Echo 2019 by Echo Literary Magazine

Echo Literary & Arts Magazine 2018 - 2019

Echo 2018 - 2019 The University of Texas at Austin

From the Editor

Four years ago, I nervously asked the editors who served before me if they needed any help designing the magazine. I didn’t realize that with a simple question, I signed myself up for one of the most rewarding experiences of my college career. As the years went on, I seemed to change my major a few too many times, and other clubs fell out of interest, but Echo was one thing that was always worth it to me. When I look back on these four years, all I can feel is thankful. I’ve always enjoyed leading others, but what’s special about Echo’s staff is that we can work together just as much as we can laugh together. Finding a community like this has been a light in my time at the University of Texas. No matter the state of my day, I looked forward to every single meeting, I found new friendships, and I even had an outlet for my intense organizational skills. On a campus filled to the brim with new opportunities and loud competition, I am so thankful to have found my home in our small yet powerful, quiet yet full of life magazine. I am especially grateful for my fellow leadership staff: Daniel, who is one of Echo’s biggest fans; Nikita, who helped me push the magazine’s aesthetic; Annie, who is dedicated, reliable, and a joy to be around; and, finally, Christina, who will take my place next year with poise and devotion. Echo has seen a lot of changes while I’ve been here, and I’m confident that I’m leaving behind something that will continue to grow by the hands of our new leadership and motivated staff members. I look forward to celebrating their every success. I hope you enjoy this year’s magazine, which is of a slightly different flavor than the rest. With great pleasure, I present you the 2019 volume of Echo.

Caroline Rock Editor-in-Chief

Staff Editor-in-Chief, Lead Designer

Caroline Rock

Production Editor

Daniel Hrncir

Copy Editor

Christina Lopez

Assistant Designer

Nikita Belathur

Social Media & Outreach Manager

Annie Daubert

Board Leaders

Anna Dolliver Sarah Ferring

Special thanks to the Liberal Arts Honors Program. 4

Board Members

Ingrid Alberding

Carol Metzger

Kayla Bollers

Emily Saunders

Naomi Brady

Megan Shankle

Sarah Brownson

Elise Smith

ShalavĂŠ Cawley

Sloane Smith

Chandler Crates

Brooke Studdard

Austin Downey

Rose Torres

Kate Drosche

Jane Walters

Mariana Herreria

Kylie Warkentin

Divya Jagadeesh

Carly Williams

Naz Kamali

Prose 12

La Bruja Del Valle Aileen Bazán

The Postman Sydney Bartlett

Where the Daffodils Grow Megan Abrameit

Chester Alexander Salerno

Waiting Room Blues Frances Garnett

Poetry 48

what i’m missing anthony

Carr’s Drive-In Zackary Davis

St. John the Evangelist Kevin LaTorre

I am no longer 30 pounds soaking wet Abby Escobar

Rather, the sofa cushions are sinking into us Abby Escobar

a driveway, always anthony

1848 Hayden Hans Baggett

Real Man Sophie Corless

Kamayin Cerena Ermitanio

Pulsatio / Heartbeat Michael Akaolisa

Photography 9

Marfa Yellow Isabel Zubizarreta Otero

Inca Agricultural Laboratory Taryn Uribe Turner

City Window Benji Martinez

Grape Fields Benji Martinez

family foundation Alice Cheung

have your dreams become nightmares yet Karolina Rymarz

Studio of a Retired Artist Alice Cheung

Art 31

Decay Austin Haag

Whoever Said Dinosaurs Went Extinct Has Never Been to the Turtle Pond Ely German

Helga and Her Hummingbird Hustled the High Hippo Ely German

Melted Austin Haag

Orange and Blue Annette Hui

Eson Annette Hui

Marfa Yellow Marfa, Texas digital photograph Isabel Zubizarreta Otero

Prose

Inca Agricultural Laboratory Moray Ruins, Peru digital photograph Taryn Uribe Turner

Liberal Arts Honors Creative Writing Prize First Place

La Bruja Del Valle Aileen Bazรกn

Dedicated to my loving grandmother and role model, Eligia Socorro Garza ••• Fading I am the secretary, the gatekeeper The gate—a white fading door—sealed with a single hook Treasure inside, a woman of no age but of great ability Abilities that scared the Father; That accepted change but continued being hers—being ours Pasa le and kids of kids greet sad, desperate visitors The rio outside roars but fails to dull the treasure’s shine Visitors fear the rio’s floods but sought the divine Rios never affect the treasure It demands no coin; never is corrupt Abilities passed through generations But left forgotten with treasure lost ••• La Bruja Del Valle Socorro, La Bruja del Valle, cuts the cards across the Eddie Guerrero looking man. Not poker cards but cards with images of horses, people of all shades, and women with uncomfortable faces. One card has weird spiky bats. Junior likes that card the most. Abuela taps the cards hard against the table. A white man does not wish you well, she tells Mr. Guerrero. I can barely see his concerned face through the hole in the door. I lean closer. The traitorous door creaks, giving away my location. Get away from the door before I get the mask! I run and jump on the couch near the TV. The daily SpongeBob marathon is on, drowned out by Junior’s laugh, a mix of pig snorts and wheezing. Self-trained from a young age in the art of sneaking through the house, 13

I make my way back to my spot behind the thin fading white door. Of course, I do this only after paying off Junior—the mocoso—with a paleta. Otherwise, he might cry out to Abuela. The cards now gone, Abuela is talking to the man. She brings up his recent unemployment. He is shocked. How do you know, he asks. I’m not surprised. Abuela knows everything and can cure anyone and anything—you just need to listen to her. Sometimes, she would ask me to pick yerbas for her, or help prep and clean La Santa Muerte, but today was one of the days she didn’t need all that. I’m amazed by the woman I somehow am related to. The same woman who raised me, who I wish to be like one day. Mr. Guerrero stands. His movement brings me back to my senses. I hurry away from the door and pretend I was making myself confleis and not eavesdropping. The door opens and both step out of the consultorio. From the corner of my eye, I see Mr. Guerrero looks much happier than before. He hugs Abuela one last time and walks towards the front door. When the door shuts, Abuela turns to me. I put down the bag of confleis and prepare for the lecture on snooping, but instead she nods towards the consultorio and asks, help me clean up? Of course! I run into the small room and she laughs. I love my Abuela. ••• Answers I did not know cancer was a thing before and am still not sure what it is, but I do know that I hate it. I know that Abuela had to stop seeing clients, and it made her sad to no longer help people. I know that her hair was falling, although she still looked beautiful with her red lipstick. I know that the doctor said it was gone, but then it came back. No one knew why. That’s what I hated the most. No one ever had any answers. Abuela was mad when Michael Jackson died. We sat in her barren hospital room, watching the funeral on a tiny box TV. I can’t die the same year as Michael Jackson, Abuela said. No one will remember me. I managed a sympathetic smile. I didn’t find it funny. Later, Abuela was sent to hospice. I didn’t know what that was, but it meant she could come home. Still unable to take new clients, she spent her time caring for my baby brother and sitting by her bedroom window. I love that window. Every day, when I’d get home from school, I’d see her at the window, keeping watch over our patio. Every day. One day, she asked me, can we go to church? I hadn’t been to church since I was a baby. Abuela had her own beliefs that she had taught us, and they 14

weren’t Catholic—at least, not traditionally. But she said she needed to go, so we went. The church was old and muggy, and the other ladies kept staring at us. My mom and I sat on either side of Abuela in an old, narrow pew. A few of the ladies—the fancy-looking ones—sat two rows ahead of us and they were loud. In English, a language my Abuela didn’t understand, they talked about a contagious, evil witch. Right away, I knew who they were talking about. Kids at school would spread the same rumors. My mom tried to get my Abuela to leave, but she demanded that I translate their comments first. Only then did she get up. I could still hear the ladies talking as we walked out. I hate church. ••• Hairbrush Every night, the house was filled with people visiting Abuela. Distant relatives, clients she had helped before, and even random people—strangers that I had never met—all came by. It made me uncomfortable, so I stayed away from the crowded room where they kept her. I was dumb. I was a kid. I thought I had more time. ••• My dad yelled through my door one morning. Prudencia, wake up! He yelled again. Tired and rebellious, I answered by shouting, what do you want? I got no answer. Frustrated, I sat up and started to brush my hair. I left my bedroom door open so my parents would know I was awake. While struggling to untangle my disobedient hair, my dad trudged towards my room. He looked as pale as a moreno man possibly could. Prudencia, it’s your Abuela. That’s all he said. He walked away. I froze. My hairbrush shattered. The floor was covered. Useless fragments scattered. I ran to the car in pajamas and with messy hair. I waited alone for my parents and siblings to follow for the drive across town. She was still there in her bed by the window. The window that meant so much to me. The window that would now sit empty. My aunt stood by her side. She was gone, and we were too late. I never said goodbye. My mother handed 15

me my one-year-old little brother and joined my aunt. I looked down at Rey’s innocent sleeping face, hoping that when I looked back up, she would be okay. She wasn’t, and neither was I. ••• She She is old. I know because she lets me play with the wrinkled soft skin of her eyelids and hands. She sleeps with a scary kitchen knife, I didn’t learn until later why. She combs my hair so softly it feels like the comforting breeze of a familiar floor fan in the summer. She walks us kids to the bus stop and engulfs us in a hug when the annual Norte is too much for us, even if she is left shivering. She hates the violence of TV wrestling, but she manages to playfully capture Junior’s and my arms behind our back when we are acting all tough. She is proud of my 7th and 11th place poetry ribbons. She calls everyone she knows to brag about it. No one else ever came close. ••• Control There must be some sick monster—a vile, wretched thing—that pulls the strings of puppets, and makes our lives difficult for its own amusement. Or, maybe, I just don’t have control over my life. Maybe I never will. My dad worked in the Texas oil rigs as a floor hand. He always has. He’ll be at home for two weeks then disappear for another two—back and forth, and back and forth—it’s been this way as long as I can remember. One week, he didn’t come home. No, he went somewhere else. He said he was done with us. He said he was done with our family. Soon after, my older brother did the same. So quickly, my family became so small, so fragile. I had to grow up fast. For almost two years, I had already been working at the local movie theater, but I needed to find a second job. My mom and I struggled forward, but between the two of us, we barely earned enough to cover the bills. We had to hide our car across the border in Mexico to stop the debt collectors from confiscating it. Sometimes, I skipped school. Sometimes, I brought my younger brother with me to class. We couldn’t afford an after-school day-care program, so he sat quietly in the corner of my Economics and History classes. 16

••• Where are you going for college, Guadalupe asked. She sat across from me, scribbling in her notebook. I don’t know if I’m even going, I say. I avoided her eyes and stared at the mashed potatoes on my lunch tray. I’d been raking my plastic spork across them for the entire lunch period. Prudencia, you need to start sticking up for yourself. Family is important, but so are your dreams. So is your future. With that, she stood up and left. I continued to rake my potatoes, wishing life could be as easy as tilling a small mashed potato farm. I raked until the bell rang. College wasn’t an option. My mom would be devastated, and I couldn’t abandon her— not after my dad, not after my brother. But it’d be different, though, for me. I wouldn’t be abandoning her. Maybe, she’d understand why I’d need to leave. Why I’d need to get a degree. I’ve been saying it’s not my choice, but it is. It is my choice. I need to go. ••• Déjà vu I’m a third-year student at the University of Texas at Austin. Since coming to college my relationship with my parents hasn’t been the best, but we continue to move forward every day. The humidity hits me instantly as I walk out of the office and head towards my car. Houston weather is a nightmare in the summer, but my internship is worth the heat. Although it’s my first time working for a labor union, I’m already making solo missions and assignments. I’ve been assigned certain workers to meet up with weekly. During these meetings, I help develop the leadership of the worker and make sure they feel confident in themselves and their ability to fight for a union. Blaring horns snap me back to the assignment at hand; I need to get to the Spring Hill hotel. Since it’s so close to the factory where our members work, I schedule most of my meetings at the Spring Hill Hotel. Driving into the hotel’s parking lot, I can see that Elizabeth’s car is parked near the entrance and I am able to find a spot near her. I take a moment to look over my meeting notes and shake my nerves away. No matter how many times I have these meetings, I’m always nervous. Elizabeth and her daughter Anna had already saved us two couches 17

facing each other near the lobby’s large window. Hey, how are you? I smile towards Elizabeth as she stands to greet me with the traditional hug and kiss that my mama taught me years ago. Bien, she says with a large smile. A small whimper catches our attention as her daughter Anna tugs at Elizabeth’s arm demanding her mother’s attention. Here, go sit over there. I need to talk to the lady. Elizabeth gives Anna a doll I hadn’t noticed she was carrying and orders the girl to sit by the curtains at the corner of the large couch. I start the meeting with my standard questions about her workplace and family, and Elizabeth tells me about her recent run-ins with management. She sounds excited and proud, but I can see the truth. What are you worried about? I ask her, and it takes a moment for her to respond. Ay, Prudencia, somehow you always know. As we talk through her concern, I get a sense of peace and déjà vu at the same time. I look towards the end of the couch and watch the small girl not so sneakily watch us from around the corner of the couch, and I smile.

City Window San Francisco, California 35mm full frame Benji Martinez 19

Liberal Arts Honors Creative Writing Prize Second Place

The Postman Sydney Bartlett

He drove with his right hand tight against the vase in the passenger seat. At every bump and itch in the road, he felt a delicate stir underneath the glass, and small drops of water slid onto his skin. As he waited for the light to change, the postman noticed the portrait his passenger-side window had captured. The river was more full than usual, the trees swaying on its edge so green that they approached blue. The sky hung low against the land. A smell of rain mixed with tobacco, and the postman caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. Finding that he looked as nervous as he felt, a wave of disappointment washed over him. You do this every day, he told himself in that voice he used to answer the phone. It’s not a big deal. You’re a professional, for god sake. He ran an absent-minded hand through his hair, trying to manage the curls, though grayer and thinner, that had plagued him since he had tripped into his sixteenth year. The radio went fuzzy. Letting go of the vase, he twisted the knob for a few seconds, knowing it was a pretty futile enterprise and eventually just gave into the silence, catching the glass with a sharp intake of breath as it rocked forward. Traffic edged on, and it occurred to him that people seem to take naturally to masochism. By people he meant himself, of course. Flocked to it like bugs around poisonous lights or butterflies on the shoulders of children who rip off their wings. In the days and years since that last meeting with Anne outside her parents’ porch, leaning hard against the railing, he had imagined seeing her again. But he had never imagined it going well. Or that he would be holding her mail at the same time. Not that there would be any yelling or great gnashing of teeth or crying, no, that wasn’t their style. He imagined, over and over again, something worse. A thin smile. A few chaste sentences. Nothing at all besides the dull and delayed closing of a chapter that had once colored his life with such an easy and breathless happiness. The first time he saw Anne she dove into the river, shoes on and all. One of her feet dangled slightly below the other in the air, a sloppy lack of care 21

that characterized summers in northern Arkansas. When she emerged from the bank, her clothes were heavy with water and dangled straight, her body not offering much to hang onto. He knew that he had been staring too long when her eyes met his with an angry flash, which he answered with an embarrassed smile. She wrung out her hair, releasing its hold on the river with a hapless and quick motion, picked up a book and an apple from underneath a tree, and made her way towards the trailhead. Before she disappeared from view, her eyes met his again as she took a bite from the apple. She threw it over her shoulder. He saw it lying to the trail’s side as he left, small teeth having scarred its red skin. The postman thought that he must have been going crazy that day when he started thinking about reincarnation, about the way he felt just like that apple when she looked at him, something significant missing and surrounded by small teeth. Which was stupid, he thought now, since it was a goddam apple that’s rotted into the ground by now. He’d taken the pilgrimage to the river every day from then on, waiting for the girl who dove in the river with her shoes on. She would stroll up, an apple and book in hand, and occasionally deigned to speak to him. Despite the happy years they would pass together, rife with friendship and laughter and a worn-in love that hung around them like a shadow, he missed its start the most. The glowing embers of intrigue and desire that carried them like leaves downriver after rain, loose and easy. Eventually, they began walking to the river together. They found rocks at the river’s bed, choosing the smoothest and holding them hard against their thumb and index finger. Skipped them across the bank, aiming for knotholes in old trees. They would place bets on leaves floating downriver that usually ended in an amicable tie. The leaves twitched at every slight gust of wind, jigged at each bubble of current, but they always stayed afloat because he and Anne didn’t choose the ones with holes in them or that were too flat. They always stayed near the calm parts of the river, too. Leaves from Arkansas didn’t make it to the ocean, didn’t get anywhere close. It did no one any good to pretend otherwise. Nonetheless, he and Anne would feed themselves on images of their perfect oak leaves dancing against the Atlantic, their perfect rocks sitting comfortably in Boo Radley’s knotholes. Past the river stood hills at the edge of a thick forest. When he and Anne were three months from graduating, which was a year from his deployment and two from injuring his knee and about 20 years ago, now, they used to know that place like the backs of their hands. 22

Well, back then, he knew the back of her hand as well as his own. He thinks about that a lot on his route. Some of his friends say too much, but he figured that everyone has a vice, so be it if his is living in the past. Even now, if he concentrates hard enough, the smell of damp soil and pine fills the car, her voice fills the silences of his broken radio, he feels her hand beneath his. Past or no past, at least he was living, and with that thought his knee ached. There was a spot off the beaten path they went once. It was a 20-minute walk without a real trail, thick with small trees vying for space in the forest’s upper reaches. The floor was covered in a thick layer of deep green ferns, spider webs nestling themselves every few feet. It looked the same as every other spot in the forest, until it gave way to a clear speck of earth overhanging the edge of the mountain. The river wasn’t far from the spot, and more often than not they went there to dry off, water glistening on their skin, drops falling with dull thuds to the dirt. They could see trees rolling on for miles from there, watch them melt into golds and reds in the fall, come back, shy and hesitant, in the spring. Everything happened gradually, the leaves changing and falling, their bodies drying and aging. Everything was right and natural and easy out there, he thought as his foot jammed into the break. They let so much time go by that when he came back from basic and decided to find their spot again, they couldn’t. He’d never felt so angry before. He didn’t say much, but what he did say was the last thing he’d ever said to her on her parents’ front porch, leaning hard against the railing, hand tight against chipping paint. There was more that led up to it, of course, but the moments remain contained on the porch. And that doesn’t seem as important as that spot where everything happened gradually and it was right and natural and easy and it could have fixed everything else if they’d just found it. He’d often thought about going back one of these days, but his knee aches on long walks, and it doesn’t feel right to go alone. A car honks behind him and he curses, hitting the gas. He’s behind schedule, and has three more streets to hit before he gets to hers and can’t tell if he wants to be closer or farther away. Even after delivering mail for a quarter of a century, he still feels like he doesn’t quite have the hang of the whole thing. Things change too fast, paper replaced by screens and people busier than before. He didn’t like dwelling on his qualms with the modern world, though. It struck him as outrageously pessimistic, the sort of doomsday material his 23

great uncle spouted at holidays. People were still nice enough still, he just wished they had more time to talk. Mrs. James on Sage Road thanks him for his service, as always, which made him feel awkward and all-too aware of the slight limp in his left leg. Her husband died in combat. Sometimes when she talks to him he sees someone else reflected in her gaze, and he reminds himself to come around on a Sunday and pull weeds or mow the lawn or something. Bianca’s dog next door took up a few more minutes of time when he got off his leash, barking for the treats the postman always carried in his back pocket. She blushed and said a breathless sorrythankyou as she resumed her run with mail in hand, small, quick steps down the street. Across the street, Chris answered the door while balancing a baby on his hip, and the postman noticed the layer of purple under his eyes had grown thicker overnight. The door was almost closed when he surprised himself by speaking. “Chris, hey, uh—” the postman coughed, “How’re things?” He laughed, “We’re surviving. Barely. Em’s doing better than me.” He knew Chris didn’t want to sit there with a baby on his hip, talking to a mailman, and he knew he shouldn’t be sitting here wasting his and Chris’s time, but he couldn’t help it. Chris adjusted the door. It’s interesting, no one quite knows how to deal with a mailman. We’re not quite strangers, but not quite neighbors, either, he thought. Still, we’re not just another uniform. He thought for a second that his whole life had been bouncing from one uniform to another and scratched beneath his collar, thinking about rivers reaching an ocean, leaves forgotten at the bottom. Rocks gathering dust in trees. He chuckled to himself, remembering Chris. He cleared his throat, “I—Catch you tomorrow, Chris,” he said with a weak wave. “Sure, see you then—” Anne’s house was two doors down, now. The postman felt his palms get sweaty, tried to preemptively clear his throat. The last thing he needed was a cracking voice to spoil a moment already destined to be so fragile. He wondered why she’d moved back. She’d sworn to God and anybody else up there who would listen that she would never come back, but there was her name plastered on the side of the mailbox, written in her slanted and haphazard hand. His knee already ached looking at the stairs that led to her front door, vines dangling off the edges. His heart was already in his throat, and no amount of preemptive coughing was making it budge. The vase was too full. He realized that now, and the water was spilling 24

all over hell and his shirt already damp with sweat. This was a mistake, and he felt absolutely sure of that now. At the same time, he felt that, without a doubt, it was too late to do anything else, anything except what he was always going to do since he had first seen the girl jump into the river with her shoes on 25 years ago, feet gangly and graceless. Since starting his job, he’d noticed how every door felt different, how they seemed to always suit the person standing behind them. A thin door with uneven layers of paint that splintered off under his knuckles might give way to a short man in spectacles, a matte door that seemed to make no sound at all would open to a mumbling older woman with dark hair braided to the side. Anne’s door was white, the handle a light bronze. Small, thin squares were etched into its center, and if he looked closely enough he could see the faint scratches where a misplaced key had grazed the area surrounding the keyhole. Knocking, he could hear the soft patter of feet emerge from somewhere deep inside the small home, his heart pounding as they grew louder. There had been the fear that someone else would open the door. A young girl with an apple in hand. A man with a golden ring around the fourth finger of his left hand. But, no, it was her. The same light hair that twisted between brown and blonde. A freckle on her right cheek. Wide eyes that flicked over his without sentiment, moving to his hands, damp from the vase. “For you,” he spoke so softly that he couldn’t be quite sure that she heard him. Her movements were quick, casual. She smiled, thin, still not looking at him, and it wasn’t until she offered a polite thank you in the same neutral voice that greeted him countless times each day, her hand already closing the door, that he realized that she hadn’t seen him. Anne just saw the postman, faceless with flowers in hand. He was silent going back down the steps, and when he opened the truck’s door a wave of damp soil and pine brushed across his face. His seatbelt made a soft click, the static on the radio melting into the vehicle’s atmosphere. With a slight twinge of pain in his knee, he pressed his foot to the gas, felt the body of rust jolt forward and grabbed instinctively towards the passenger seat. The fabric, bleached by years in the sun, was still damp, but it would dry enough by tomorrow. He felt the urgency of routine carry him towards the next door, pieces of mail floating beside him and the river in his window arching towards an ocean that remained just out of reach. 25

Liberal Arts Honors Creative Writing Prize Third Place

Where the Daffodils Grow Megan Abrameit

Mr. Zimmer lived in a flat brown house above a sloping meadow. When I was in elementary school, I used to spend hours playing in his front yard. I would walk barefoot, following the curve of the yard to the meadow filled with clover. I picked tiny purple-pink flowers and looked for four-leaf clovers before I met the man inside the house. Mr. Zimmer rarely left the house, but when my mom saw him outside mowing his lawn, she would wave. A mixture of kindness and pity prompted her to befriend him, and she soon found that our next-door neighbor was very alone. He had children, but they did not visit; he had had two wives, but both had died. She decided he must come over for Christmas. When Mr. Zimmer came at Christmas, I found him a bit frightening. His face was long with heavy cheeks that drooped down past his jaw. He tottered into the house the way old men do with large bodies balanced on waxy, atrophic legs. His childlike white shoes with Velcro straps contrasted with his navy suit jacket. He had a deep booming voice, and he smelled like the inside of a box that has not been opened for many years. He talked with my father about the Gulf War over a small glass of red wine while my mom served him cheese and crackers. When Christmas lunch was served, he chewed his turkey and dressing slowly, politely fending off my mother’s attempts to refill his plate. “I’ve had an elegant sufficiency,” he said, crossing his hands over his stomach. We walked him back over to his house. The house had been fashionable, but time had passed, and now it stood preserved like a picture in an old catalog. Modern paintings hung in thin gold frames over the white carpet. Tall vases of pastel blue and pink stood by the door. “Mid-Century Modern,” my mom called it, and to me, it seemed very beautiful. “It was my wife’s taste,” he told us before we left. His second wife was Greek, and he still had her cookbook with her recipe for stuffed grape leaves, his favorite food. She was also a potter, and though there weren’t any pictures of her up, pieces of her lived in pristine vases and bowls left around the house. She had made a tiny village of people doing the most ordinary of things— reading a newspaper, pushing a cart. I like to think that before she died of ovarian cancer, 27

she made the village to keep her husband company. Even then she knew she was leaving him alone. After coming for Christmas, my mother started praying with me for Mr. Zimmer every night. She took me with her for visits to his house as well. I think I was the first child ever to enter his house, since he had moved to this house with his second wife and they had no children together. He always had a plastic bag full of persimmons from the tree that grew by his garage for us to take home. He showed us how he was doing his exercises, standing up from a chair and back again, to strengthen his legs. We would sit and talk about what I was learning in school or read the Snoopy comics together from the newspaper. Sometimes I would bring him some flowers I picked in the yard to put in one of his wife’s vases. Mom always made sure when we were leaving we would both hug him. “The best part of the visit,” he would say, his pale blues near tears. I did not realize it then, but as people get older, they are touched less. I wonder if we were the first people to touch him since his wife died. On one of our visits, I asked him about a large statue he had in his backyard garden. Among statues of chubby little cherub boys and stone pathways was a large concrete statue. It was rectangular with a cutout in the middle where there was a blue vase with a lid. He told me he would show it to me outside, and we walked out to the statue surrounded by spring daffodils. “These are my wife’s ashes,” he said pointing to the little blue pot on its stone altar. And I, who had not yet seen a plastic looking body in a coffin or a name etched on a gravestone, had my first taste of death. “I like to remember her,” he said. My mother and I became accustomed to Mr. Zimmer’s routine. A retired lawyer, he spent most of the day sitting in the office in a corner of his house that I had only seen through a window that faced our house. Often the blinds were closed, but when they were open, I could see his white box computer pushed up against the wall next to a pile of legal pads. If he saw me playing outside, he would wave, but mostly he sat still for hours staring at the computer analyzing his stocks. “Why does Mr. Zimmer love looking at the stock market?” I once asked her. “He likes to see how his investments are doing and if he is making more money.” “Does he need more money?” “No, but maybe it is all he has.” 28

Only once when I was seven did Mr. Zimmer’s daughter from his first marriage come to visit him from California. He was excited, puttering around his house for days preparing for her visit. He invited my mom over to have appetizers and meet her. He had made long twisted pastries with raspberry fillings, and they sat in the living room with the white carpet balancing the pastries with glasses of expensive red wine. His daughter asked about the house, silently ascertaining its value. “You should sell,” she said, looking to my mom for agreement. My mom tried to say as little as possible. Mr. Zimmer agreed with everything, bobbing his head up and down like a child, fussing over the pastries. His daughter walked to our house with my mom to meet us. With her carefully styled short gray hair, she seemed too old for me to think of her as someone’s child. I was sent to my room so she and my mom could talk in the kitchen, but I came back to the kitchen for a reason I cannot remember. I heard the daughter with the gray hair talking to my mother. “He used to mop the floor with me,” she said. She described how her father would drag her by the hair around the kitchen yelling until her mom came and rescued her. “Sometimes I had wet myself, and there was urine all over the kitchen floor.” In my head, I pictured a little girl with long hair swinging round and round a kitchen island like a doll. I pictured Mr. Zimmer in his large white shoes leaving the girl crying in the kitchen. I ran back to my room before my mom saw me. A few days later the daughter returned to California. She had gotten into a fight with Mr. Zimmer when he had backtracked on selling the house. Mr. Zimmer complained about her and her husband, saying they had “champagne taste on a beer budget.” A month later she sent us a package of expensive olive oils infused with orange and pepper and fancy lavender balsamic vinegar. “A gift for taking care of my father,” the note said. She never visited again. I did not know if it was ok to hug Mr. Zimmer anymore. I struggled to fit together the pieces of good and bad in a person. I did not yet understand that aspects of people do not fit neatly together like a puzzle but are more like layers of colored glass, one on top of the other, each aspect changing the color before it. Still, Mr. Zimmer came and visited us during Christmas and Easter, and any other time my mother didn’t want him to be alone. As I grew older and entered middle school, I visited him less and less. I no longer played in the 29

meadow walking barefoot through the clover. When I was about sixteen and we were moving away, Mr. Zimmer was diagnosed with leukemia. He sold his house to a middle-aged couple who were excited about its vintage appeal. There was a large estate sale selling everything in the house. My mother bought the little village his wife had made and an Italian breadbox. Although he had a lot of money, he moved to a run-down assisted living facility far away from our old neighborhood. Then, he died. He did not have a funeral, and his children did not come to oversee their fatherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s remaining things. His son, the executor of the estate, had communicated with him only through email. I assume everything was sold or donated. I wondered what happened to the little blue urn of his wifeâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s ashes. A few years after he passed, I was sitting with my grandmother in an assisted living facility similar to the one he had stayed in. Her body sagged in a recliner, and she looked at me vacantly. I had never noticed how blue her eyes were pale. Before I left, I gave her a hug, and her entire face lit up. The best part of the visit, I thought.

Decay mixed media digital photgraph Austin Haag

Chester Alexander Salerno

Is this thing working? Good. Today, we are gathered to raise a glass to the happy couple. For all the folks who don’t know me: my name is Danny Fritz. I’ve been Darius’s best friend since high school, and we’ve been roommates since college. I work with him as a caretaker at the Houston Zoo, and it’s been my privilege to know and work alongside this beautiful man for the past ten years. But that’s enough about me. Tess, you look stunning. And Darius, I never thought I’d be as lucky as I am now, standing here, in front of your family, the best man at your wedding. How about a round of applause for Mr. and Mrs. Darius Benson. Now, y’all probably know a lot of stories about Darius and Tess, but I thought it would be fun to tell you about the day they met. I was in our apartment in Montrose, sitting on the couch and binge watching a show about baking. Darius was at work—he had told me that he was training a new caretaker, showing her the ropes. His text said that she was “really fun but talks too much.” I sent Darius a text because he was late to get home. I had made us some spaghetti, but it was getting cold. His response said that he was driving the girl home, but that “a dog hit the car.” They didn’t hit a dog, a dog hit the car. I waited a half hour, and then Darius burst through our front door with an unconscious grey mutt in his arms that had a big scrape on its head. Tess walked in after him. She looked beautiful that day. I know you don’t think so, Tess. But you did, even in that tacky zoo uniform. I offered her a seat on the couch and asked Darius if he needed help, but he said he was ok. He just needed “a little time to wrap up Chester’s head.” He had already named the dog. We were keeping him. I sat on the couch next to Tess and offered her some spaghetti, even though I was already thinking about scheduling an appointment with the vet and buying dog food. We started eating together. For the next hour, we kept watching that baking show. She said she liked it, and we started talking about how she used to bake with her parents once a week. The whole time we talked, Darius was in the bathtub with the dog. 33

Eventually, Darius came out of the bathroom with a blood handprint near his heart and a smudge across his face. He didn’t say anything about the dog, though. All he said was, “Danny, you’ve got some spaghetti sauce on your shirt.” But that’s Darius for you. He’s always thinking about everyone and everything around him. Drive the lady home. Save the dog. Adopt the dog. Clean Danny’s shirt. But Darius, do you know what else happened that night? You were in the bathroom with Chester for a long time, and—Tess is already blushing, I can see it—while you were in there, she tried to kiss me. I said no, of course, but she really wanted to start kissing me right there, while you were in the bathroom. It’s not what you think folks, it’s all in good fun. Harsh room. Maybe not the best detail to bring up at a wedding? Lighten up! We never kissed. I thought it was funny that she made a move on the gay one first. I thought I might embarrass her a little. Ah, shit. Yes, I’m gay. What did you think, Mrs. Benson? You’ve known me for ten years, I’ve never come over with a girl. I went to prom with Isaac, and we weren’t just friends. Don’t look so solemn about it. In Tess’s defense, we were drinking. Coffee, I mean. Not alcohol. I guess. We were drinking and eating, and we talked a lot. She thought there was some chemistry. I was probably complimenting her a lot. I liked her. But everything was innocent. We ended up becoming close friends after that day. We worked alongside each other at the zoo, and we would talk about our favorite animals. She always said that she felt like the lioness. Strong and powerful, elegant and graceful, smart and peaceful. I’m sorry Tess, I didn’t think that story would be so tense. Folks, trust me. Couples don’t get much better than Darius and Tess. Even just making dinner, they were a perfect couple. There was one day, a few weeks after Tess moved to Houston, they were making dinner together at our apartment after work. Chester ran into the kitchen and wouldn’t stop messing with Darius’s leg, so he ended up burning himself on the stove. Tess started to wrap his hand up without a second thought, because that’s what she does. They take care of each other. They love each other. I can tell this isn’t working. In all honesty, I wasn’t part of the cooking. By then, my little sister had died, and I wasn’t doing so well, so I was usually just drinking on the couch. Alcohol for sure. Darius and Tess were making sure I was eating, but I spent most of those nights playing with Chester, rolling a tennis ball across the carpet so that he could get it back for me. Chester was in the kitchen because I accidentally rolled the ball that way. But lay off me, ok? I’m not the bad 34

guy here. I was going through a lot. I didn’t even want the dog in the first place. My sister was a dog groomer, and Chester just reminded me of her. But damn do I miss that dog, he was so soft and warm. He was genuinely happy, not like the zoo animals. I’m sorry for getting off topic for a little while, folks. Mr. and Mrs. Benson, sorry. How about we thank the new in-laws for the great work they did putting this wedding together. The food was scrumptious, Mr. Adams. The open bar, you can’t beat that. How about a round of applause for the parents of the bride and groom? None of this would be possible without them. I know that I might have made some of you uncomfortable, but let’s not forget that today isn’t about me. It’s not even about Darius and Tess. It’s about the Bensons and the Adamses. Let’s talk about these old folks for a bit, it is their wedding after all. They wanted this to happen more than anyone else in the room. I mean, I’m sure all of you saw pictures of the proposal online. Darius and Tess spent that day going to their favorite places in the city—that burger place in Bellaire, the chocolate store near the zoo, other places—and then he went down on one knee at Discovery Green. Simple enough. Not the real proposal, though. By then they had already decided to get hitched. The real one wasn’t as cute. It was a month before Chester died, and we were all at work. For those of you who don’t know, a large part of a caretaker’s job at the Houston Zoo is giving the animals food and cleaning up when they’re done. We keep giving them food, and they keep eating it, and then they shit it out—yeah, lady, cover your kid’s ears, that’ll stop him from listening to this train wreck. I’m sure. Where was I? Right: that day, it was my turn to take care of the poop. I was in the lion’s pit when I heard Tess propose to Darius. The lions are lethargic during the day, so it isn’t too scary. But there’s one lion, Angelo, who likes to freak me out. I get close to his rock, and he yawns, opening his jaws as wide as he can to taunt me with his massive teeth. Every time I go into the pit, he does that. Then he stares at me from his high ground while I put his shit in a bucket. He doesn’t take his fucking eyes off me. Fine, I’ll stop swearing if you promise I get to keep the mic for five minutes. Does that work? Good. I was in the lion’s pit, there to pick up the poop. That day, Angelo wasn’t sitting on his usual perch. He sat on one of the lower rocks, so I was afraid to go for the dung. I stood in the pit, behind a wall, and I texted Darius. I asked if he could come feed the lions so that I could finish up. One second. 35

Excuse me, waiter? Can I have another glass, I’ve finished mine and I still have a toast to do. Sorry folks, I’m almost there, but if we have a proper toast, we have to talk about why the parents wanted this wedding to happen so badly, right? We can’t toast to the couple if we don’t know why we are toasting, because that would be a lie. Lies are bad. Anyway, after a few minutes, Darius showed up with Tess. They started to take turns picking up huge slabs of meat, twenty pounds each, and shoving them through a shaft in the fence. Darius and Tess had a game with the meat, you see, they would try to guess which lion would go for the slab that they were sending. Darius guessed Angelo first, and he was right. The lion bolted for that slab of meat. Thank you. Really good stuff at this bar, right folks? Tip your waiters, they work hard. I should know, serving food and drink to animals is what zoo caretakers do, too. So, Darius gave Angelo some meat. Angelo was eating, and I went for the poop and started shoving handfuls of it into my bucket. While I was cleaning it up, I eavesdropped on Darius and Tess. I’m sorry guys. They all deserve to know the truth about this sham of a wedding, what can I say? Hell, I already told everyone in the tent that I’m gay, what else do I have to lose? Sorry Darius, but the folks deserve to know. I’m sorry. I stood there, cleaning up the shit-heap, and I could hear Darius and Tess on the other side of the fence. No one else was around. Just some kid who was taking a picture of Angelo with her phone. Sorry, I forgot about the swearing. I still have a few minutes, I’m almost at the end. They were talking on the other side of the fence. Darius laughed and bragged about guessing the correct lion. Darius and Tess. They always laugh around each other. Always happy. Anyway, I guess they had already been talking about some serious stuff. I was still doing my cleaning, but I slowed down because I wanted to hear what they would say. Tess was talking about a phone call she had with her parents that morning. She said her parents asked her why she hadn’t gotten married yet, why they didn’t have grandkids. Here we are Mr. and Mrs. Adams, if this is painful for you, it’s your own fault. Darius was trying to make Tess feel better, because that’s what he does. He asks you questions, and he looks in your eyes when you talk. Tess explained that her mom brings it up every few weeks. Tess is twenty-eight and that was 36

simply too old not to have a child. Darius said that was ridiculous, twenty-eightyear-old people are still children themselves, especially Tess. She laughed at that. I guess she still looked sad though, because Darius resorted to talking about stuff that he usually doesn’t talk to anyone about. He started telling her all about how his first kiss was with this guy, Isaac. Yeah, my prom date, Isaac. They were sitting on the couch, and they were thirteen, and they were watching some terrible horror movie and holding on to each other, and Darius kissed him. And then Mr. Benson came in and booted Isaac out of the room, and slapped Darius right in the face. Three times. Embarrassed yet, Mr. Benson? I hope so, the folks are getting restless. Excuse me, I’ll have to ask you to sit down, I have the floor right now. Fine, leave. I’m going to keep talking. Anyway, Tess and Darius were opening up about that stuff. Somewhere in the conversation, Tess suggested getting married. It sounded like a joke at first. But then they talked about how they already love each other, they knew how to live together, and they were best friends. Tess proposed at the lion’s pit. We spent the last few months drowned in wedding plans. And now, here we are. A grand show in a chilly tent with a drizzle of rain. A funeral for the death of passion where all these men have dressed in black. Here I am, delivering a eulogy, and doing a terrible job at it. Everyone looks uncomfortable. Eulogies are supposed to make the grief easy. All the weeks of engagement passed, but I never stopped my routine of getting drunk on the couch and playing with Chester. But then Chester got sick. Tess and Darius started house-hunting. Chester died. They moved out yesterday, and now I’m alone in that dingy apartment. Not that it’ll be any different, you guys were barely paying attention to me for the past couple of months anyway. Wedding this, and invitations that. We can’t forget Uncle Jimmy. He’s asleep right now, he’s not listening to anything that I’m saying. You hear that, Uncle Jimmy? Nothing. So I’ll be alone. I’ve been alone. Chester died. I was alone in that lion’s pit. You two were on the other side of that fence, together. Playing, laughing, being vulnerable. You probably embraced. I don’t know, I had my back turned. Maybe you kissed. But I was alone with a pile of lion shit. I took a few paces toward the exit of the pit, and then decided to check if you guys were still there, but instead I just saw Angelo, the lion. His paws were wrapped around the meat and he was gnawing at it. Red juices bled onto the rocks. A lioness walked up, looking hungry. He growled at her, and she sat down a couple of feet away, and put her head down. She knew that she had to wait her 37

turn. I’m sorry, what did you say? Can you repeat that? Sure, I’ll do my best. I apologize for taking so much time out of the reception. I guess my five minutes are almost up. Where did Mr. Benson go? He should be listening to this, too. You know, I didn’t come today planning to talk about the lion’s pit. I just wanted to be a funny best man and talk about that time the bride tried to kiss me. I wanted to be funny and get this over with. I guess it’s because of Chester’s death. That dog. I really wish he could’ve been here, you folks would’ve loved him. The thing was, Chester kept our little family together. I remember one night, we were arguing over who was supposed to schedule an appointment at the vet. I didn’t think it was my turn, but Darius thought it was. Tess was trying to say that it didn’t matter anymore and that we should just set the damn appointment. She was probably right. The argument was heating up. I had a lot on my mind and I probably forgot to make the call. But I didn’t want to admit that I was wrong at the time, so I kept blaming Darius. I told him that even if it was my turn, he should have done it since I am the only one that cleaned up after Chester and took him for walks. I was taking a lot of walks with Chester, around then. Anyway, I must have said some hurtful stuff. Stuff about how Darius had been absent and never asked me how I was doing after my sister died. He made a convincing argument that I was the one rejecting help, and that I should’ve taken the drive to Louisiana to check on her. I didn’t listen though, I kept calling Darius a shitty friend. He threw a tennis ball at me. Then, after all that yelling in the apartment, Chester fetched the ball and brought it back to us, and he looked at us with eyes that were practically weeping with joy to be in our company, and we started laughing and forgot to set the appointment with the veterinarian. We were always happy with Chester around, no matter what happened. After we cremated him, I didn’t leave my room for a couple of days. I think it was a couple of days. Tess would knock sometimes and bring me food and whiskey. I had the blinds shut, and I slept a lot. It was dark. I felt like I had no one. Then, Darius came into the room. It was the first time he had talked to me since Chester’s death. We talked for a while, lying in bed with each other. He told me to be quiet, because Tess was in the other bedroom, and the walls were thin, and he didn’t want to wake her up. And we talked about my sister, how sweet she always was, how she kept asking to call me, but I always said I was too busy, but her depression was getting worse, but how was I supposed to know 38

that, because she still found the energy to send me index cards with drawings on them. She liked to draw portraits of the dogs she worked with. We talked about Chester, about his pure innocence and simplicity, the stupid dog that ran into a car. Darius apologized for being so absent. Welcome back, Mr. Benson. I’m glad you could make it for the toast, I stalled long enough for you to get back, and we are about to get to your favorite part. There’s no need for tasers, officer, I’ll wrap this up quick. Everyone raise your glasses. Right, so Darius and I were in bed together. We cuddled, and we kissed each other, and he started to stroke me, softly at first, and then more, and faster, and eventually, after what felt like hours of the only peace and happiness I have ever felt, he told me that he had to go. He had to slip back in bed with Tess, and act like we never talked. I was back to feeling empty, touching myself in private, thinking about him. You, Darius. Forget this wedding. It’s not too late to run away with me. We could feel like we did in that bed, forever. This day doesn’t have to be about parents or lions or theatrical tents. Just us. Ok, fine, ma’am, I understand. Yes. I already said there’s no need for tasers. Let’s wrap this up. None of you kind folks needed to hear any of this. I apologize. Someone wake Uncle Jimmy up, it’s time to make a toast. Raise your glasses to the happy couple. Tess, you look gorgeous, and I hope you still feel like a lioness. Darius, you would make a great husband. ••• Excuse me? Waitress? Yes, I’ve dropped my glass. Can we get someone to sweep up this mess?

Whoever Said Dinosaurs Went Extinct Has Never Been to the Turtle Pond gouache on spray paint Ely German

Helga and Her Hummingbird Hustled the High Hippo gouache Ely German

Waiting Room Blues Frances Garnett

It seemed like the Almighty thought He could pull off the next great miracle by turning the sky into a waterfall. A young woman, not older than twenty, looked lazily at the river pulsating against the window next to her, wondering if anyone had looked up into the heavens and drowned while waiting for a sneeze to come. She then flicked her eyes at the clock on the wall, then flicked them away again, as if looking at the clock would cause the glass barrier between her and the wishes of the Almighty to shatter. 8:33. Too early, but it was the only time the office could fit her in. Oh God, she thought. I’ll never be able to get to my car, and I really can’t afford to ruin another pair of shoes. She scratched the inside of her left ankle with the faded toe of her ballet flat. Her mother would have told her to throw them out. She would have said that they looked dingy, and that it’s not normal to wear the same pair of shoes for more two years. She stretched her neck back to allow her head to gently rest against the glass, but far from the calming feeling she expected, she felt like she was in an aquarium where the fish had gone rogue and whipped up whirlpools in all the tanks. Lovely. Last year the toes of these shoes each displayed a cute bow, ones that a girl might have felt made her look sophisticated. The scratching intensified. New shoes. Maybe next time I’ll blow all my money on shoes, not necessarily designer ones, or yeah, maybe what I need are some really solid designer shoes that won’t break down. That’s what proper adults do. I’d probably ruin them anyway, though. I’m too much of a grass and gravel and walking person. Her eyes played whack-a-mole with the clock again. 8:35. Late. 8:36. Later. Okay. Okay, that’s fine. Given the state of our healthcare system, there shouldn’t be any special reason they’re running late. There’s no reason they would be taking extra time on my file, or in the break room (I bet doctors have break rooms, maybe ones separate from the nurses) as they cuddle their coffee mugs with their hands, gossiping about their patients. That might break confidentiality, though. Maybe all medical schools are filled with reformed gossips, then, trying to go cold turkey. She considered indulging her fellows in the waiting room with a well43

rehearsed show of passive-aggressiveness she had honed during high school economics but decided against it. The only other people in the room were a mother and daughter pair, the worst kind too, given that the child was five and had a phony pink princess phone. No amount of sighing and leg-crossing could out-perform the earnestness with which this child flicked through her phone book – her own personal phone book! Who does this child think she is? It even coordinates with her phone. It’s just so pink. And not a subtle, blushing kind, but a shade that a high unicorn would dream up. I guess mom was right when she never let me buy anything with rhinestones on it. Garish. This child punched the numbers on her phone like she was poking a schoolyard bully, daring them to stay away from her friends or else. She then slapped the phone against her cheek and pressed it so hard that she would engrave her face with numerous little red ovals in a symmetrical, square formation. She giggled so hard, staring at her mother and jabbing her swollen fingers at the phone, that she sounded like a squealing prize pig with an engorged ego on the way home from the fair. I guess. The last fair I read about was in Charlotte’s Web, and Wilbur definitely cared about his tactfulness more than this one. The child was now whispering into the phone, but in the way that children whisper when excitement takes hold, spitting and huffing as they push every single thought they’ve ever had through their brain’s membrane and out through the mouth, scuffing their tongue along the way. Even the aquarium coup outside was better than this. I know what the news is going to be, I saw the looks on their faces. Or maybe I only saw what I wanted to see? –and I swear to God if that child calls someone on her shitty pink princess phone aga–there she goes. It felt like the child’s prodding was directed right at her forehead. She felt something very small strike it. As her eyes panned up, another drop of water launched itself from the corner of a ceiling panel and dove gracefully onto her forehead, where is completed its journey, rupturing into an infinite amount of micromolecules, thrown in God knows what direction onto the white tile, never to be seen again. I see they haven’t fixed the roof. Maybe we’ll all drown now. She stroked her forehead with her pinky finger and closed her eyes. I wonder if I opened my mouth up to the sky, like a Peanuts character, like a bucket, that filthy water would roll down my throat without swallowing, just if I relaxed enough and held my breath? Couldn’t sully my body even more than it already is. Here in the north it’s a cold rain, withers down my bones. I swear to God it’s shrinking me. I’m like one of those Roald Dahl characters – a Twit. A twat. Lovely, Bonnie. Just lovely. She covertly lifted one eyelid. There was another leak, right above the squealer. 44

Hit the child. Hit the child. Please God, let that filthy, disease-ridden drop hit that child – yes! She closed her eyes again and sighed contentedly, like she had just seen her favorite team score the winning goal at the World Cup and now had only to wait for the roaring aftermath. The child had no idea, of course. She merely patted the top of her head, but a tiny bit of water was not enough to distract her from her toy. Maybe she’ll get sick. Better she die than me. The rush was gone. She was just in a waiting room. Her stomach ached sharply, like it was being skewered. I didn’t mean that. With her eyes closed, she could hear the world. Her ears were finally attuned to even the subtlest change not just in the room, but in the building. She could hear beyond the voice of the universe singing outside, beyond the inane giddiness inside, and somewhere past the barrier to the inner maze of the building, the land of bad-news-bearers, the pattering of a messenger sounded like a gong ricocheting around in her skull. Wouldn’t it be funny if all those buckets in the sky finally broke through this roof and the windows and we could ride it as a slide, a glorious waterfall, down the street. I’d climb into a bathtub and ride out the wave to the ocean and head back south again, and I’d never hear from any doctors ever again in my entire life and a bruise is just a bump and a fainting spell is just a fairy’s kiss and I’d die happy, Swiss Family Robinson style. “Bonnie Wasser.” You’re so stupid.

Poetry

Grape Fields Sonoma County, California 35 mm full-frame Benji Martinez

what iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m missing anthony out in the street a big brooding doctor cries a name jessica to a woman running away i wonder why heâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s out of the office my throat itches and i cough perhaps i need to see a doctor but this is probably a bad time for this one

Carr’s Drive-In Zackary Davis My mom worked here When the owner was still in high school And so we had to come back Fifteen years ago and another five later, And then now So we could get those same fries And that same soft serve cone In those same wooden chairs, And I still felt like a kid Putting my fifty cents in the little red machine To get an encapsulated ice cream keychain That I knew I’d never use But it was nice to have all the same. It was the type of place you’d bring your kids to, And you never seemed to go for the first time Because it always seemed like you were just going back To the time capsule nobody had bothered to bury.

St. John the Evangelist Kevin LaTorre My lips uttered steam. His uttered cancer but gently; Rolled up in its stained bedsheets before It burns before the flimsy Pantheon of the bus stop. He does not burn, and his Deadly sacrifice rises like cheap incense. I do burn, Specifically from my pantsâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; seat On this pew. Steam, once My breath, is now also My skin and eyes so that My prayers ache. They quiver To meet the beaming glass, The beckoning organ overhead, To rise with the Burned chaff streaming out From below my eyebrows. Downcast eyelids, to better hear the Whimpers of so many, so young and So deceived. My head would not lift If one shoulder was graced, then the other. My being steams too thickly to stand, To speakâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;there is only to pray.

Melted mixed media digital photograph Austin Haag

I am no longer 30 pounds soaking wet Abby Escobar I say, as saltine crumbs dirty the bed I Search, every morning, for the bulk of your torso. Will you displace your malcontent and weave a wicker basket around my ribcage? Will you present one delicate egg for each meal I refused from your kettle-fingers? We were so frail then— Losing it within and among the sound of a single chord, our hands and hearts busy splashing in cereals of oat and pepper. Now, I continue to sing the same songs 35 miles away from your nose, A distance so trivial it is only the arched back of our shortcomings. Now, I lose it quietly at an intersection while a geyser explodes at my back, Spewing the opening trumpet sequence to my stomach’s funeral hymn. I’ve become so dexterous at discovering your scent in the most peculiar spaces: My grandmother’s kitchen, a high-rise balcony, fields I could only dream of manifesting you into. While anticipating the reality the universe has queued for us, I pray this yellow blanket, slick on my unshaven legs, will soon cover your gleaming body As we turn our mouths away from distance, from the choking smoke of doubt, to find the other half of your arm, outstretched and patient for the arrival of my craved and slender neck.

Orange and Blue digital painting Annette Hui

Rather, the sofa cushions are sinking into us Abby Escobar In this version, we are two Steps off the sidewalk and I Am rolling my bike away From you. Dinner has grown Cold in our stomachs And you remain transfixed on The bread crumbs Hiding in my imaginary beard. It is too cold to walk the Whole mile between our homes Without making a fuss And yet I go, pray myself into a haunting Silence, and christen my feet In the unrelenting and Crest-fallen snow. I do this for two reasons. One, the hum of your spirit will Vibrate tastefully in every Burrow of my body for The next four hours. I liken the Memory of your energy to A small house cat, circling The same spot on a Blanket before curling into The most comfortable position. Two, this is our bike dream, It is enough to keep me warm. 54

Our plight is so under-spoken It’s practically greedy And I’m not sure if you Could also read my mind, or how Much of my face you’ve really seen, Given your inclination towards squinting.

family foundation Brooklyn, New York digital photograph Alice Cheung

a driveway, always anthony you left the lights on again you know, its nancy’s birthday tomorrow you always leave the lights on we should send flowers or something electricity aint free, you know some nice roses bill went up nearly thirty bucks last month i wonder if her boy john went off to school yet tv’s on, too. i can see through the window there he’s such a nice boy roses? dont buy roses just send a card for christ’s sake remember when he came over a few years back with her and rob? we played scrabble for near 3 hours if i remember right it’s her 50-something birthday you’re acting like her mother died. roses… i miss nights like that. we should have them over soon do you even know how much roses cost im cold should’ve brought a coat i’m wearing a coat. turn the air on jesus christ where are we eating?

1848 Hayden Hans Baggett Tribalism runs through not only the veins of this obstinate land, but also the oxygen â&#x20AC;&#x201C; Stopping at the border and patrolling its gates, feeding and breeding, never learning from its mistakes.

Real Man Sophie Corless Did a Man ever wear a corset? Was there a Man that wanted to be shaped into beauty? I wonder if a Man in the distant past, wore a corset. Not for costume, Not for laughs, But for necessity. Did He wear a corset for real, Did He wear a corset to feel, Presentable. Did He wear a corset to, Compensate. Wear a corset to feel: Beautiful. I wonder if that Man asked His, Comfortably dressed wife to lace it up for Him. Would she pull the strings around his waist? I wonder if she pulled, And pulled And pulled Until His skin was purple and His waist, small. Did He wear the corset to feel? Feel: His waist mangled into affection, Or His flesh cut into acceptance, Or His bones crushing into perfection. And I wonder if that made Him feel like a Real man.

Kamayin Cerena Ermitanio ( Tagalog ) to use one’s hands. I dip my hand into the pot of water, uncooked rice, sifting through wet grains as my mother once did ten years ago, hurriedly in her blue scrubs, before she left me responsible for dinner. once I found a sizeable pebble. rarely have I pinched away the remains of insects. but often I find nothing at all, leaving me to wonder if this rice ritual is a religious habit passed down by my mother’s mother’s brown hands, which were folded in prayer three times every day, searching and plucking out evil from the food. perhaps, the women’s hands are worthy of more than peeling tilapia bones and blessing lunch. I’ve heard that in my blood, a mother once held down the white wrists of a soldier, out of necessity, out of fear.

Eson digital painting Annette Hui

Pulsatio / Heartbeat Michael Akaolisa Such a feeling to be drunk off the rhythm of your own existence to be inundated by the cadence of the muscle-woven instrument sheathed beneath rib and flesh. the drummer boy keeps pace, relentless in its rudiment crafting the malleable boom bap to my war and peace â&#x20AC;&#x201D; nimble echoes resonate through my veins. Such a feeling to be sedated by the tempo of your own presence to be unfazed by the dissonance of all and everything. as long as it marches i know i am Alive.

have your dreams become nightmares yet digital photograph Karolina Rymarz

Biographies

Studio of a Retired Artist Brooklyn, New York digital photograph Alice Cheung

Anthony Laurence is thirty feet tall on a good day and no more than a foot when it rains. After college, he hopes to have brown boots for when it’s cold. He lives his life knowing full well that he may, at any point in time, fall through the floor. His favorite number is 33 unless it’s bragging too much, in which case it’s 7. He does not exactly recall writing the two pieces in this magazine, but is grateful nonetheless. You can find Aanthony stuck to a wall anytime after 6 during the week. Megan Abrameit is a senior majoring in psychology and humanities (specialization in sex trafficking and human rights) with a certificate in creative writing. She believes in empowering women, staying up late to have deep conversations with friends, eating lots of Thai food, taking naps, petting cats on walks, watching The Office to the point of memorization (she once dressed up as Dwight— true story!), practicing empathy, making complex Spotify playlists, crying until you laugh, and laughing until you cry. She likes to write about real life and holds strongly to the concept of story truth. Michael Akaolisa is a sophomore biochemistry student at the University of Texas. For as long as he could remember, he has been fascinated with the ways words could paint the human experience, elicit and elucidate emotion, and convey myriads of meaning. He intends on going onto medical school and pursuing a career in cardiology while honing his craft as an author and poet. Sydney Bartlett is in her fourth year studying English and religious studies. Upon graduation, she will be biking to Alaska through Texas 4000 for Cancer, after which she hopes to work in nonprofit development and continue reading and writing. In her spare time, Sydney enjoys running, cycling, learning, and rereading Paradise Lost. Aileen Bazán is a senior Mexican American Latina/o studies, history, and government triple major graduating this spring. She has only recently explored creative writing, finding inspiration in the works of great Chicana writers such as Sandra Cisneros, Gloria Anzaldúa, and Cherrie Moraga. The support from her friends reassured her and motivated her to put words to paper in a way she hadn’t before. Aileen has dedicated a large part of her academic career to advocate for worker rights and hopes to continue this work after graduation. Alice Cheung is a fourth year chemistry student, a freelance video game writer, and a portrait photographer. She started out taking senior photos to 66

raise money for Dell Children’s Hospital, and has since expanded into fashion, engagement, and wedding photography. Her favorite photographic elements are negative space, warm tones, and muted color palettes. You can find more of her professional and personal work at aliceccheung.com. Sophie Corless is a senior rhetoric and writing major from Dallas, TX. She is also pursuing a creative writing certificate for poetry and loves to write and explore Austin in her free time. She plans to move to Los Angeles following graduation and apply for MFA programs for creative writing. She spends most of her time with her best friends Joseph, Taylor, Noelle, and Jaime, drawing and watching absurd amounts of reality TV. Zackary Davis is a sophomore majoring in history, English, and American studies. With plans to turn his writing into a career, Zackary would also like to pursue a graduate degree in history. The writers that have influenced him most include Billy Collins and Haruki Murakami. When he isn’t writing or studying, he enjoys going to local punk shows. Cerena Ermitanio is a poet who is pursuing a degree in international relations. She can be found spending too much time reading for leisure, wallowing in tea and nostalgia. Abby Escobar is a sophomore public health major at the University of Texas. She is interested in healing with alternative medicine and serving the underresourced women of the world. She loves her friends more than anything and finds peace in the magic of plants and the gentle nudges of the universe. Frances Garnett is a sophomore double major in international relations and theater. Along with short stories, she also writes plays and poetry. Her favorite books she’s read this year are Little Fires Everywhere and Never Let Me Go, and her favorite playwrights are Annie Baker and Sarah Ruhl. Ely German is studying art at UT and explores how she can use her art to create positive change. German’s work spans different styles, mediums, and conversations. Currently, she is using drawing, painting, and animation to explore ideas about society, politics, and our environment. Her work is surreal in nature and uses bold colors to create witty and often ironic critiques of modern society. To see her work, visit elygerman.com or @elygerman on Instagram for updates. 67

Austin Haag is a freshman at The University of Texas at Austin. He is studying studio art and plans to double major in nursing. Austin has been passionate with photography ever since he was a young child experimenting on his parents’ camera. At the start of high school, Austin had truly found his voice in photography, experimenting with different medias ranging from film to digital. His latest works show the combination of 3D elements, such as flowers and string added to his prints. To see more of Austin’s work, check out his website at austinsphoto.com Hayden Hans Baggett is a journalism and international relations student at UT. He likes people, places, and things, and he never fails to stay hydrated. Annette Hui is a passionate artist and designer trying to express the importance of color and lighting. She really enjoys illustration that’s fun, bright, and sometimes child-like. Furthermore, she hopes to one day create concept art for the entertainment industry, do illustration, or just in general express her creative skill-sets onto the world. There’s nothing more beautiful than just having fun with your work! Kevin LaTorre is a senior English student with plans to continue whatever it is he has been doing here at UT (learning...?). He enjoys (insert quirky, selfdeprecating hobbies here), and, though he knows he shouldn’t, lame humor. He is thankful to be a featured poet in Echo for a third year. Benji Martinez is a fourth year philosophy major at the University of Texas at Austin. When not in class or studying, he enjoys spending time water skiing and photographing. Since he was 14 years old, Benji has kept an archive of his favorite photographs and has so far amassed a collection of over 25,000 images on both film and digital formats. Alexander Salerno is a rhetoric and writing major at the University of Texas and plans to graduate in 2019. He oversees the distribution of food for a living. He doesn’t eat anything that was once connected to an eyeball. A cat that lives outside his apartment owns him. He speaks a stateless language born a millennium ago by an oppressed religious and ethnic group. He aspires to combine a set of words that sparks such interest and inspiration that people print it and read it over and over again. He hopes you enjoy his story printed here. 68

Karolina Rymarz is a neuroscience nerd with an unhealthy obsession with sunsets. Often times youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll catch her talking to Orion in the night-time sky or rambling about brains in vats (she does have a bit of an interest in philosophy). If she loved medicine a little less, sheâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d be fully satisfied with settling down in a small town as long as it has a library and access to the internet ~and a cute store with crystals~. Taryn Uribe Turner is graduating in summer 2019 with degrees in history, art history, and anthropology. She grew up in Boerne, Texas and spent many weekends with extended family in Laredo, Texas. When wanting to retain a memory, she takes pictures, captures a brief video, or rapidly writes in a notebook. Her photo was taken on a National Geographic photography expedition while biking across the Sacred Valley of Peru from sunrise to sunset. This trip ignited her interest in anthropology and how tourism and photography interact with culture. She loves to draw inside little notebooks, listen to groovy music, learn new things, and have fun. Isabel Zubizarreta Otero is an anthropology student at the University of Texas. She took her first photography class at the Houston Center for Photography her senior year of high school and has continued learning about photography at UT. She enjoys taking fine art pictures but has an interest in environmental studies and human rights issues and hopes to bring those two interests together with photography.