautiful works of writing and art with the world at large. We thank you, dear reader, for sticking with us, for supporting writers and artists who love what they do, and for rooting for our little magazine that could. Enjoy this second issue!

-Nikki & Elaina CFLM Editors

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FICTION Minnows and Supernovas | Mira Jiang Reincarnation 42 | Katrina Mercado Zoonotic | Wyatt Schuerman

10-11 12-13 14-16

Imperfection | Sherry Kerlin

Pablo Picasso following Marie Therese through the Streets of Paris | Sherry Kerlin

COVER & PHOTO CREDITS 18 19 20 21-22 22

26-27 27

Poetry Warmed, grudgingly by Jesse Russell I have a friend who is powered by the sun. Seriously. Sun comes up, she wakes up. Sun goes down, she goes down— like a submarine with no propulsion, like a glass-jawed prizefighter addicted to the canvas, she goes down. We used to argue— day and night, sun and moon— but no longer. The light is on her side, and I tend to wither.

Jesse Russell

Jesse Russell is a current graduate student at North Central College, studying professional and creative writing.

I have loved by Corey Mesler I have loved many things in my life: books, music, movies. I have loved authors who are like chain lightning. I have loved albums full of flowers. I have loved films that are not like dreams but are still dreams. I have loved many people: women, men, children. I have loved animals, the richness of the world like an endless river. I have loved you, too, gentle reader. Right now, I wish you were here. How I would talk to you in the language of birds and you would respond because you love me too. You love me so much.

Corey Mesler

Corey Mesler has been published in numerous anthologies and journals including Poetry, Gargoyle, Five Points, Good Poems American Places, and New Stories from the South. He has published over 20 books of fiction and poetry. His newest novel, The Diminishment of Charlie Cain, 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.

CONTENT WARNING: The following piece contains content that some readers may find upsetting. TW: Body Dismorphia and Eating Disorders

broken heart archive by A.H. Bombini sometimes the people you want to care the most are the people who couldn’t be bothered to care at all I looked in my mirror today. Top and shorts, I had little rolls of back skin just loose enough to grab. Disgusting. It sounds disgusting and it feels worse. Like every minute, ounce that I add each day is worse. Five foot five and three quarters. Four. Four pounds. Two hundred and four pounds of disgusting flesh and bone fat. Just the other day I was asked the question “if you punch yourself and it hurts are you too strong or too weak?”. If you try to starve yourself and it works, are you too strong or too weak? Is it weak to want to know the answer? To feel the answer? To be the answer? Or is it too strong to succeed? To look at the calories and saturated fats, to hold back? To stop. Text from Anna: “have u eaten”

Reply: “yes” I say yes, what I mean is “no”. What I mean is “no but yes”. What I mean is, “no i have not but a chicken burrito and large dr pepper sounds pretty good right now”. Or not just now, anytime. All the time. Apple cider vinegar. Hell of a treatment. “Diffuse 2 tablespoons of Apple Cider Vinegar in a mug of hot water and Voila! belly-fatgoodbye-for-good tea!” I wish. The vinegar burns my throat akin to how the cursed number burns my tongue, my mind. The vinegar sets in my nose, the stench replicating Good Friday, Easter egg decorating every year 6pm sharp. Eggs. Birth. Rebirth? Rebirth. Like a phoenix from its fire! Like the soot, dust and ash. From the beautiful to the ugly back to a form with such elegance and grace, all imperfection is wiped. Why aren’t I like that? I may have been beautiful once, now like a tree burnt and withered, now decomposed to the ground. Ground like the soil, the fertilized, full of life earth. The soil which all

creatures have made their path, to walk upon as they please. Walkways and walkways and walkways. Am I the path? To be walked on and strutted on and treaded on for the rest of time? There are many things I don’t understand, sex, finance, chemistry mostly, but one I can understand is that the only way I can change my self is to hate myself My insecurities ignite similar to the way one match can start a fire. There’s a red-hot blaze that roars in my mind, a color so vibrant that it would envy the hottest of fires. I am engulfed in the flames, I am caught in the wreckage. jealousy is a funny thing, the way it comes and goes like a wave. like a sea of envy green so strong it knocks me off my feet where I am carried by streams and rivers of anger.

a.h. Bombini

A.H. Bombini is a young person with a love for poetry, despite their reluctance to write. Inspired by a passion for lyricism and a distaste for the spotlight, they use their poems as a way to express the intensity of emotion while remaining enigmatic and private. They’ve lived in the Chicagoland area their entire life, and have no intention of leaving anytime soon. Since the initial writing of the archive in 2017, Bombini has seen plenty of personal growth & accomplishment, and is looking forward to where their journey leads them next.

The flood of ‘19 by Kate Wexell Warning! The National Weather Service has issued a severe thunderstorm warning for the area of St. Louis County! Warning! Warning! Warning... The devil’s sailed up the River Styx, A mile wide and rising fifty feet. You better get out of St. Louis quick. He’s building Atlantis brick by brick, Recruiting tenants to bow at his underground seat. The devil’s sailed up the River Styx. The earth trembles and quakes in fear of his trick. The people of Alton make his deal complete. You better get out of St. Louis quick. And those who refuse to make the pen click Lie with the fish in great defeat. The devil’s sailed up the River Styx. His boys from Texas lassoed clouds that are thick And brought them up north like a black sailing fleet: You better get out of St. Louis quick, For the monstrous rain even kills candle wicks, And the torrents drown the world in blue sheets. The devil’s sailed up the River Styx. You better get out of St. Louis quick.

Kate Wexell

Kate Wexell is a student and piano teacher from the St. Louis Metro East region. She is a staff writer for “The Diversity Story” and the author of a poetry book. Some of her hobbies include horseback riding, genealogy, baking, and photography. Photography on page 9.

rise above by j.m. Rise over fear, sweet one. Over pain. Over hate. These things do not suit you well For you were born with angels wings.

Jesse Macarthur

Jesse MacArthur is a father, a husband, a poet, and a dreamer. He is Canadian born and raised, but currently living in Washington State. He wants the world to see and know love and raw emotion.

My home in Arkansas by Aly Moosa Inspired by Maya Angelou’s My Arkansas: My home knows a relentless brooding. Ceiling tiles like dried honeycombs, their queens: guillotined, turning bodies to black ash. Red rock and wood are meshed into the floor like Noah’s Ark, glazed with a charred maroon. Sun enters the room like kaleidoscope, jagged and fierce, And, in the flight, shadows are eclipsed, and out-shined. Shunned at dawn as the sky cries for dusk, light no longer sleeps in my sanctuary. All things disappear in the dark yet tomorrow fills today like white noise, but not enough to balance the air with sonder. Unlike vignette vines, My home in Arkansas only tells one story. It never ends or seems to begin, like charcoal that won’t become white or brittle. It aches in the mundane flames of brooding: a fire that re-fuses to turn cold.

Aly Moosa

Aly Moosa is a poet from Dallas, TX. Aly dives into numerous forms of art to explicate the stories that flow out of him. He takes pride in his poetry and focuses on performing to inspire others like him to use their voice. Aly will be attending Yale University in the fall, pursuing poetry and continuing to master his craft.

diminished visibility 7

by Louis Staeble | Bio on page 27

Medium: Digital Photography

Wire8 Wrapping by Louis Staeble | Bio on page 27 Medium: Digital Photography

“Clever fox Chess” by John “Hoss” Taylor| Bio on page 26 Medium: Pen Ink on Paper

dsc_0292 by Kate Wexell | Bio on page 5 Medium: Digital Photography

Fiction CONTENT WARNING: The following piece contains content that some readers may find upsetting. TW: Abuse, self-harm, suicide

It’s just perfume, ma’am, and, oh—it looks like someone left a USB drive in the corner. A person crying behind a bolted door. Old test papers littering the back halls. Kids arriving at school with black eyes or limps in their step. Tripped over the flagpole again. Yeah, I know, it was the curb last month. I’m just so clumsy sometimes. Look closer now.

Minnows and supernovas by Mira Jiang My town is a suburb in the truest sense of the word. Take the freeway east and you reach towering steel-and-glass skyscrapers that loom overhead like temples maintained by the dark-suited men in the streets. An hour’s drive in the opposite direction brings sunflower fields and grazing cows grazing fenced in by barbed wire. There is a ranch behind the high school with horses galloping behind a thin copse of trees. Some days, the summer wind carries the reek of manure all the way to the pastel ice cream shops across the street. Yet the people here work in office buildings—many of us have never ridden a horse bareback or raked a hay bale or know how it feels to wrangle cattle into a pen as the sun slips beneath the horizon like a golden teardrop. The local park is packed on the Fourth of July when I lay in the fields with my tongue dyed blue by ocean freeze snow cones. The band seems determined to make us all go deaf, but it is quiet on the other side of the lake where the fireworks streak across a smoky sky. The town comes out to the Friday night football games, and time passes to clanging cowbells in the student section. Kids slide down the hill beside the stadium on flattened boxes while their families spread picnic blankets outside the mesh wire fence. The tree lights blink to life each year surrounded by hot chocolate stalls. Christmas glow parades wind along the tinsellined paths of the town hall. I go home those nights with numb fingers and warmth in my chest. But look closer and see us, truly see us, for what we hide. Slurs sprayed neon yellow on the paths of the same park where fireworks had lit up the sky. Students standing alone on graduation day with trembling smiles fixed on their faces. Don’t worry about me, Ms. Jali. Something must have come up for my folks last minute. Beat up sedans zooming down the streets, white powder bags and crumpled bills littered across the passenger seat. Bathroom mirrors wreathed in cotton candy smoke.

There is a girl with a quick laugh and a permanent smile. After all, it’s easier to be happy than afraid. The world tells us to confront our demons, to face our fears through pain and sweat and sacrifice and emerge stronger on the other side. But how do you fight a monster who shares your blood and your name and the same broken home? She finds solace in a string of boys instead. Boys who take her away from her broken farce of a picket fence home. Who treat her like a queen then discard her like a worn out toy. She dreams of escaping down south to San Antonio where she can study in coffee shops and stroll on the riverwalk. The sunlight will be brighter when she is out of her family’s shadow. In the meantime, the harsh burn of vodka and acid tabs dissolving on her tongue works as a substitute. If she squints just right, the haze in her vision almost looks like city lights. She spends some nights with the number to CPS dialed in her phone, her thumb hovering above the call button as her father rages outside her room. But she remembers her half siblings, barely old enough to walk. Thinks of little Jason waking alone in the dark on scratchy sheets, thinks of baby Alex who still cries when he drops his stuffed tiger at the dining room table, thinks of wayward sons and waif stepmothers and homes splintered like the barns out west. She never presses it in the end. Instead, she bears her father’s anger, bears his wife’s neurotics, bears the strain of cracks on a trembling porcelain facade. Only a year left. Only a year. There is also a boy with a tongue sharper than razor blades. People used to make fun of him for coming from the wrong side of the tracks. Redneck. Trailer trash. Hillbilly. They don’t anymore. Not since he learned to wear his barbs like armor that turn to wounds raking down his arms. I remember the winter he was missing for two weeks, not a trace nor a whisper—must be some flu, the teachers said. He returned with bruise-like circles beneath his eyes, his skin pasty white under the fluorescent lights. For a while, he wore his

hoodies everywhere. Doesn’t show the lines, can’t show the pain. Then there was a child, only a year or two older than me at the time. I remember his name whispered through the halls like a taboo, as if uttering it was a sin. As if he could be forgotten if we did not acknowledge him. The pain he suffered did not disappear with him either. His family bears the burden now. His sister looks at the dining room table in the morning and remembers the way he used to eat his Lucky Charms. Marshmallows first, then the actual cereal only after they had turned soggy from sitting in the milk too long. She used to tease him for it. I wonder if they carry a part of the guilt too, the boys who drove him to take his own life. But they were only children like him, cruel as they had been. I talk to one of them every morning at the bus stop, and he speaks as if he measures the weight of every word that leaves his mouth. I think he knows their power. I think he’s afraid of it. The villains in real life are never truly villains in the end. Perhaps that is why I take such comfort in stories. It is easier to fight familiar monsters, to be able to condemn someone as a villain because they are evil by nature. So when heroes are hurt, they know who to strike against. But you cannot fight the seed planted by someone in a moment of carelessness, a seed that blossoms into a terrible creature roaring inside. Believe me, I’ve tried. I do not have the power to fix their problems with a stroke of a pen. I can only hold them as they cry and let them know that they matter to someone in this world. Right before they get lost in the sea of faces that pack the halls after the static buzz of the school bell. And this is only my corner of the town. If this were a story, perhaps the girl would save the boy, and they would find a way out together. Maybe the child would have stood up to his tormentors and made it through the fog that had seemed impenetrable at the time. His sister would still have someone to flick cereal at in the morning. They might have met up in San Antonio, the child no longer a child, the girl no longer afraid, the boy no longer in pain. I picture them standing in the sunlight and eating gelato beside the cracked limestone of the Alamo. But lives do not always collide like the meetings of supernovas against a star drenched sky. Instead our struggles slip past as minnows in a stream. Flashes of silver there one minute and gone the next.

Mira Jiang

Mira Jiang is a high school senior from Coppell, Texas. Her work has been published by various literary magazines including Flash Fiction Online and Hobart and recognized by the L. Ron Hubbard Writers of the Future Contest. She can often be found reading in trees or dancing in empty studio rooms. Flash fiction on page 22.

Reincarnation 42 by Katrina Mercado Mira Jane is a woman of many names and many faces. Once she was Lianne Igami, a Japanese-American teenager with immigrant parents. When they spoke to her as a child, they spoke to her in that broken English at home so that she could speak that perfect English at school. “Tell me about your family.” “My mom and dad come from Osaka. My older brother and I were born here,” Lianne answered with the emphasis in all the right places, the pronunciation just right. Yet, more than once, she was placed in English Second Language classes. “I don’t belong in this class.” The proficiency test that followed always proved her right.

On the 15th of July, she was born Lisbeth Rojas following the tragic end of Amanda Kirner. Later in life, she would come to study the cold case in an attempt to reopen the investigation.

At home, her parents spoke to one another in Japanese. So different from the jarred speech Lianne was used to, the words flowed out of their mouths like silk and dropped from her ears like cement, the words weighed down by her inability to understand them. Her brother would join the conversation, switching between the silk language and English to try to include Lianne. In her eyes, he was the lucky one. Taught to speak the native tongue before her parents figured that the best way to have an American child was to not have a Japanese child.

Things she learned about Amanda Kirner in the file: female, thirty-eight years old, high school teacher who taught Japanese. No husband, no family, she spent ten years in the foreign country learning the language, immersing herself in the culture. When she returned, she found fulfillment in teaching the language to her students. “Generally liked” and “mild-mannered” popped up several times in the report made by her students and colleagues.

“Zenbu wakarimashita ka?” Did you understand all of it? She shook her head. She heard this phrase enough to know it. * * * Mira Jane is a woman of many names and faces. Once she was a Jane Doe, lying in a morgue with broken ribs, milky eyes, and bloated skin. But before she was Jane Doe and alive she was Amanda Kirner, a teacher at a high school who went missing during the summer break only to turn up on the banks of a lake two states away. Along with the ribs, she had two broken legs, a fractured skull, and multiple lacerations. She was pronounced dead at the scene. The official news stated it was a hit-and-run. The remaining shards of glass and scrap metal embedded in her skin narrowed down possible cars, the lack of eyewitnesses couldn’t produce a possible suspect. Her body floated in the water. Her spirit floated in the sky. * * * Mira Jane is a woman with many names and faces.

Her disappearance caused concern and her death left the society in silence. She was mourned briefly but eventually forgotten underneath the brown grass of her gravestone. No one knew why Amanda Kirner was two states away from home but Lisbeth Rojas, a girl born after her death, knew. She learned it in her memories in the form of dreams, as she did in her many lives before. At first they were confusing and jumbled. They came to her like a hazy fog and slowly settled into a coherent cloud of memories. When Lisbeth first remembered Amanda Kirner’s end, she felt it in the way Kirner couldn’t. To Amanda Kirner, the impact was fast, too instantaneous to comprehend. Death came as swiftly as the headlights that blinded her in the moments before the crash. Lisbeth, however, could relive the experience over and over, replay it like a tape in her mind. It was like an out of body experience, peering into someone else’s life like a movie. Pause, fast forward, rewind, and repeat. In her memories she could see Kirner’s body bend to the shape of the hood of the car, then twist away from the impact. Her legs are the first to shatter, then the cage around her heart, and finally her head as it slams into the concrete. But it was not the impact that Lisbeth Rojas was interested in. It was the moment just before as Amanda Kirner glimpsed into the car before the lights consumed her eyes. Amanda Kirner knew her killer therefore Lisbeth Rojas knew the killer.

It was no accident.

part because her memories are the freshest, another because she had gone before she could achieve what she wanted. The disappointment flows into Mira Jane as if it were her own. It compels her to finish what Lisbeth started, haunts her though she has no ambition to do so. She wants to let it bypass into the next reincarnation. She wants to forgo it all. Leave it up to the next generation. But she cannot go on with her life in that fashion, ignoring the pangs of remorse when she can clearly finish the job. * * * Mira Jane is a woman with many names and faces. However, she can no longer recall her original name nor her original face. As with everything else, memories fade. Though time flies in each individual life, every reincarnation breaks its wings, sending it into a startling halt then starts all over again. What is the point? These are the startling last thoughts of Mira Jane. But what happened next was. Tragic as it was, it would be another automobile collision that would lead up to the birth of Mira Jane. * * * Mira Jane is a woman with many names and faces. Today her dark brown hair is pulled back in a bun. She lays on her back on a lawn chair soaking up the sun in the dry Arizona heat, sipping on a glass of lemon water. Her bronzed skin is spotted in freckles. Heartrimmed sunglasses rest on her heart-shaped face. She sighs into the surrounding heat. Her feet touch the cool surface of the water. Not quite breaking the surface, just gently gliding. The chlorine mixes with the scent of her sunblock. She stands beside the pool, her wet feet leaving a print before jumping into the water. Moments later she emerges, spilling some of the pool onto the cement. It seeps into microscopic specks. She traces the unrecognizable footprint with wet fingertips and watches as it seeps into nothingness, evaporating into the arid heat. Recently graduated, real-world bound, and hopelessly lost in the lives of the many women who came before her, Mira Jane revels in their memories and how they have seeped into her life now and yet have evaporated completely from existence to the rest of the world. Amanda Kirner who learned a language not her own to atone for Lianne Igami’s regrets; Lisbeth Rojas who dedicated her entire life to the capture of Amanda Kirner’s murderer, lives all strung together by regrets, mistakes, and guilt.

Her life, the countless other lives before hers, the countless other lives after hers, what was the point in it all? Tangled in the never-ending course of giving their lives to the lives before their own. Trying to fix the past by making it up in a new life. That is her curse—to live the lives of others, not her own. Forget the pressures of the outside world. Her burdens boil from the inside, spill into her life, and eventually leak into future selves. What would she contribute to the never-ending cycle? More death. There would be no end, just one last comforting image before her next life: The sky is an impressionist’s dream. Hues of violet and apricot daubed with ivory clouds. Beneath, she’s alone on an island. Finally alone. No past molding her, no future to shape. An island centered entirely on her. Living for no one but herself. Paradise. * * * Emily Park is a woman with many names and many faces. Emily Park, reincarnation 43.

Katrina Mercado

Katrina Mercado currently lives in Seattle, Washington where she interns remotely for literary agencies in New York. When she isn’t reading, she loves going on food adventures, binging her favorite shows, and spending her days among books as a bookseller. Her goal is to one day work in the book publishing industry and bring worlds other readers can get lost in to life.

She is particularly invested in Lisbeth Rojas, in

Zoonotic by Wyatt Schuerman Streets of Chicago run wild with panic. From the apartment window Tim sees people hunched over with estranged looks on their faces. They are trying to look into their stomach but they are unable to. Everywhere Tim looks there are people on the ground and confused like deer in headlights. Tim woke up 2 minutes ago to the sound of a dozen cars honking. He slept in late because he was up late playing video games with his roommate Blake. It is 10:05 in the morning on a Saturday. After watching the world outside his apartment for a few moments Tim calls his girlfriend Ash to make sure she is alright. Ash picks up the phone and explains that she is okay but her dad is feeling very sick. She tells Tim that her mom is taking her dad to the hospital and that she is scared to leave the house. Tim tells her that everything will be okay and they should try to meet at the Art Institute of Chicago. Tim hangs up and goes to his roommate’s bedroom to wake him up. Blake wakes up furiously asking why he was woken up. Tim explains the situation and Blake runs to the window with curiosity like a kid seeing Disney World for the first time. “This is like a movie!” Blake yells with excitement. “We have to be cautious if you plan on seeing your girlfriend. If it is an airborne disease then we need to wear masks. Some weapons will be helpful, for self defense of course.” Tim texts Ash to wear a mask. Meanwhile, Blake starts to pack supplies like clothes, food, and camping materials. They grab some t-shirts and cut off the sleeves for makeshift masks. Tim opens his laptop and searches the trending news. His eyes frantically read the screen as he scrolls for what feels like an hour. News around the world is reporting a mysterious outbreak of a disease with a mortality rate of 99%. Tim is a student at the University of Chicago studying biology with focus on the environment. He wants to protect the Earth’s remaining natural ecosystems and wildlife. Ever since an environmental class in high school Tim has had an interest in environmental issues. The world is recovering from climate change since President Biden rejoined the Paris agreement and pushed for renewable energy in 2021. It is 2116 and the planet has stopped warming for a few decades. Environmental injustices still occur and continue to be protested. Energy production is 85% renewable in the United States, and varying degrees in Europe. Asia is lagging behind in the renewable sector. However, they have reduced their reliance on animal agriculture since the COVID-19 outbreak and continue to eat meat on a sustainable method. Ash is a recent graduate from University of Chicago with a graphic design major. With her luck she immediately got a job at the Art Institute. She has a lot of the same beliefs as Tim with many aspirations to travel the world. Together they like to go on hikes and visit nature as much as humanly possible in a big city. Ash believes that no animal should suffer for her to thrive, therefore she is a vegan. Not eating animal products is a difficult choice when the market constantly puts milk in every product. She is a very independent woman that loves

experiencing new things. Before heading out, Tim and Blake decide to eat a heavy breakfast. Tim grabs his favorite peanut butter and chocolate cereal with almond milk. He notices Blake start to heat up a pan for sausages. Tim confronts him saying that he should eat something plant based with more carbs. Blake shrugs and turns off the stove. Tim pulls out a second bowl and fills it for his buddy. During their breakfast, Tim takes the time to thank Blake for trying something different, despite the circumstances. He advises Blake to reduce his meat consumption because of the personal, environmental, and animal welfare reasons. Blake thinks it is not possible to maintain a protein diet without meat. Tim wants to argue against that mindset, but he does not want to upset his friend any more than he has. Blake and Tim throw their dishes into the sink and make for the door. They leave their apartment into the hallway, acting like spies trying not to get seen by anyone. They hear a ruckus coming from the direction of the elevator so they turn towards the stairs. Heading down the stairs, their backpacks bounce heavily on their shoulders. They packed enough food and water for a couple days. Opening the door to the street was like beginning a new life in a video game. The sun was shining on the chaos in the streets of Chicago. There are bodies littering the sidewalk on each side of the street. Tim and Blake’s masks are on as they carefully make their way down the street towards the Art Institute. Tears start to fill in Tim’s eyes. He cannot comprehend the tragedy unfolding in front of him. “Dude this is insane!” Blake explains. “This is like the black plague or something we read about in 5th grade history class.” Tim turns his head and stares at Blake for a moment, then keeps walking. Halfway to the Art Institute they go down a back alley Tim has taken a handful of times to beat the pedestrian traffic. Blake spots a homeless man sitting up against the alley wall. Tim walks up to the man handing him a banana from his backpack.

Then Tim warns the man to be careful around others and to wear a mask if possible. Further down the alley Blake asks what that was about. Tim said that was Xavier, a homeless man he has helped on multiple occasions. Blake was shocked by this experience. He did not know his best friend was an even better person to other people.

from whatever this is!”

Taking a left out of the alley they can see the southern lion statue protecting the institute about a block away. By this time, most of the people wincing in pain were unconscious or dead. There were scattered echoes of ambulance sirens in the distance. Tim and Blake saw less than 10 living people on the block leading up to the institute. Tim decides to start jogging in case Ash is already there waiting. The stairs leading up to the building have 3 separate individuals crying over the bodies of others. Cars are on the sidewalk, some idled and some crashed into the concrete barriers.

“That is ridiculous!” Blake blurted out. “That is something directly out of a science fiction movie... Unless aliens are releasing the bugs to do the fighting for them.”

Tim sees Ash through the glass doors of the Art Institute. She opens the doors and runs into his arms. Their eyes both start to water with joy. Ash’s eyes are already bloodshot from intense crying. She breaks down in Tim’s arms explaining that her mom called with news of her dad’s passing. Her mom also mentioned that she is not feeling well, and will not be leaving the hospital. Ash is assuming the worst for her mother. Tim waves to Blake to let him know they are headed inside. Blake waves them onward as he meanders toward an abandoned hot dog stand. He finds a couple steaming dogs and makes them Chicago style. On the inside of the Institute, Tim and Ash recoup their emotions. They wait for Blake to arrive before discussing the game plan. Blake busts through the doors like he owns the place. He hugs Ash and gives his condolences. “We need to get out of the city.” Ash exclaims. “The longer we stay in a densely populated city, the more likely we are to die

“I 100% agree with you, but we don’t even know what caused this or how it spreads.” Tim insisted. “I think the masks are a good idea. However, maybe it is a small bug that flies and enters through our noses and lays eggs?”

“You thought I was being ridiculous, ha! Seriously, aliens?” “You both are being ridiculous.” Ash snapped. “There are no aliens or flying bugs. There may be parasites. We don’t know. We do know that humans are the only ones dying. Therefore, we need to get as far away from others as possible. Have you guys ever been told stories of the COVID outbreak in 2020 by your grandparents? It was started, I believe, by a bat or some wildlife in China. No matter the cause, humans are most likely a related factor.” The boys nod in agreement. Tim starts to think of all the nearby places he has gone to hike with Ash. Tim mentions the Indiana Dunes as one of the closest areas without human residents. Ash immediately considers taking kayaks, but she does not want to travel back into the city to retrieve them from her house. They decide to walk the coast. Blake’s phone said the walk would take about 15 hours. Then he checked how long a bike ride would take; four to five hours it read. Ash said she knows a bike rental station by the yacht club behind the Art Institute. A five minute walk to the bike sharing station and they each pay for a bike. Each of them has a backpack full of supplies. Their minds are in survival mode, worried that their stomachs might start aching. The journey out of the city has begun. The sun sets over the dunes as the group hops off their bikes. They have about 15 minutes of sun left. They are all craving something to eat. Blake takes initiative to start the fire. Tim and Ash start to set up the tent. They all feel more relaxed now that they are away from the city. Partway through setting up the tent, Tim wants to check up on Blake because he does not see or smell wood burning. He makes his way around a large bush to see his buddy kneeling on the beach, almost in the water. Tim runs to him, fumbling to replace his mask. “Hey! What’s wrong buddy?” Tim consoles. Blake groans and looks up to his best friend with grief. His face speaks a thousand words. “Why is this happening to me? I didn’t do anything wrong. I don’t deserve this.” Blake cries in the arms of his lifetime friend. His pain is overcome by his fear of death. Ash runs over and joins in comforting Blake. She holds one of his hands trying to keep him attentive. “Did you get close to anybody sick?” Ash is trying to figure this out before it’s too late.

Blake very slowly shakes his head. The sun is at its last light coming over the dune. He continues to shake his head as Ash riddles off questions. She looks up to Tim worried that they won’t find the answer. Tim tells her it’s okay and asks her for some space. Ash walks away across the beach. Together, Tim and Blake look out onto Lake Michigan as the sun sets to their west. The last sliver of sunlight leaves Blake’s face. The world feels as if it stopped moving. Blake stops breathing and his hand falls to the sand. Tim sits there, motionless, waiting for his eyes to open back up with life. Tears fall onto Blake’s shirt, almost creating a puddle. Ash comes back over to help Tim up and hug him. She brings him back to the tent for the night. In the morning, Tim wakes up early to collect large rocks. He does not have a shovel to bury his friend. Therefore he places the rocks over his body. Meanwhile, Ash is emptying their bags and examining their rations. She dumps out Blake’s bag and finds a package of raw sausages. Knowing it will not be good much longer, and that neither of them will eat it, she tosses into the forest behind the tent. All of a sudden Ash jumps up and runs to find Tim. Ash grabbed Tim by the shoulders, “Did Blake eat anything yesterday morning?” Tim nods his head and says they both had a vegan bowl of cereal. Ash shrugs and forgets her idea. Tim continues to pile the rocks. Ash was sure it had to do with something he ate, but according to Tim, maybe not. The two of them are alone in a national park. They have not had any outside contact for 12 hours. Worried that they may have received the illness, Ash becomes very anxious. Tim knows they cannot stay there forever and that they need to create a plan to get more supplies. He suggests they keep along the lake and head as far as they can in Michigan. Ash concurs with the idea. They decide to go after lunchtime. Around the campfire Tim and Ash cook some potatoes. By this time their phones are almost completely dead. As the two sit on a log waiting for their meal, something miraculous happened. Coming across the beach is a herd of white-tailed deer. The majestic bucks had antlers larger than they have ever seen. The animals looked oddly comfortable on the beach. As they passed by Blake’s grave, one of the bucks stopped momentarily, and bowed its head in his direction. A sign of respect for a lost loved one, or a sign of what is to come.

Wyatt Schuerman

My name is Wyatt Schuerman (sure-men). I am a Biology and Environmental Studies graduate from Aurora University. Working with nature and helping wildlife are passions of mine. My interest in helping the environment stemmed from an environmental science class in high school. From then on, I had a better understanding of human’s impact on the planet. Two years ago I made the decision to stop eating meat for health benefits, but more importantly, because of the impact it has on animals, the climate, and the environment. In Zoonotic, I illustrated a post-apocalyptic future created from an environmental catastrophe.

Between the willows 16

by Denise Oehl | Bio on page 26 Medium: Photography

Fishing village by Denise Oehl Bio on page 26 Medium: Photography

asleep by Robert Oehl Bio on page 26 Medium: Photography

Flash fiction & Micro A strange day by Rebecca Charmel “Well, you can stand here and look like an idiot. Or you can follow me through this creepy pipe. Which is it?” He wasn’t quite sure how he got here. Well, he did, but he didn’t fully understand how he got here. He didn’t understand what he did to get to this very point in time on this day. The girl before him tapped her foot against the muddy ground. The giant pipe behind her looming over them both. And he could have sworn he heard scratching sounds coming from the cave. “Yeah, no, I’m not going in there,” he said. The girl grumbled, looked behind her and held out her hand to the boy. “Come on already! Do you really want to get beaten up by those apes in leather jackets?” No, he really didn’t. He was about to cut and run off home when the sound of cars approached on top of the hill. When the sharp sounds of car doors slamming closed echoed throughout the small ravine, the girl grabbed his hand and pulled him into pipe. “What the hell-” “Shhh! Shut up!” She snapped. The further they went into the pipe the less light there was. The last thing he saw before the world went completely dark was her dark brown hair and green sports jacket. “Hey, chill out, they’ll never find us in here,” she soothed, as he accidentally ran in to her back. He regained balance and rubbed the back of his neck with his free hand. “Uh, sorry.” The drip of water droplets and the scratching only got louder, and while he wasn’t a coward being in a pipe in the dark with infuriated eighteen-year-olds was terrifying. They trudged through the muck and mud, and he felt that no matter how many times he showered he would never be clean. But the strange girls hand grounded him. They weren’t soft, like he expected a girl’s hands to be. They were calloused and rough, like she was a woman of the woods her whole life. Hoo boy, that was a thought. “Where are we going?” He asked as they took a left. “I can’t say, it’s a secret,” she eluded. “A secret base?”

She squeezed his hand and, despite it being completely dark, he could have sworn she shot him a dirty look. “You’re not gonna snitch, are you? Because I can be worse than those guys outside,” she threatened. “No! No, I won’t!” “Good. Come on, we’re almost there.” Suddenly, something furry and moist brushed past his leg. “WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT!” “Shut UP! God, it’s just Fox, relax,” The girl snarled, the focused her attention on the fox, “Hiya girl, caught any ten-year-old’s trying to be brave?” “Yip,” the fox yipped. “Is everyone else here?” She asked the fox. “Yip.” He put a look of confusion on his face. “Are you talking to a fox? You know it can’t understand you, right?” “She’s a very clever fox, for your information. She can take us to the others,” she informed, then going back to the fox, “lead on girl!” This time the fox didn’t yip, instead running off ahead. The only indicator of it moving was the scurrying sounds left behind. It wasn’t until he was being dragged along when he realized what she said. “Wait, others?”

Rebecca Charmel

Rebecca grew up in Northern New Jersey, only a couple miles away of New York City. Throughout her life she had an interest in storytelling and took to consuming any literary media she could. Using the vast geography of her home state to influence her stories. Over quarantine her passion for writing rekindled and she spread out her writing into more genres.

Diagnosis by Brandon Daily Daddy got sick yesterday, least that’s what Mama told us, me and Darrel. Darrel’s four years littler than me, so that makes him seven. When Mama told us, she sat us down at the table in the kitchen and said Daddy was sick. “Cancer,” she said. I’ve heard the word before, but I don’t know what it means, asides from it not being good. Mama was crying when she said it, and that made me cry. But I tried not to show it. Darrel went over and sat next to her and put his head on her shoulder and she put her head down on his and they sat there like that for a long while. I think she smiled. Maybe. But it was only for a second. Some minutes later, she looked over at the window and didn’t turn her eyes away from it, no matter how many times I said her name. “Mama,” I said, my voice getting quieter more each time. After a little while later, me and Darrel got up and left her there. Alone. Darrel went outside and I went upstairs and washed my face with cold water.

outside,” I said. “Walk out there and you’re walking on nothing but bones and skin and dried up dead things that aren’t anything anymore except dirt. We’re all going to die. You. Me. Mama. Daddy. It happens to all of us.” Darrel was quiet then. He might have cried, or he might not have. But after a few minutes I heard him breathing heavy and I knew he was asleep. I laid there and listened to him awhile. I hoped I was a liar. I hoped I didn’t know what I was talking about. Hoped that miracles were real and that maybe we don’t die. Not really. That maybe we just go to sleep and wait there til we wake up.

Brandon Daily

Brandon Daily is the author of two novels, “A Murder Country” and “The Valley,” as well as a collection of fiction, “Darkening.” His fiction, nonfiction, plays, and poetry have appeared in numerous journals and magazines. He is a graduate of Lindenwood University’s MFA program.

Late last night Darrel came into my room and laid himself down on the floor next to my bed. I heard him playing with some of the dolls that I put in a box a little earlier. I listened to him a while, remembering how I used to sit in bed with those dolls spread out all round me and we’d talk to each other like friends, or what I thought friends might be. I’d tell them about Margaret Hodges and how she was prettier than me. And about Ms. Ables and how she slapped a ruler down so hard on Timmy Jeffries’s desk that the wood of the ruler split right in half. But all that, the dolls and the stories, that changed after Mama told us yesterday. I tried to tell them about Daddy but I didn’t know the right words to say, so I put them away and told myself I had to grow up. “What’s wrong with Daddy?” Darrel asked after a bit. I hung my head over the edge of the bed so that I was looking down at him. Even in the dark, I could see his face. “I don’t know,” I said. It was the truth. “Is it bad?” I nodded my head yes but didn’t say anything. There wasn’t anything to say. “Is he gonna die?” I was quiet a minute or two. I heard something outside, a bird on a branch out there maybe, and I turned to the window, waiting for the sound to come again. I thought of birds and how they can fly and go anywhere they wanted, and I thought of where I would go if I could, but there was nowhere to go. And so I looked back at Darrel. I told him that we all die. “Everything dies,” I said. “All of us.” “Yeah?” he asked. I turned over in bed so that I was looking at the wall. “Go walk

The verge by Madeleine S. Cargile I’m standing on the edge of rock, firm and rigid beneath my tender feet. I stare down at what lies below. The water’s surface is obscured, its blue-green surface opaque. I’m up high, but not so much that I can’t see my reflection. I peer over at myself, toes curling around the edge. I’m a ghostly image of fear—pale and terrified at what’s to come. They’re coming. I can feel them. The heat of their chase burns against my back. The sound of breaking twigs splinters against my mind. My heart begins to race. I can’t turn back. I can’t hide. There’s no time. I have to jump. A thousand thoughts fly through my mind. They aren’t the things I’d figured one would think of when faced with certain doom. Of course, there was the “Oh shit, I’m gonna die” and “What the heck am I gonna do?” but there were other thoughts too. I thought of when I was four. I stood at the side of a pool, my toes curled around the edge. My mother stood in the water below, her arms outstretched, beckoning me in. “Jump, dear,” she cried, “The water’s just fine.” I wanted to push off. I wanted to feel the water’s cool embrace. But fear kept me rooted to the spot, my feet firmly stuck to the cement. I didn’t. I couldn’t. I was safer on land. She got out, and we went home. I thought of when I was eight, with chubby cheeks and a ruddy face. I sat on the edge of my bike, my knuckles white against the handlebars. My father braced my back, ready to push me forward. “Ride, sweetheart,” he said, “You’ll feel so free.” I wanted to push off. I wanted to feel the wind through my hair. But fear kept me rooted to the spot.

I wanted to say yes. I wanted to pull her closer and kiss her. But fear kept me at arm’s length, a solid distance from her. I didn’t. I couldn’t. We were safer apart. I bid her goodnight and went home. Fear had gripped me then and it grips me now. It has kept me glued on the edge of who I am and what I can be. It has kept me safe by clipping my wings, by not allowing me to fly into the unknown. It wouldn’t keep me safe now. There was no mother to console me, no father to coach me, no friend to hold me. There was no home to return to. There was only them—my pursuers—and the murky water below. Let go, I thought to myself, It’s your only chance. I want to push off. I want to pierce the lake’s surface and sink to safety. And I can. I was right here, at the very edge, inches from open air. Fear’s grip on me loosens, or maybe it’s sureness that wrenches me free.

I didn’t. I couldn’t. I was safer sitting still.

I push off.

I got off, and we went home.

I let go

I thought of when I was fifteen, my hair down at my waist, and my figure beginning to curve. I stood in the doorway of my friend’s house. Her lovely face turned to me, her radiant eyes glinting when they met mine. She held my hands, gently. The touch sent shivers up my arms.

“Think, love,” she whispered, “Think of what we could be.”

Madeleine S. Cargile

Madeleine S. Cargile is a current student at Chelsea High School set to graduate with honors in May of 2022. She’s enrolled in Auburn University’s Honors College and plans to pursue a major in a science-based field. Along with writing and reading, she enjoys art, heavy metal music, and embroidery.

Rooted

I had seen a million mahogany sunsets. But, this one. This one had rippled through me like the loudest crackle of thunder, I’d ever encountered.

by Ivory Bennett Love had rooted itself in every fiber of my being. Passion had become a vine in the deepest chambers of myself. I wondered, “how can I still breathe with all of these ivies clinging to my soul?” My exhale caught me off guard. “Go to the base of the tree. And lie down. Face your palms to the sky. Absorb the sunlight into your melanin. Breathe deeply and feel the grass cradle your curves. Listen to the birds - their song is one of faith and of hope, unseen. Allow your fingertips to dance across the rough bark of its roots: each wave within those timbers reminds you of your own fragility. A fragility necessary for tenderness and growth. Now close your eyes. Breathe, again. And again. Do you feel the earth moving to the drum of your pulse? That’s life. That is love.” It started to rain. And I didn’t mind. Or, move. I let the warmth of the water run over me. In that moment, I felt like every single raindrop falling from the sky onto myself. What magic.

* My mother always sang my name when she called me. But, today was different. She could see it. Inside of me. Before I was even aware. I pretended to be preoccupied, so that she would call again. I loved her song. But, she waited longer than usual. “Yes, mother? I will be there in a few moments. Please wait.” I needed a moment to gather my thoughts - they were spread about my room like opened books in a small, dark bedroom. Desperately, I wanted to gather them into my wicker basket and sort them out… into some recognizable manner. “I’m sorry, Mum. I’m not feeling well today. Do you need me to help you with something?” Suddenly, I felt lost again. I closed my eyes, before I took a deep breath. “I’m sorry,” fell quietly from my lips. “I love you. That is all. Oh... have you seen how beautiful Grandmother’s tree has blossomed this spring? Isn’t it lovely?” Inside of me, I felt the rain falling again. A feeling of fullness made me place one hand over my belly with slight concern. “Yes. Lovely, it is. Does it feel like a storm is coming to you? It feels like a storm is on its way, no?”

“Can I touch you? I want to know what it feels like.” “What what feels like?” “To be strong and soft. You’re so beautiful. Can I touch you, please? Just on your shoulders and neck? I promise that’s it.” I let him touch me. His touch never meant much to me. Probably because he bored me. I don’t think he ever felt pain. Or, knew what it meant to burn from the inside out of want. We were in the pumpkin patch. The leaves were glistening with dew. There were droplets of water on my skirt - kind of in the shape of a constellation. I wondered what love felt like without gravity. Was it softer? Easier? “Okay. Okay. That’s enough, let’s get back to work.” It’s not that I wasn’t turned on by his gentle kisses. It’s just that, I wasn’t in love with him. I’d never be. And that was okay with him. He knew. I looked into the blue, cotton-filled sky. I felt both of my palms sink a little deeper into the spongy earth. I exhaled and felt my belly sink in slowly. He knew.

* “What are we gonna say?” “Say whatever you’d like. I’m not asking you to lie.” Her knuckles fought hard with the dough. Flour dusted the entire wooden slab. In the window, a sunflower had two tiny droplets on its pedals. “Say... I don’t want anyone there. Not even you.” A butterfly flew past the window where the flower rested, opened towards the sun. “And that may be hard to understand. But, I need to do this alone. In private. I love you. I love you all. I just want this one thing for myself.” She wiped the sweat clinging to her chin, onto her right shoulder. She took a deep breath and said, “Hand me that greased pan, will you? I’m going to let this sit for a while. It will rise, eventually.”

* Sometimes, when old dogs feel that they are dying, they will

wander away to die alone. Death without an audience sounds more dignified, to me, so I thought. I wasn’t so much afraid of dying, as I was of living. There was a time, once, when I was young. We all went swimming. And I was afraid. Afraid of the water, I couldn’t see into it because it was murky. And afraid of the swing people were using for fun. And it’s not that I was fearful of heights. No. I was afraid of the joy I saw on their faces. I didn’t want to ever miss that moment, where joy takes over your being and swallows you up like the light from the sun, when you dare to stare directly at it. If I couldn’t feel that warmth forever, I didn’t want it at all.

Ivory Bennett

Ivory Bennett (She/Her/Hers) is a Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania native who is currently a Manager of Teacher Leadership and Development in Dallas, Texas. Additionally, Ivory is an active advocate for both education and foster care equity - she has 17 years of lived experience and expertise in foster care. Outside of education and advocacy, Ivory is an avid writer with a particular passion for poetry and playwriting. Ivory loves international travel, holistic health practices, vegan soul food, and tending to her plant.

The raven skald by Mira Jiang Don’t be frightened of ravens, Freya. They’re Odin’s birds. Huginn and Muninn. Thought and Memory. The greatest skald that ever lived sang with one perched upon her shoulder. Yes, I know skalds are usually men, but this one was a princess. She was not beautiful—no, Freya, there’s no rule that says princesses have to be beautiful. She was strong though. She was kind. She wielded more power in a single word than your father ever did on the battlefield. Her voice could calm a berserker from his blood-lust. Her stories saved her sister from marriage to a rival chieftain. Her songs touched the heart of an enemy thrall who risked life and limb to help her escape back home. When she returned to her family’s side, her advice helped her father win the war. I suppose she was lovely in a way. Don’t look so smug; I didn’t mean outer beauty. If you spoke to her, you would know. Her voice was quiet, but when she sang, entire rooms went silent just to listen. She could have talked Loki out of his craftiest schemes. Though if you’re so concerned with her appearance, I can tell you her prettiest feature. She had gorgeous auburn locks, and when she stood in the sun, I could have sworn they were touched by fire. I was a great beauty in my youth, but even I was jealous of her hair. Yes, I knew her once. I loved her once. She was like her raven. Always curious, always wandering, until one day her travels took her too far to return. But her name lives on in you, Freya. I hope her spirit does too.

Mira Jiang

Fiction piece on pages 10-11; Bio on page 11.

fox in February snow by David B. Such Bio on page 27 Medium: Ink on Paper

Feeling blue by John Boudreau Bio on page 26 Medium: Mixed Media

Young Ballerina with Early Thoughts of Imperfection 24 by Sherry Kerlin | Bio on page 26 Medium: Oil on Canvas

Pablo Picasso following Marie Therese through the Streets of Paris by Sherry Kerlin Bio on page 26 Medium: Oil on Canvas

Art & Photography Bios Robert oehl

Robert Oehl was born in Detroit, Michigan. After graduating from Michigan State University, he moved to New York City, eventually receiving his MFA in Photography and Printmaking from Pratt Institute. Robert has shown his work in group and solo exhibitions at venues including The John Davis Gallery, Hudson, NY; The National Science and Media Museum in Bradford, UK; New Mexico History Museum, Santa Fe, New Mexico; The Visual Studies Workshop, Rochester NY; The Woodstock Artists Association and Museum, Woodstock, NY; The Ely Center of Contemporary Art, New Haven, CT, and The Gallery at Marygrove College, Detroit MI. Robert is based in Hudson, New York.

John “hoss” Taylor Jr.

John “Hoss” Taylor Jr. is a cartoonist from Hebron, Maryland. He graduated from Salisbury University with a bachelor’s degree in art. Hoss’s work has been published in various literary magazines such as Echoes and Visions, Saturday Morning Comics, Chicago Literati, Chaleur Magazine, Inlandia: A Literary Journey, Helen : a literary magazine, The Daily Drunk, Taco Bell Quarterly, Big Whoopie Deal, WrongdoingMagazine, Fleas on the Dog, Oddball Magazine, The Holy Flea, A Drunken Midsommar, 86 Logic, The Winnow Magazine, regularly on Little Old Lady Comedy, The Joe Bob Briggs Fanzine, The Lumiere Review, Wickerpedia, Dead Skunk Mag, Tattie Zine KOMIK BÜK, Dollar Store Magazine, The Leftovers, and The Pen Name Newspaper. Hoss can be found at home with his wife Caitlin, and their daughter Sophia. John can be found on Instagram (@readerjntjr) and Twitter (@jntjr).

Denise Oehl

Denise Oehl moved from Northwest Ohio to New York City to study painting at The School of Visual Arts. She eventually began using photography as her medium of choice. First with Pinhole and then moving to a Medium Format film camera. She is particularly drawn to the clicks and whirs of the camera when loading and shooting film and Polaroid. Continuing with being engaged with the hands on approach, she prints her images in the darkroom, making unique prints with an alternative process. This process is called Ziatype or a Hand Coated Palladium Photograph. This final part of her creative process is critical to her evolution. She currently lives in the Hudson Valley. She has exhibited widely in the Hudson Valley, Manhattan, Brooklyn, California, Connecticut, Massachusetts, Maryland, Michigan, Ohio, New Mexico, New Jersey and Poland.

John Boudreau

John Boudreau is an artist and art instructor at a mental health wellness center in Los Angeles. I have a B.F.A. in painting from Pratt Institute in New York. My inspirations include the late artists Chu The-Chun, Hilma af Klint and Roberto Matta. Currently I am working on a metal leaf series and, as well as another including intuitive and symbolic paintings. My favorite medium is working with acrylics, and I find inspiration from nature. Previous series of art include fumage. My artwork has been in exhibits to raise awareness for global issues and charities. One of my artistic goals is to inspire others.

David B. Such

David B. Such is a left-handed mechanical engineer with four decades experience with turbines and other machinery. Off the job, he retreats to his home in the foothills of Colorado where contrasted to his industrial work environment, he appreciates close connections with natural surroundings and enjoys reading, writing, drawing, and gardening. His essays, poetry, and drawings have appeared in Weber - The Contemporary West, South 85 Journal, Stonecoast Review, The Doctor T. J. Eckleburg Review, Silver Blade Magazine, and others, including cover art for EcoTheo Review. Visit David at dbsuch.wordpress.com.

Louis Staeble Louis Staeble, fine arts photographer and poet, lives in Bowling Green, Ohio. His photographs have appeared in “Agave,” “Blinders Journal,” “Blue Hour,” “Conclave Journal,” “Elsewhere Magazine,” “GFT Magazine,” “Fifth Wednesday Journal,” “Four Ties Literary Review,” “Goatsmilk Magazine,” “Inklette,” “Light- A Journal,” “Little Somethings Press,”, “Sunspot Lit,” “The Helix,” ”Tupelo Quarterly,” “Twist In Time,” and “Windmill” 2016, 2017 and 2018 as part of the Wood County Invitational.

Kate Wexell Bio on page 5.

Cover & Photo credits The cover of Issue 002 is by the outstandingly talented Sherry Kerlin. Learn more about Sherry below and visit her website to view more work at sherrykerlinfineart.com.

COVER: Spring bothered by a bee Medium: Ink on Paper

Sherry Kerlin

Sherry Kerlin is an artist based out of New York City. Sherry’s artwork has shown in a variety of galleries, exhibits, and publications–from the London Art Fair to NYC’s Heskin Contemporary to the New York Times. Sherry has attended the Chicago Art Institute and earned a B.F.A. from the Kansas City Art Institute.

Clever Fox Literary Magazine utilizes free stock photography courtesy of Pexels and Unsplash to add a visual element to our publication. We thank and would like to recognize those works below, and of course, encourage you to enjoy and support the artists behind these works. As our publication grows, we look forward to including more artwork and photography submissions from talented artists all over the world! • • • • • •

Page 2: Photo by Tomáš Malík on Pexels Page 3: Photo by Pixabay on Pexels Page 3: Photo by Roberto Hund on Pexels Page 5: Photo by Paulo Carvalho on Pexels Page 6: Photo by Joshua J. Cotten on Unsplash Page 11: Photo by Toa Heftiba on Unsplash

• • • • • •

Page 12-13: Photo by Thien Dang on Unsplash Page 14-15: Photo by Amine M’Siouri on Pexels Page 19: Photo by Nick Nice on Unsplash Page 20: Photo by Connor Robertson on Unsplash Page 22: Photo by Imso Gabriel on Unsplash Page 22: Photo by Felix Mittermeier on Unsplash