Ether(bound) Fall 2019

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fall ‘19 | issue 8


ether(bound) family editor in chief

Julia Unger

managing editor treasurer secretary

Kate Fish

Sam Eleuterio Kaylee Maynard

nonfiction editor

Laura Merker

fiction editor Chase Hoffman music editor Maria Cherry visual arts editor

Kamakana Pankiwska

prose editor poetry editors

Sam Eleuterio

Jason Phillips, Maddie Perfit-Hart

social media & website manager event planner copy editors

Kaylee Maynard

Bridget Elmore

Shannon Kelleher, Alex Schiffer, Haley Corsetti, Bridget Elmore

A special thanks to Dean Riley and the URI College of Arts & Sciences, Anna Vaccaro-Gray, URI Printing Services, Jasmine Langcaster-James, Jeremiah Dyehouse and Donna Hayden, the Writing & Rhetoric department, Travis Williams and Shawn Dufault, the English department, the Gender & Sexuality Center, Frank Romanelli and the Writing Production Lab, the Writing Center at URI, the 193° Coffee House, & to our magnificent artists for submitting.

cover art: O.O.T.W Maylleline Espinosa



(e)ditors’ note It is more important now than ever to be grounded, to be balanced and sensible. Throughout this edition of (ether)bound we explore our theme “grounded”. While creating this edition of the magazine we attempted to find balance and sensibility through our currated collection and our process. We hope to share our grounded state with our community.


contents 4 River-Waltz Johnny Connelly 5 Heaven on Earth Elizabeth Greer 5 Boston BBQ Megan Hammit Muir 6 Evil is the Soul Liz Greer 6 The Mirrror Liz Greer 7 Demons: Not Dinner Guests Shannon McDonnell 8 Lay With Me Sarah Angeloni 9 Women Mel 9 Creation of A Maylleline Espinosa 10 hush Shannon McDonnell 11 Eulogy For My Lost Flannel Sarah Fiore 12 Nature Feels Ana Santos 13 Obligations Theresa Brown 14 Disorted Beauty Ana Santos 15 All Dollled Up Shannon McDonnnell 16 Euphoria Nicholas Murray 17 Austin Sarah Angeloni 17 Constraint Sarah Angeloni 18 Hallows Nicholas Murray 19 the light Liz Greer 19 Metallic Fyre Maylleline Espinosa 20 I find myself sweating... Shane Gallant 20 Take a Bow Nicholas Murdock 21 The World’s Dumbest Addict Alexander Murdock 22 peace to every crease of your brain Ana Santos 23 pipe dream Camille Audette 23 passage Megan Hammit Muir 24 Inkwell No. 5 Nicholas Murray 24 Adventures with the Crew Maylleline Espinosa 25 High Masculinity Johnny Donnelly 25 N.$.I.P Maylleline Espinosa 26 Fortune Teller Sofia Ganey 26 las bombas Camille Audette 27 the sky after you died Alexander Murdock 28 hands Alexander Murdock 28 new math Alexander Murdock 29 I’ll be in here Ana Santos 29 Reflections Sarah Angeloni 30 The Arc of Persephone Johnny Donnelly 30 Shift My Darkness Sarah Angeloni 30 Starchus Sofia Ganey 31 Kylo Ren Should Not Be Your Fictional Boyfriend ari 32 hindsight Megan Hammit Muir 33 Rose Moon Johnny Donnelly 33 prov Camille Audette 34 Spinning Nicholas Murray 34 Everything Hurt Nicholas Murray


Johnny Connelly

River-Waltz On your feet, on your feet, Naya, my shade, Rise in your colors Of almond and jade. The strings start a rumor, The bass is in tune, The wood-lord’s high humor Shies out the raw moon. Harps by the river Slope, tangle, and wade, Float among flute-reeds, Spraying the glade. Glow-worms dim slowly By the silver-lipped dune; Where shades of your smile Ache down the shy moon.


Heaven on Earth Sarah Angeloni

fall ‘18 fall ‘18

Boston BBQ Megan Hammit Muir


Evil is the Soul Elizabeth Geer what causes us to become corrupt , is none other than ourselves. society has broken down because of the judgments passed upon others, the hidden expectations, the obsessive self absorption. This is what makes us cruel makes us fiend. These evils, passed down from mothers and fathers, onto their children. These evils, passed down from friend to friend, becoming enemies. These evils inside of us, create lost trust, fear, isolation. These evils, the reasons we are afraid of leaving the safety of our warm beds each morning, once we leave, once our feet touch the ground, the world again become cruel and cold. These evils, create abuse, destruction, create war and loss. more than anything, it creates us.

The Mirror Elizabeth Geer she looks at Me and weeps. I contain her deepest insecurities. she looks at Me and weeps. I show her love through truth, but it isn’t accepted. she looks at Me and weeps. as I show her growth, she sees only death. she looks at Me and weeps. My four corners hold her deepest secrets. she looks at Me and weeps. I show only what I see, but not what she desires. and so, she looks at Me and weeps. 6

Demons: Not Dinner Guests Shannon McDonnell On Sunday, you invite your demons over for a cup of tea. You serve them cake, the slices each cut two feet wide. This will impress them, you think to yourself. You took scissors to a cookbook and selected a “french lemon cake with a sweet icing drizzle.” You chose it because the French know what they’re doing and because that jumble of words made your mouth water. You fret over demonic dietary restrictions and hope the cake isn’t too dry. You wear ripped jeans, but at the last minute panic at the thought of your guests arriving in proper English hats and antique floral gowns. The demons do not. You hand them the cake on your mother’s wedding china. White plates that dance with painted daisies. You reach your arm out and smile. You knew the smile had to be grand so you practiced in the mirror earlier that day. The demons growl and huff and shout nasty things about lemon zest but you convince your cheeks to rise and your teeth to continue to glow. “Your horns!” You say with excitement, “They are a magnificent color!” You talk of their exotic shape and their wonderful shine but the demons laugh and let whispers about your puffy hair slip out through jagged fangs. As their host, you do your best to accommodate. You say you’re sorry about the cake. You insist on making something new, gingersnaps perhaps! You even offer to straighten your hair. The demons aren’t impressed. You pour them tea, offering sugar cubes and honey to sweeten the mood, but nothing takes. They hiss and snap and carve intricate grooves onto your mahogany tables with fingernails. To your left, sits a snake like creature. It swirls and flies and circles around your waist, attempting to make you thinner with its tightened fist. At the head of the table sits a maggot in a top hat. It wonders why you’ve called them here today. You had wanted to settle things between you. To clear the air. You wanted to impress. 7

You wanted to make the crumpet of a lifetime and be praised for your benevolence. But now that the food has been served, you see that nothing has changed. You see that demons are dicks and that scones won’t change that. With this revelation though, where do you go? Self doubt is a tenant one doesn’t evict. Your demons have painted their fences and trimmed their lawns. They are permanent residents, not looking to move —but they do not have to be your neighbors. You do not have to lend them sugar and return their lost mail. No, this is your party and your demons are quite awful guests. Sit them at a table with bad lighting and stale bread. Sit then near the band. Where their jeers and taunts are merely fodder for the drums. Don’t give them room to speak. With them in this position, you may let your hair grow wide. You may sprinkle lemon zest all over your life. You make stretch your waist out like an elastic band. And groan your words out lower, digging holes into the floor. Yes, here you may be you. And you may sip your tea with a smile. Or not, this time it’s up to you.

Lay with Me Sarah Angeloni 8

Check out music to listen.

Women Mary Ellen Hawkins

Creation of A Maylleline Espinosa 9

hush Shannon McDonnell She bites her lip. Desperately carving grooves and valleys into supple skin with teeth. She tried to eat her voice out of existence— Again. Her nerves making her body smaller. She has a mean mouth—that’s what her mother says. It runs in the family, making smiles harder by the generation. Her words come from nothing more than a flat line now. Stagnant as it stutters out nonsense. You could get rid of the rest of the body, Tear it all away, And your lips would not tremble. They are soldiers in their own battalion. Fighting missions with vowels and screams. Teaching the world one by one what your soul is singing. It is all that matters. So why if your voice is your independence— do you bite down again and again? Bite with anger. Bite with relief. Bite in search of feeling, to feel something. Making the entrance of your words to the world that much harder. Endangering your own terrain. She sees the world with one finger placed to its lips. Hush—she hears again She knows that the silence of her sex is welcome. So she makes a promise, To teach herself to follow every smile with a scream.Welcome to your blog post. Use this space to connect with your readers and potential customers in a way that’s current and interesting. Think of it as an ongoing conversation where you can share updates about business, trends, news, and more.


Eulogy for My Lost Flannel Sarah Fiore I’ve forgotten my flannel in a hotel in Vermont where I’ll never return again, so you could say it’s dead. I only realized it was gone when I came back to my bedroom, the bedroom where I come from, and wondered when I’d see my favorite flannel again in its place beside my pillow again. Once the laundry is done. But then I remembered waking up this morning, its sleeve over my shoulder like a the protection of a ghost. I walked over to the window to dismiss the daylight, and let the flannel continue its strangled embrace. I must have tossed it somewhere else when I decided to get dressed. The flannel was beloved but too ugly to wear in public, so I wore a beige cardigan instead. --------------------- My grief process is progressing strangely. The flannel and I met over a year ago, but we only became lovers recently. This last month was our month of love, but it was a June a year ago when it came to me from my best friend’s wardrobe. We wanted to go on a late night drive, but it was too cool to go out with bare arms anymore. I never wore flannels before, and it was rough and foreign and warm. (I only wore soft things like linen and silk before; anything to heighten the melodrama that is natural to someone writing a eulogy for a piece of clothing). That night we chased a yellow, bulging moon down to ocean in my car, and we really felt that we were getting closer to it. The sky was not a barrier. But the next day was daylight again, and the flannel went to stay in my best friend’s closet again for another year of emptiness. On my birthday, my best friend gave me a bag full of clothes she didn’t wear anymore. Some were dresses her mother wore before she was born; others were skirts filled with sadness after surviving middle school and never seeing any progress from there. And at the bottom of the bag there was the flannel. She didn’t know we had met before. “I know this guy! I wore it that time we drove down to the beach really late at night.” “Really? Wow, I don’t know how you remember things like that. You never let go.” She grinned, and tossed me my bounty of give-away garments. I still haven’t retrieved the laundry yet. It’s been two hours and I know it’s done. There still is the chance my flannel could have been lost under some other hollow limb, but somehow I know that it won’t be there. They say everything can be replaced, but some things stay with you longer than you expected they would, and when they leave, it’s not their absence that shocks you. It’s the departure without farewell. It’s the end of a feeling of possession, of being protected, of you protecting something that means nothing without your continuous assertion that it does. My arms are cold now, and there are cardigans I could wear instead. Those are the kinds of things I’ve always worn. They’re unassuming, slinking across the body like a woman crossing her legs and shrinking in a folding chair. They sit with you while you take tea to ease your aching stomach, the fear gurgling slowly. They nurse my sadness, and absorb it like it’s their only job. They are the vestments of the distinctly feminine melancholy that is natural to me. Someone bought them for me at Old Navy, decided pale pink was my color, and now the only story they know is a sulking, anxious girl’s extensive bedtime routine: intended to sooth but often more distressing in its elaborateness. 11

I told my best friend that her flannel had met its end, expecting some kind of sadness. All she said was that she had given it away for some reason. “Well, you must have been meant to lose it!� I wondered how that could be true, and how you could trust anyone if it was. But I let her walk by, unfazed and ready to buy something fabulous and new. I will try to forget my flannel. I will try to forget the way it passed into my hands so casually, each time ending up in my possession like a mistake, which somehow meant more to me. And I will keep wondering why I am the one who cares so much about keeping old things at all.

Nature Feels


Ana Santos


Theresa Brown

Sit up straight Don’t be late They should never have to wait Because you should Because you have to It’s what you’re supposed to do Cross your legs Curl your hair And never, ever swear Because you should Because you have to It’s what you’re supposed to do Shut your mouth Don’t make a sound Never let your thoughts come out Because you should Because you have to It’s what you’re supposed to do Lock your doors Be aware Live in constant fear Because you should Because you have to It’s what you’re supposed to do Don’t wear shorts Don’t get raped Take the right steps to stay safe Because you should Because you have to It’s what you’re supposed to do

Spread your legs Speak your heart Spread the fire we must start Because you should Because you have to It’s what you need to do Support your sisters Fuck the misters Hold up your sign until there’s blisters Because you should Because you have to It’s what you need to do Love your body Trust your soul Tell them what we already know Because you should Because you have to It’s what you need to do Make your choice And support others Because no matter race, religion, or lover Everyone can choose, everyone can decide So, speak it low, speak it high Because you should Because you have to It’s what you need to do


Distorted Beauty


Ana Santos

All Dolled Up

Shannon McDonnell

Today, there is glitter on my eyelids and blue velvet creeping up my neck. Today, stars dangle from my earlobes, long golden blasts that catch the sun with every step I take. Today, I am blinding. Uniquely, I treat people to a galaxy when I talk. —With one glance, they take me in like a punch. Today, I smell like free samples of perfume. Coconut and vanilla combined. I smell like a Christmas window display, artificial yet desired. Today, I am striking. Today, I am poised. Today, well earlier today, my mind wouldn’t stop. It was synthesizing new words, recycling old excuses, shoveling piles upon piles of fresh superstitions into my hands, demanding the majority of my time and all of my sense—so I decided to seal my mouth up tight with Sweet Cherry Lip Balm. It kept everything inside and my sister even told me it made my eyes pop. Today, my body tells a clean story. It speaks of a cool girl whose ripped jeans spout lies about her laid back demeanor. Today, the barista complimented my hoisted up hairdo and when she did, I no longer felt tired. No, I no longer felt a tapping on my eyelids and flicker in my hand. No, I was no longer me at all. When I took my tea from her—I was a space goddess. I was Lizzie McGuire, live from Italy, singing in a powder blue crop top in front of thousands. I was velvet and shine and pure pristine envy. Tonight, I wore Glossier sprinkles along burnt out skin and I smiled and I smiled and I smiled and I wondered for the last time if my fingers would shake less if my nails were painted red.




Nicholas Murray

Sarah Angeloni

Sarah Angeloni




Hallows 18

Nicholas Murray

the light

Liz Geer

Metallic Fyre Maylleline Espinosa

a ray of light unknown to them broke out all at once this incredible risk it crossed his imagination in the figure of reality defending the hope was his only option it has become as rare to us as love the light broke through


I find myself sweating...

Shane Gallant

I find myself sweating while it’s cold. I find myself talking to faceless groups of people. It’s all a blur in the mission to get to the next step. “I’ve wasted too much time already. I can’t afford to relax.” This is what I tell myself at 26. I’m making up for time already wasted, yet moments of calm are necessary. This summer I taught myself to slow down. To reflect. To grow. To repair and prepare. It was the greatest summer of my life. The hours spent floating aimlessly on Wallum Lake with a joint in my mouth. The pages upon pages I read of the fantasy books I fell in love with as a child while swinging in my hammock. And can you believe that I took up fishing?! Unreal. Hours of just standing there casting and reeling. I love it. I love my moments of quiet now. The moments in my head where I get personal with myself and figure it out. It wasn’t comfortable or easy or fast, but by taking some time, just a little here and there, I have cultivated a personal peace within.

Take a Bow Nicholas Murray

Though, I cannot leave the unattendance unattended! Or else I will fall back into the meaningless swirl of nameless people around me. The monotony will set back in and the excitement of being ever present with slip from my grasp again.


The World’s Dumbest Addict


Alexander Murdock

peace to every crease of your brain


Ana Santos

Camille Audette


Megan Hammit Muir

pipe dream


Inkwell No. 5

Adventures with the Crew

Maylleline Espinosa 24

Nicholas Murray

High Masculinity

Johnny Donnelly

Ringing through the elder streets Where the river runs; Where the lonely low drum beats Under dying suns The blacksmith molds the fire, sharp, Into a full-voiced song That impregnates the pliant harp With rhythm deep and strong. Ringing by the wild bay Where the river flows; Where the rising sea-gull’s lay Crowds the seasoned rose The runner, barefoot, rocks the margin, Muscles sleet and tan Stripping, pounding, by the siren Stretching for her man. Ringing towards the beaten gates Where the city ends; Where the river-run abates Withers, steeps and blends The agÊd teacher, soaked in spirit, Flicks a measured tongue Gyring the crooked fire-spit

N.$.I.P Maylleline Espinosa


Camille Audette

Sofia Ganey

las bombas

Fortune Teller


the sky after you died

Alexander Murdock

the day i learned that you died the sirens echoed through the sky we heard cop cars and fire engines blasting horns around us the sky was its usual blue and the clouds were shattered across it like wispy flat centipedes crawling around the sound came from everywhere. i think we heard souls getting sucked through jars i think we saw them, but i still don’t know how to believe it the sky after you died was inescapable a haunting portrait painted by god with clouds that turned slowly to purple smoke before disappearing into nothing and the cars we might have used to try to get away from it— they were all just more rooms to be in no matter how hard we worked to get them to take us somewhere else the sky after you died was beautiful, but


hands Alexander Murdock

new math

Alexander Murdock

your new addition different from the one before it smells like the second genesis, but we try not to smell the hidden parts of the bible. we smell the perfume we smell the roses we watch the ladies adorned in the new dress code all reading and speaking in hushed tones about your new addition.


I’ll be in here

Ana Santos

Reflections Sarah Angeloni


The Arc of Persephone

Johnny Donnelly

Vox clamantis in deserto: The Rapist and the Abortionist Are eternal Philistines. He sickles in that sick harvest, She seeds out and achenes.

Shift my Darkness

Sarah Angeloni

You Philistines. There will be no art Until the pietĂ is saved The Girl will tooth the fruit apart, The Son will rise, depraved.



Sofia Ganey

Kylo Ren Should Not Be Your Fictional Boyfriend ari Everyone loves a bad boy, right? At least modern American pop culture seems to think so. In 1964, the girl group The Shangri-Las crooned about the dreamy “Leader Of The Pack:” “They told me he was bad / But I knew that he was sad!” More recently, the Incel Rebellion movement of “involuntary celibate men” bemoan their belief that when it comes to getting girls, “nice guys finish last.” Girls are only attracted to bad boys who are tough, aggressive, manly, and cool. Right? Right?? summarizes the All Girls Want Bad Boys trope thus: “the stoic, silent guy is a mystery waiting to be solved; the Troubled, but Cute youth with a tragic past is a woobie needing comfort; he’s tough enough to be a girl’s protector, but vulnerable enough to need her as well.” This doesn’t sound too bad, right? It’s completely reasonable for a girl to want a cute boyfriend who will support her in life, and she can support right back – the mutual respect romantic relationships are made of. Healthy romantic relationships, that is. TV Tropes goes on to say that “All this, of course, tends to gloss over the fact that bad boys are bad, meaning criminally inclined, self-centered, probably not too mentally stable, potentially abusive…. So what if he can’t be trusted? It’s an honor for girls in media to be chosen by him.” Think of the villainous Kylo Ren in Star Wars: The Last Jedi, as played by Adam Driver, an actor who many a girl has squealed over. Out of all the people in the galaxy to attempt a psychic Force Bond with, he chooses the powerful heroine Rey as the person he tries to convince to come to the dark side. This confuses her…and gives her the idea to use this connection to attempt to redeem him instead. Which would be a nice sentiment on her part…if he didn’t help create superweapons that destroy entire planets. And if he didn’t kill his own father without hesitation. Think of Jareth the Goblin King in the 1986 fantasy movie Labyrinth, as played by rock icon David Bowie. He kidnaps protagonist Sarah’s baby brother, forces her to fight her way through a vast labyrinth maze in order to find him, gives her a poisoned peach that makes her hallucinate her and the much-older king dancing together at a ball…and yet he looks sooooo dreamy in that suit. But even if he wasn’t evil, even if they weren’t decades apart in age, he’d still be a pretty controlling boyfriend to have. At the end of the movie, he pleads Sarah to let him make her his by saying “Love me. Fear me. Do as I say, and I will be your slave.” As John Mulaney once said, we don’t have time to unpack all of that. Think of The Joker from DC Comics (arguably the worst offender here), and how he treats his girlfriend Harley Quinn in both movies and comics. As played by former teen heartthrob Jared Leto in the film Suicide Squad, while stationed in Arkham Asylum, he manipulates psychiatrist Harley into sympathizing with him with fake stories of a tragic past. Even once they are together, he shoves her into a vat of toxic chemicals, tries to leave her to drown, and constantly ignores and belittles his girlfriend. 31

Think of Bill Skarsgård as Pennywise the Dancing Clown in It and It: Chapter Two… and the disturbing Internet-wide lust for Pennywise (not Bill, Pennywise) when the first film came out. Like the other men listed here, this character is sullen, violent, and vicious. But at least he’s played by a hot guy, right?? So why should you care if your roommate wants to make out with a clown? Well, like it or not, fiction does affect reality. When audiences romanticize relationships like these, it makes this abuse and mistreatment normal for partners to do to each other.


Megan Hammit Muir

But luckily, there is hope. At the end of The Last Jedi, Rey turns her back on the Sith after realizing all the time she wasted trying to change a man who didn’t want to be changed. Sarah’s response to Jareth’s plea is a clear “You have no power over me.” And in a recent teaser for Harley Quinn’s new solo movie Birds of Prey, she cries that she’s “so fucking sick of clowns.” As we all should be.



Johnny Donnelly

But when the moon throws down her ivory head To drink upon the rushing, salt-blue seas The dream-lipped face of Jasmine flushes red The falling moon plucks at her rooted knees. Then shy she meets the Night, quiet and shy, In fields of purple grass and asphodel. The wild Night shrieks down to fill her eye A single rose is fire on the hill. The moon is ruined when she takes the earth The stain of man soaks crimson through her veil. The flailing winds of Night howl in mirth A single thorn does Jasmine’s will impale. Such drives my wildflower to repose As the ivory moon sinks and blossoms to a bloody rose.

prov 33

Camille Audette

Nicholas Murray

Nicholas Murray

Everything Hurt



Gold Skull Maylleline Espinosa

(e) This issue is supported by the URI College of Arts & Sciences Impact Fund.