The Gallery Spring 2017

The Gallery Spring2017

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Volume 32, Issue 2 Spring 2017

Editors Co-Editors-In-Chief Heather Lawrence Dominic DeAngio Copy Editors Patrick Eberhardt Kate Sandberg Art Editor Emma Russell Poetry Editor Olivia Vande Woude Prose Editor Julia Wicks

Staff Editors Bryce Allen Cameron Bray Maxwell Cloe Jakob Cordes Mallory Cox Kelly Gidons Rebekah Harris Jacob Manvell Christina McBride Lauren Murtagh

Lindsay Myers Lindsay Pugh Sydney Rosenberger Gwen Sachs Zoe Stallings Bronwynn Terrell Noah Terrell Katie Wright Zoey Wang

Cover Art

Riptides

See the complete work on page 14

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Contents The Bermuda Triangle A Nightmare You Can’t Sweat Out

Old South High Street

Spilled Ink The Rain That Keeps Me Up At Night Benjamin Ira Sestina for the Lost Walking At 12 The Cars Had Faces Saludos Brown Sugar Cocoa Butter A Cloud So Proud Black Widow For My Sister

Poetry 4 5 7 10 12-13 17 18-19 32 32 33 35 40 44-45 45

Miriam Szabo-Wexler Alvin Chan Patrick Eberhardt Jessie Urgo Anna McAnnally Riley Cohen Patrick Eberhardt Kiana Espinoza Stephen Holt Lydia Hurtado Makeda Jackson J. Clayton Manvell Riley Cohen Catherine Green

Prose Black Girl The Night Visitor A Walk in the Woods Lines Raphael Colors

8-9 15-16 30-31 36-40 42-43 47

Ashley Anderson Heather Lawrence Sheila Hill Quinn Monette Catherine Green Gwen Sachs

Art Mysterious Liam Liam Riptides No Turning Back Water Village Professor Kreydatus Pensive Waste Blanco da Cuerpo Boo Conquer from Within Purple Nurple Perspective Expression Cold Feet Rays of Hope

6 11 14 19 20 21 22 23 24-25 26 27 28 29 34 41 46

Rebecca Shkeyrov Kristie Turkal Emma Russell James Card Elaine Xing Rebecca Shkeyrov Amy Nelson Rebecca Shkeyrov Emma Zahren-Newman Victoria Diaz Varun Desai Rebecca Shkeyrov Maddy Wheeler Katie Hogan Kristie Turkal Varun Desai

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Spring 2017 Poetry Staff Favorite

The Bermuda Triangle When this is over you & I should sail to the Bermuda triangle where ships sank not from their own weight but from the unbearable lightness of the sea; and we will choose to sink beneath the depths where so many others have fallen and search for treasure among their bones

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— Miriam Szabo-Wexler

A Nightmare You Can’t Sweat Out My father lives in a 6x2 box. Daddy sleeps with two pillows at night

dearly than your own dead father. Because, dad there he is drunk again

throwing his legs over the sides because they’re his at least the man that he’s

telling the same old stories chalking it up to the vinegar and vitriol of his younger self.

dying to be. Telling you that you’re too young for a pack of American Spirits

Waiting for a few drags of smoke to do whatever he needs them to

but smoking crank is just fine.

The kind to ditch your faith and put you under his thrall

to not tell lies or we will lose our shirts, not knowing the depth of a kid who is

as he watches you risk what you never had.

Cigarette smoke blowing

really struggling with stuff.

And just how few were his remaining days.

out of frame, leaving you to wonder what it’s like to love someone more

— Alvin Chan

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Rebecca Shkeyrov

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Mysterious Liam

Ink on Paper

Old South High Street When I depart the blue corner abode where I nested with a blind white pit-bull in early summer, steam escapes the road, sweating out a sack of memories, full of my flea nest with a blind white pit-bull.

Written in black sharpie: words cover coats hanging on the wall of memories, full of ranting confessionals, cryptic notes written in black Sharpie, lines over coats of white chipped paint. The steeple house is known for ranting confessionals, sixteenth notes scrawled there with no electric power, all blown on white chipped paint. The steeple house is known as a place for living depravity splayed there without electric power, all blown inward by pulpy air of tragedy.

As a place to seek out depravity, it serves the weary lost, a brief pit-stop, respite from pulpy airs of tragedy along paths to madness most have now closed shop.

I serve the hopeless lost at a brief pit-stop, breathe early summer steam, escape the road along paths to madness where they’ve now closed shop when I depart that blue corner abode.

— Patrick Eberhardt

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Black Girl

by Ashley Anderson

obody prepares you for how hard it is to be a black girl. No one tells you that you will be ridiculed for being loud and in the same breath criticized for being quiet. No one tells you that people will assume that your hair is not real, and be shocked when it is.

No one tells you that teachers will expect you to have an attitude before they even learn your name. No one tells you that those same teachers will be surprised when your name is not one of those “ghetto black girl names” that they’ve fabricated in their minds. This is what it is to be a black girl.

Being a black girl means that you are dually oppressed. You are both black and a girl, and that means that you will be questioned, always. Because you are a girl, men will wonder whether or not you are letting your emotions get in the way of your job. Because you are a girl, you will be asked if those emotions are getting out of hand because you are on your period.

Because you are a girl, men will grope you and grab you without your permission.

Because you are black, teachers will question whether or not you are smart enough to be in their class. Because you are black, friends will ask if you have both parents at home. You are expected to know all of the other black kids in the school. You and the one other black girl in your fourth period English class will be mixed up and called the wrong name for the entire school year, even though you look nothing alike. People will ask if you two are sisters, or maybe cousins.

In the athletic trainer’s room, you will be asked repeatedly if you run the short sprints, even though you have told them every time you are in there that you run mid-distance. This is weird to them, because black people are supposed to

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be good at sprinting and, well, you are black aren’t you? What they don’t know is that Africans have dominated the mid-distance track events for decades now. You probably should not know that either, though. You’re a girl, after all. Girls don’t follow sports. People compliment you with the phrase: “You’re the prettiest black girl I know,” not realizing how backhanded and offensive that is. It implies that black girls can only rise so high in the beauty standards before they are cut off, pretty in their own category but separate from the rest.

When you start using relaxer on your hair to tame your kinky curls, you are criticized for “trying to be white.” When you tuck your hair behind your ear to keep it out of your face, you are laughed at because “that’s what white girls do.”

When you finally feel confident enough to stop using relaxer and let your natural hair flow free, hands are groping your hair against your will for the entire day.

The next day you tie your hair back just to keep the fingers away. When you get into your top choice college, the college you have been dreaming about, your peers will speculate that you only got in due to affirmative action. This is what it is to be a black girl.

You must walk a fine line. You are always being watched. You always run the risk of being labeled ‘ghetto’ or ‘a troublemaker’ or ‘an oreo.’ Oreo was always one of my favorites. White on the inside, black on the outside. Oreo, along with hordes of labels, stick to black girls for the rest of their lives and follow them with every step they take. Such labels are used to celebrate successes and to accept downfalls. If a black girl gets in a fight, even if it is not her fault, it’s because she was a troublemaker and always has been.

That’s what her teachers will say. If a black girl begins a romantic relationship with a white boy, it’s because she’s an ‘oreo’ or because she thinks she’s too good to date black guys. If a white boy begins a relationship with a black girl, he is told that he has ‘jungle fever’ and is ridiculed by his classmates. If a black girl is valedictorian of her graduating class, it’s because she was always “so wellspoken,” “one of the good ones,” and has always “stayed out of trouble.”

These are not made-up experiences.

Every one of these things I have witnessed or experienced. I have lived twenty years of being one of the good ones, one of those well-spoken, pretty black girls who keeps herself out of trouble.

Living in a suburban white nei-ghborhood my entire life, the definition of a black girl is only portrayed in the negative. The black girl is a cautionary tale of who you do not want to become: the black girl who is walking instead of driving, the one who hangs out in the park instead of the library. If you can defy the stereotypes of being a black girl, you are exemplary. You are the most desirable model—the black girl that all black girls should want to be.

There is a flip side no one prepares you for as well. No one prepares you for the strength that these experiences form in you. No one tells you how confident you will become after years of breaking barriers, shattering stereotypes, and excelling in all of the fields that you were expected to fail in. No one tells you how your natural hair will be celebrated

and your dark skin will be accepted.

No one tells you that you will gain the courage to speak up and not care who hears you. You will tell your roommate that you are beautiful in your own right, categories aside. You will call out your coworker who claims you are getting emotional and offers you a tampon.

You will tell your classmates to stop confusing you and the only other black girl in the class. We look nothing alike.

We sit on opposite sides of the room; please, please, stop pretending that we are the same. Stop being surprised that my name is the same name that your sister has and not Laqueisha or Bon Qui Qui or whatever Saturday Night Live skit you are pulling these names from.

Stop asking me if I have ever met my father. I have always known him, and he is my best friend. Stop assuming that you know everything about me just from one look. I am so much more.

No one tells you that your desire to prove others wrong will result in an ambition that drives you. No one tells you that you will become who you want to be, and not what others have labeled you as. No one tells you that after years of wishing that you were a different person, someday you will love who you are. This is what it is to be a black girl.G

“ ” You are both black and a girl, and that means that you will be questioned, always.

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Spilled Ink Each moment is a post-it note falling to the floor.

I’m trying to tack the seconds to the wall, trying to pin each minute under a paperweight, but the hours I hold in my hands are leaking like ink through my fingers and staining my palms with memory.

The ink runs down my arm, dripping from my elbows.

Spilled ink like teardrops. — Jessie Urgo

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Kristie Turkal

Liam

Painting

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The Rain That Keeps Me Up At Night I wake up in the wake of a disaster.

Except it’s not a disaster, it’s just me.

I try every day to control myself to make the madness stop, stop, to not be Hamlet with the words words words, but to see the light of silence.

I’ve never heard silence.

I read books that tell me that if I take enough deep breaths I can be me, but I try and all I hear is the fear of hyperventilation.

I try to be mindful but my mind is always too full.

My mind isn’t me, but I’m in there somewhere.

Somewhere, they tell me.

You don’t have to listen to it.

Listen to what?

I’m in a hurricane.

I hear nothing.

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I hear everything, the way you look at me when I say something stupid, the way my hips look too wide in these pants, the way you don’t invite me to your party, the way you say it when you do.

The way I say the wrong thing because if I don’t say it I’m going to have a panic attack, the way you say I’m crazy the first time when it’s a joke, and the way you say it the second time when it isn’t.

Professionals have told me I’m not broken.

Books have told me I can be fixed.

Mornings on the beach and nights with my friends have made me believe it’s true.

But me against the world, alone in a coffee shop or going to sleep at night, everywhere and nowhere, all the time and never, I’m in a hurricane.

I am a hurricane.

Take cover.

— Anna McAnnally

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Emma Russell

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Riptides

Ceramic Mixed Media

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The Night Visitor

by Heather Lawrence

he biggest snow storm of the year blew in the night before my final paper on local effects of climate change was due. By 7:30 the apartment thermostat was broken. I submitted an online service request at 8:00. At 8:30 I made hot chocolate. By 9:00 I had given up on my paper and started watching Netflix instead, my frozen fingers only good for pressing play. At 9:30 there was a knock on the door. I got up to open it, thinking it was maintenance. It was a bear.

It wasn't a panda bear or even a black bear, but a big grizzly like the kind you see on Sunday morning nature programs when you're too tired or hung over to flip away from the public television stations. He stood on his hind legs, front paws hanging down on either sides like clubs. I stepped back and he followed me, his humongous form brushing against the door frame. Once he was inside he started to shake himself off, spraying snow and foam from his jowls onto the floor. Some of it hit my cheek and I started, as if from a dream.

"Let me help you with that," I managed to say. I took a broom from the kitchen and started brushing the snow off him with it. He chuffed as the broom passed over him the first time but he got used to it fast. His fur was so thick I could hit him as hard as I wanted. It was like beating a rug.

It was exactly what I needed during finals.

I didn't really know what to do after I had cleared the snow off of him so I put the broom back in the kitchen and sat back in the chair to watch Netflix. The bear spread out on the couch beside me and followed the movements on the screen with his beady black eyes.

We were halfway through the second season of Criminal Minds when I asked, "So, what exactly do you want from me?"

He looked up at me, his hot breath thawing the frost that had formed on my nose and eyelashes.

I pressed further. "I mean are you like a person who's been transformed into a bear? Do you need me to go on a quest to break a curse? Defeat an evil witch?"

He did not respond, instead starting to chew on the armrest.

"I made hot chocolate," I said. "Do you want any?"

He growled, which I took as a yes.

The hot chocolate was mostly frozen by now. I broke it into chunks with a soup ladle handle and spooned it into his mouth. He alternatively drank and chewed it appreciatively, licking his paws afterwards. I put on Clueless.

At midnight there was another knock at the door. I jumped up to answer it. It had to be some sort of explanation for the bear. It was my roommate, absolutely hammered. She was missing a glove and her scarf was

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wrapped around her left boot, dragging a trail of slush behind her. She didn't even bother to brush it off, tracking it all around the room.

"It's fucking cold in here," she slurred.

I made a noncommittal noise. She stumbled past me and I realized how much I preferred bear musk to the stench of cheap alcohol.

"Who's your friend?" she gestured towards the bear.

"He's not my friend. He's a bear," I said.

She frowned. "I thought we had a rule against having boyfriends overnight."

"He's a bear."

She leered wetly at me, her tongue poking out from the corner of her lips.

"Right." She tried to wink and almost fell over. "'M going to bed."

"Okay." The bedroom door slammed shut before I remembered to say "Good night".

The bear snorted in the chilly silence that followed, spraying frozen droplets in the air.

"I know. I don't like her either."

The last visitor came at 1:00 in the morning. This time it had to be some sort of sorceress or wizard. The rule of three and all that. Instead, it was the handyman.

"I got a complaint about a broken thermostat," he said. It must have been still snowing outside because a small snow drift had built up on top of his head, perfectly molded around the shape of his skull. He must have come a long way.

I led him to it and watched as he worked in silence. The snow began to melt steadily as the thermostat slowly eked back to life but he did not seem to mind. He glanced at the covered figure on the couch. "You know, you're not supposed to have animals in the dorms."

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I nodded, not sure what to say.

He nodded back, as if I had said something profound, "Have a nice night."

I don't remember falling asleep. I had not made it to bed. The apartment was warm. Too warm. There was a dry feeling in the back of my throat like I'd slept with my mouth open and my skin felt tight and hot. My paper was due in two hours and all I had to show for it was a header and a blank works cited page. The bear was nowhere to be seen.

My roommate was eating cereal on the floor, slumped so far over her bowl that I couldn't imagine her meal was less than 50% hair. "You're finally awake," she said through a mouthful of Frosted Flakes, "Somebody broke the front door."

I stepped outside to investigate. The door to the apartment building swung uselessly on its one remaining hinge, the glass plate shattered and deep gouges cut into the wood. Drifts of snow had blown in overnight, smooth and soft as dryer sheets. I was very grateful for the heat of the apartment.

"Your boyfriend left something for you on the table," my roommate said as I came back inside the apartment. I went inside the kitchen, wondering what he could have left behind. There on the center of the table was a dead fish. A salmon to be precise.

"So he really was just a bear," I said.

"God, you're so weird," my roommate said into her cereal.

G

Benjamin Ira It is a quiet homecoming the quick rasp of pencil on paper, shadows of abandoned attempts leaving faint worn-out impressions on the page, now, perhaps, a shade or two darker than my grandfather’s hair.

I make a clumsy impostor, yet I pass unseen: careful calligraphy, a well-timed joke; Why, of course I know the blessings! Of course I share your memories, Of course this is simply linguistic déjà vu, a mother tongue descending again like a blue winter afghan on the shoulders.

(I dust my cobwebs diligently and find the chest hollow, the wood creaky and eroded carved too soon from an impatient family tree?)

The syllables form, strange and perfect let me make you proud, let me rewind the cassette and sail you backwards across the sea, across the centuries, Let me rest these dusty old Jerusalem bones and feel connected to something, wrapped in candlelight and sarcasm and un/familiar melody.

I am here, stumbling, I am here, remembering, I am here, praying as best I know how You never taught me how, and I forgive you; It must be good for the soul to wander a little from time to time.

— Riley Cohen

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Sestina for the Lost Red-streaked, razor-bump neck over the bed of wrinkled homeless post-chic rags built on years of fighting ironing. “Ya see,” he tells anyone who will listen how hard it is in this song where there is no harmony to that hum of his. Everyone he’s known turned on him without exception. Mother beaten by a father without empathy. Brother died of AIDS alone in bed.

He couldn't go see him pass because the hum of the mourning where the foundation built from his mind sold him on it being too painful in that place with those faces. So instead, he tells us all he imagines. Each utterance of mind tells him to feel memories connected without a filter. But I always sense there’s a slick catch in details that escape his mouth out of a bed made in lying down to the roots of an oak built among loose ends as a hive struggles over the hum of the PTSD keeping him awake in the pulsing hum of bombs in Iraq and Afghanistan nearby. He tells stories about land mines and death like we are all built to withstand these shocks each moment. Then without warning he is weeping, refusing to leave his bed because the past is now the present again in a bloody rusted chain. Another lost brother in a war, repeating, "ya know what I'm sayin," a hum in the steady prayer for a peaceful night in bed.

Always another one waiting. Each time he tells them simply, “I love you more than anything,” without any care for the consequences of relationships built

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on trying to find himself in a hapless future built on the emotions of terror and loss forever in a dark internal cell, an inability to connect without destroying every bridge erected over the constant hum of so-called friends responding without pity. He tells me how he’s changed as if he’s remaking a bed.

Before the friendship was built, there was a hum whenever I was in earshot; something in the tells of a gambler without hope wagering his warm bed. — Patrick Eberhardt

James Card

No Turning Back

Photography

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Elaine Xing

Water Village

Painting

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Rebecca Shkeyrov

Professor Kreydatus

Mixed Media

Amy Nelson

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Pensive

Drawing

Rebecca Shkeyrov

Waste

Mixed Media

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Emma Zahren-Newman

Blanco da Cuerpo Oil on Canvas

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Victoria Diaz

Boo

Photography

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Varun Desai

Conquer from Within

Photography

Rebecca Shkeyrov

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Purple Nurple

Installation Photography

Maddy Wheeler

Perspective

Phtography

Spring 2017 Art Staff Favorite

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A Walk in the Woods

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by Sheila Hill

he changing of time from morning into evening brought with it a change of atmosphere.

The air outside had quickly become the familiar brisk and cool of autumn, so I grab my leather trench coat as I step outside onto the front walk. Before I leave I make sure to carefully transfer my possessions into its deep pockets: my keys, my hat, and another, heavier object that I am unaccustomed to bringing on evening walks.

As I walk alone down my street, I start to whistle an old song from my childhood.

I thought I had forgotten it long ago. I can’t even remember its name, but I end up whistling the whole thing. It often amazes me to what extent the mind can wander when faced with a strenuous decision. The merry tune doesn’t seem to fit my mood, but I decide that anything is better than trying to work through my cluttered thoughts, so I continue, even beginning to step according to the beat of my music.

I have grown accustomed to this path, the pebbles under my feet, the tree branches above my head, but tonight I feel almost estranged to my familiar surroundings.

As soon as I leave the pavement, a tree root betrays me and nearly sends me sprawling to the ground, but I am careful and am able to regain my footing. I am always careful.

Our meeting time is at seven o’clock sharp, just as it had been since we were young men, but today I am a minute and a half late.

Perhaps my whistling slows me down, or maybe my brief encounter with the tree root.

Mr. Hart is already at the edge of the forest waiting for me. He greets me with a warm, “Good evening, Mr. Anderson,” as I make my way towards his stout, jovial figure. The September air is only just beginning to cool,

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but he stands there all the same with his hands stuffed into his pockets and a scarf wrapped up to his chin. I return his greeting cordially with a handshake and we enter the forested path side by side.

My weekly walks with Mr. Hart usually proceed as follows. Both of us greet each other good-naturedly at the base of the forest.

The first one asks about the second’s day then the second asks about the first’s. We discuss the people we had spoken to, what we did or did not say to such people, the things we had accomplished, the things that we hoped to accomplish tomorrow. Mr. Hart rattles on a little too long about his busy progress as a politician; I am a little too ambiguous about my occupation as a private professional. Mr. Hart comments rather passionately about the sweetness of the air and the beauty of the vegetation; I quietly reflect on the tranquility of the evening and the stillness of my surroundings. The nature of our walks reflected the status of our friendship: simple, pleasant, and predictable.

Tonight Mr. Hart can sense an unusual tension. He has known me for long enough to recognize my emotions, but not long enough to decipher their enigmatic origins. Rather than disturb the peace or invoke an unwanted confrontation, Mr. Hart continues to rattle on in his typical, dull manner. “Have you heard about NASA’s new satellite technology?

There was a fascinating article published in the latest issue of the Times… I had a delicious turkey sandwich for lunch today, so much better than the tuna melt I had yesterday…

Aren’t the trees looking lovely tonight as their leaves begin to darken and crinkle…?” I keep my mouth shut and my eyes cast downward.

Although his rambling gives me time to reflect, I can barely stand the sound of his

useless chatter as he talks on and on and on. Now that I think about it, I’m fairly sure I’ve never heard a single useful thing come out of his mouth. As if his brain is even capable of useful thought.

No, I am being unfair. As much as I try to hate Mr. Hart I cannot. He and I certainly have our differences, but that is probably why we tend to get along so well. We first met through mutual friends and realized quickly that we were two very different people. We soon found out that we had a similar interest in taking evening walks, however, and have been companions ever since.

Though we never ceased our weekly walks, we both gradually grew older and settled into our own individual lives. Mr. Hart grew into his vocation and I grew into mine.

Out of all trades, Mr. Hart had chosen politician. He could have been a salesman, a florist, even an astronaut...

Once upon a time, Mr. Hart could have made a more careful decision. Once upon a time I could have made a more stable one, but none of that mattered now. Mr. Hart had chosen his path and I had chosen mine. This is how life works.

It isn’t personal.

As these things turn over and over in my head, Mr. Hart’s monotonous articulations fade into the vivid scenery around me and I stop listening altogether. However, noticing my inattention, Mr. Hart pauses in his tracks to face me. “Did you hear that, old friend?” I stop beside him.

I remain silent, refusing to look into his eyes. Mr. Hart has always recognized me as a reserved man, but never as a rude one.

“Anderson, what’s gotten into you today?”

He even asks if there is anything

he can do to help, but I return all his infiltration attempts with a stubborn silence. I know that my friend is sincere in his concerns, but what can I possibly say to him?

These walks are times of peace, safety, and friendship; they have never been anything else. And yet… I can’t think of a better opportunity to fulfil the task at hand. Mr. Hart is a valuable companion and a dear friend, but now is my chance, no matter what he may or may not mean to me. I turn to face him, eye to eye, and remove my hand from my right pocket, firmly gripping a model 36. I take a deep breath to steady myself and calmly aim my weapon, aiming for that small space between his two confused eyes.

This is my job. This isn’t personal. G

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Walking at 12 Riveting and frightening To be alone in pitch black noon And see the trees that have been slanting For more decades than my existence And I’m suddenly aware of the noise: The screeching sounds I make By existing Too loudly — Kiana Espinoza

The Cars Had Faces When I was young, cars had faces, gleaming eyes and stoic smiles.

But now they don’t.

— Stephen Holt

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Saludos1 Aqua linoleum and pastel palms guide me to the correct door. I push. My veins slow, like Miami traffic.

Clear bags drip and long tubes lead to my grandfather, mi Abuelito. He strains to greet me and smiles: Mi princesa.

No light in the room brighter than his eyes, they water.

I walk up to the side of his bed, reach over the railing, and hold his hand: cold, spotted with age and IV bruises.

Hola, Abuelito. Te quiero mucho.2 Lydia! Do you think you could play some violin for your Abuelito?

His hands shake, steadily. Abuelito, I can’t. I didn’t bring my violin.

Gentle forehead kisses interrupt our exchange. I sit by his side as he listens to Tío Miguel and Tía Inés reminisce.

Memories rock him to sleep.

The beeping monitor ripples the silence.

His hand never warms.

Next time, I think. Next time.

— Lydia Hurtado

1 2

A Spanish greeting that can mean both hello and goodbye.

“Hi, grandpa. I love you very much.”

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Katie Hogan

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Expression

Drawing

Brown Sugar Cocoa Butter If I could erase your pain quench the fire in your lungs before you could utter a scream soothe your battered mind prone to cynicism and despair I would rub cocoa butter into the jagged grooves in your back, some open and weeping, others long silent into your rough and calloused hands, and the scars that lace your fingers -I would walk with you, salve in hand, ready to fend off each dirty look mispronunciation purse-clutching where-are-you-supposed-to-be and did-you-pay-for-that

and contempt -and on the days that leave your body riddled with sores and send your mind spiraling down dark paths towards misery and oblivion I would use cocoa butter to stop the burning and a trail of brown sugar to lead you away from the anger and bitterness that would consume you break you beat you

— Makeda Jackson

each staggering remembrance and stinging assault tinged with weariness and are-we-really-surprised to reseal the gashes that never heal but deepen with every passing moment, to treat the new ones raw with malice

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Lines

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by Quinn Monette

he bar had smelled like rusting privates and rubbing alcohol but thankfully she was out now, walking back towards the heart of town like it was nobody’s business. To her right, at the tail of the fence that snaked behind her back, the sun was setting as cold air descended. Highway 15 was alive. She noted, without ever really thinking about it, three sedans riding ass-to-concrete on their way north, tailgates grating or almost grating as they hurried over rumble strips.

She thought she heard someone shout her name from a car window but by the time she turned her head the angle was too acute and the voice was gone. There had also been three Federal Police buses, one truck of the same denomination, and one tasteful black hearse looking like it was now retired from service, riding along slow and quiet.

From no particular direction a bell tallied the hours. A flock of birds waited until the fifth ring to scatter, rising to her right and cutting across the murky yellow-red-purple sediment before settling somewhere out of sight. The municipality was called N. Beyond the town was a ring of short, round mountains, and between the town and the mountains there was a desert, though from where she stood the desert was out of sight, unmistakably there but confrontable only by inference.

The wind sweeping up from below was taut but not overpowering and carried on it the smell of charcoal and burning plastic.

She had heard somewhere, though she only had a vague idea now of who had said it, maybe her sober, proselytizing uncle, that the desert was a jaguar.

The desert is a jaguar, he had said; you

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can hear it clicking at night. It’s always somewhere out there in the world, closer than you know, especially when you’re convinced you’re out of harm’s way. Even through all the masks people wear they can’t make that fact disappear. Her uncle had leaned in, breathing mint tea and eggs. There is danger, Chela, he huffed, and one must live with that always in mind.

But of course the desert had nothing in common with the jaguar. It was much more like a nice blue dress stashed at the back of the clothes rack. It could be there one day and vanish the next. It could be a miracle or a crutch or a bad friend; it could be tattered and nearly forgotten or sealed up in plastic from the dry cleaner’s and guarded jealously. It could come apart an hour after you stepped into it and really fuck you over, swallow you like a pig.

In any case she had never seen a jaguar. A jaguar wanted nothing to do with the desert. That was just her uncle’s prejudice talking. The uncle, or whatever shapeless avuncular type it had been, had hurriedly reached for other analogies as her mother began kissing her good-byes.

Danger is like the August sun: even when it is hidden behind clouds, or when night comes; even when it rains for days—you still have to be careful, because the sun will come out eventually and there’s nothing we can do about it. The desert is like a wall that stretches around the world. You’ll always run into it. Even if you yourself don’t venture far, you’ll know someone who does. Remember that well. In her memory she nods and lets her mother whisk her out the door, soon to sleep.

Caught between nullifying stress and terrifying boredom, Chela had taken to walking around N wearing a headband and carrying little more than a clutch buried in her backpack. She walked aimlessly, neither quickly nor slowly, always keeping her head down.

Eventually the cab drivers had learned to stop following her. Taking a leisurely drive would surely help clear her mind but was out of the question, she needed the money. To drive west or even south, clear through the desert and into the hills—there she could survey from above the city, the wall, the low shrubs and cactuses, the highway running North, maybe the dot of a person who could have been Alex, who could not yet be disconfirmed as her husband Alex with all the great distance between them.

Chela had been in a karaoke bar the day before to take cash from the ATM. She had been drawn by the music, which seemed to drone on whether or not a singer approached the apparatus. Next to the machine there was a bouquet of flowers—some variety of orchid. She sat and watched a young woman, maybe 27 or 28, sing along to doleful rancheras in a quavering, overly dramatic alto. Chela stayed for two songs.

A hunched man approached her as she reached the exit. A few coins, he said quietly as if not to disturb the singer, if you can spare them. He held his gaze not at her breasts but at the level of her stomach. He never blinked. She took one of the lesser bills from her clutch and extended it to him, shifting her eyes from his cheeks to his hat to the age spots on his arm. The face she wore must have appeared questioning or had maybe

sparked in the man the fragmented memory of someone else because he added before turning away, I never sing at this bar, even though some people come up to me and offer money on the condition I perform a song; I don’t know any of the songs, and besides, I never sing in front of young ladies. With that he turned and shuffled towards the back of the establishment and the swinging doors of the kitchen.

There was a story her mother had told her two or three times. A beast walks through the forest, picking up various creatures on its broad back as it walks along. There are birds, short talkative ones and demure quetzal nobles that come and go as they desire. Some of these birds act as occasional messengers to the world outside but most can’t be bothered by the gossip and the politics of the traveling society. Plenty of other creatures come along and join, too, Chela’s mother had explained. There are rodents who claim their spot by burrowing themselves into the beast’s fur, for the interior is thick and warm. There are cats and dogs that squabble on the long open segments of the beast’s spine. There are nesting spiders that protect their eggs by spinning neat little webs. There are lizards that squirt up and down the beast’s limbs, scavenging what little they can find near the ground it travels. There are ants that build great kingdoms out of dandruff and grasshoppers that buzz around and pick at what the beast leaves behind.

There is even a jaguar, though she is a mysterious creature not familiar to the other passengers thought to sleep most of the day. She rarely leaves her place beneath the flap of the beast’s ear.

“ ” The desert is like a wall that stretches around the world.

You’ll always run into it.

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She curls up there comfortably, quiet and sedate, but if any of her fellow creatures try to come near her she lets out a growl in her sleep, low at first but growing into a thunderous snarl the closer one gets.

Her eyes are always half-closed except at night. After the sun sets they open up into big yellow moons. It has become a competition among some of the younger passengers, a sort of coming-of-age rite— though strictly forbidden by the parents, Chela’s mother says—to venture out after dark onto the treacherous, uneven terrain of the beast’s head to catch a glimpse of the jaguar’s eyes.

It is said among the creatures that there used to be another jaguar, a graceful male and the passenger’s lover, who for uncertain reasons died before he could join her on the journey. Ever since her loss the jaguar has spoken to no other animal.

It is not known what she eats or how she spends her waking nights.

In one version of the tale the lover is brought down by a clever tarantula whom he had wronged. This clever tarantula had been a mother with a healthy clutch of young which, on the eve of their crucial first molt and before they had even had the chance to crawl away from the nest, had been crushed under a careless paw while the jaguar was in the thick of a sundown hunt. Not realizing his crime, the lover had dashed on without making amends. The mother tarantula was left distraught and childless. After three days of mourning and fasting the mother set herself to tracking the jaguar. She found him eventually in the place where he slept.

That trip was long and arduous, and it was only with the help of an assortment

of sympathetic forest-dwellers that she managed to locate the offending jaguar’s den. She arrived on the seventh day of her tragedy and found herself suddenly light in spirit, possessing a deep reserve of energy. With unflagging care she set herself to her task: she began to replace every twig and blade of grass in the den with its web-spun mirror image. She would set a trap for this selfish jaguar.

At first she left these replica scattered so that the jaguar wouldn’t become alarmed, but gradually she worked her way in towards the center of the patch where he spent his resting hours. She did her work patiently, taking her time. By the jaguar’s third sleep she had hemmed him in completely. When the jaguar leapt up to join his lover on a hunt the next evening he found himself hardly able to move. He was caught in the mother tarantula’s web.

He tried his best to escape but failed; the more he stumbled around in desperation the more tangled he became until finally he was paralyzed in a sticky white blanket. The mother tarantula was satisfied, for she had meant to teach the jaguar a lesson in caring and patience.

But as she approached to speak with the jaguar, an ominous black curtain slipped over the sky. The sun skulked and became dim. Within moments the clouds broke and sent down their rains hard and steady. Almost before any of the animals could call out in warning a heavy wave swept through the forest. Most creatures were able to find refuge in the trees or in the air, some helped along by their more agile companions, and so almost every one of them survived the flood. But the

“ ” The smell of evening would bring a hint of electricity. It was almost unbearable.

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male jaguar was swept away with his legs stuck helplessly in the air and his head tumbling along the forest floor. In mere seconds the female jaguar’s lover was gone. Watching from the smooth bark of an overhanging tree the mother tarantula was horrified. She could not have predicted the death of her rival, nor had she intended it.

Now a feeling of vacancy settled over the forest. All the animals slept timidly on the branches. No animal dared speak a word. The next morning the water cleared and the ground was clean and empty save for a new figure, a giant beast rumbling along on a journey to an unseen horizon, to nowhere.

The window unit in Chela’s room was broken and the only handyman she trusted had left the previous month going North. She consigned herself to a day sprawled out on her itchy rattan chair, the oscillating fan rattling and sweeping sweat across her back. Alex was supposed to have called three days before, give or take a day, so naturally she had spent the better part of the last week in the same horizontal position, trying desperately to persuade herself she was comfortable and that she had the right to breathe normally. She could feel her back caving in. The nubs of her spine were becoming brittle. She could hear them crinkling.

She might have described the overall sensation as exhaustion if it weren’t for the snap reflex she still carried inside, the shiver she got whenever the air from the fan waved over her. The smell of evening would bring a hint of electricity.

It was almost unbearable. Around that time of day she would wrap her fingers in the curls of the telephone wire because she knew she would be able to

divine when the call was coming even a hummingbird’s-second before it arrived.

She had tried to keep herself occupied with mindless things but on the strike of each hour she found herself sunk deeper into her chair, working more profoundly into a viscous trap of her own making.

Even when she summoned the strength to leave the house and pace the city the conviction didn’t go. There was nothing to do but wait.

The day before had brought mild distractions, never substantial. Chela had started by taking two cups of coffee and milk with Miriam when she paid her usual visit, Miriam who she only vaguely liked and who talked far too much, but who was one of the few friends she could still bear to see. Later she moved on to beer but stopped after just one when her stomach started to turn. She thought about transitioning to water but took a nap instead. There was finally something of a breeze through the window even if it was barely enough to tickle the hairs on her arms. She turned the chair so she could arch her neck to the opening. A group of children from across the street stopped playing to stare at her. She did her best to ignore them.

Chela kept the phone on the table next to her, one hand gripped around its thin body as if in admonishment. She woke up an hour later with a broad pain in the back of her head and a cracking sensation from her throat to her lips. The phone still hadn’t made a sound, though sometimes when she shifted in the chair she could feel the vibrations to the tips of her fingers and her heart would jolt.

She knew it was around this stage the pamphlets recommended getting in touch with the municipal authorities and maybe even the Northern officials but

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she found even heating water on the stove too much trouble, she would just burn herself on the match. And then there would be the stench of gas…

The next morning Miriam came back, toting her customary white handkerchief trimmed with floral lace. You really must get up, she told Chela. I talked to Lourdes and she’s concerned for you. I am too. Miriam turned her face upwards so that her nose was framed proudly against the red curtain. Let me take you with me to buy eggs. I have to go anyway. It’ll help ease your mind. No point sitting around and worrying yourself about him. Miriam averted her eyes and

shuffled through her tote. She would not say his name. Raising the bag to her shoulder, Miriam turned again to Chela. Come. I won’t take no for an answer.

It was early but the sun had already begun to deposit its heat on the pavement. The air was slowly caramelizing. The birds were specks in transit, hushed or too high up to hear. Though she couldn’t see it through the open window Chela could sense it, the insurmountable wall cheating up on her, black and nebulous, suffocating, gaining ground at a rolling cadence even when her eyes were closed and her back was turned. She could cry now

A Cloud so Proud I barely see you anymore; I barely see you move: The power of your spectral glance intends but what you will.

I ever see your legs in motion, swinging oft to prove A movement thus away from me, though thought should linger still.

I fooled myself and beg that stately ghost of form forgive The dream of soft and simple pleasantries in thought alone.

Approach me now, and fade with time, and you shall still outlive All else may I perchance design (forbid ‘t!) to call my own.

You stood there at my side, you did, and thought naught of presence Of else, but know this—I perceived you more than you did me.

You leaned and fell and reeled right o’er the old Virginia fence And rightly gleaned a slip of shade—just so, and were at peace.

And dream-like images of life lose wings near you, it seems, As glistening eyes avert and tear away the veiling seams.

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— J. Clayton Manvell

Kristie Turkal

Cold Feet

Drawing

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Raphael

by Catherine Green

I I.

approach the door and I offer myself and I say Hey, I know the way. I’ll take him. The father is skeptical, but with a quickly furnished family tree I convince him of my honesty. A kinsman is immediately and unquestionably loyal, and I know the names of his brothers. The mother is less easily swayed, she weeps and begs her son not to go, she calls out to the Lord to protect him and to change her husband’s mind. She turns to me and accuses me of all sorts of things. Where do you even come from? We can’t trust you. I look downwards and say nothing as the father snaps at her, as he tells her You don’t even know what you’re talking about, I’m just doing this for you. This reminder, that her husband is blind and old and will die soon, quiets her. None of us point out that the father himself won’t actually be doing anything. The son sizes me up and finds something lacking in my flickering eyes and kinetic fingers but shakes my hand anyway. Come in for dinner? I nod.

II. After a week on the road Tobiah trusts me because I do things and know things no one could, but even so he bucks at my advice. Marry her? He squints at the sky as we lounge under a rare tree. We’re just supposed to get the money from my uncle. Besides, he continues, eyeing me. Have you heard about her husbands? Of course I have. Seven, and all dead on their respective wedding nights. I nod and say But it’s not her fault, it’s this demon Asmodeus, he’s obsessed with her. This discomfits him even more which makes sense but if he knew who I was he’d be braver. I reach into my bag and pull out one

42 The Gallery

of the fish we caught earlier. Look, I begin, slitting its silvery stomach and drawing out the heart and the liver. All you have to do is give her this before you sleep with her. I present him with the fish’s heart, but pocket the liver for later. Give her the heart and the demon leaves the picture. He stares at me and laughs in disbelief but then sees that I’m serious.

He starts to object, but remembers that when he was hungry and we couldn’t find food I still provided. He takes the heart and looks away from me.

III. Once we arrive at Sarah’s house the wedding isn’t long coming. She’s been afraid no man would ever offer for her again, and her family fears as much or worse, so when Tobiah proposes things are quickly arranged. And Tobiah doesn’t die. The first time he sees me after the wedding night I’m sitting in the courtyard alone and as he walks by, arm in arm with his new bride, he stops in his tracks. He doesn’t say anything but his eyes flicker thanks and fear and repulsion and awe. Sarah, he begins after a moment, This is Raphael. He—he shakes his head. Sarah’s face is keen and she understands, I know she does, better than her husband. She smiles wryly. Thank you, sir. Am I right to think you’re the one who sent my old friend packing? I bow my head and say nothing. She laughs brightly and I glance up quickly, smile, surprised. Annoyance plays across Tobiah’s face, so I say Why don’t I go to your uncle and get the money? It won’t take me more than a day. He nods, knowing it’s at least a half-week’s journey for him. He looks at his wife, and his wife looks at me, and I look at the sun.

IV. We are almost back to Tobiah’s family, and our return is much better furnished than our original journey. Sarah is not only a good woman but a rich one, and with her comes a train of servants. I know Tobit and Anna will be worrying for their son so I suggest to Tobiah that we go ahead of the others and haste homeward. He flinches when I first address him but agrees that it’s a good idea. Out of hearing of everyone else, he kicks a rock and says Shit, I don’t know. What are you? I can’t tell what kind of answer he wants, or, what kind of answer I can give him. I feel around in my bag and hand him the fish’s liver. Use this for your father’s eyes. If you want him to see again. This was not what Tobiah wanted to hear and it doesn’t change his perception of me but he takes the liver anyway. We walk in silence for a long way but eventually he looks at me again and says I can give you half the money, if you want. He doesn’t understand anything. I look into the sky, black bleeding into blue now, and count the preliminary stars.

Tobiah takes the fish’s liver and rubs it in the old man’s eyes. I walk away. I know what comes next, how Tobit will see and Anna will fall into rapturous prayer. Back on the road, I hear distant cries of joy and I encounter Sarah on her way to join her husband. She beams when she sees me and offers me a ride. I shake my head. A king’s secret should be kept secret. She narrows her eyes and says But one must declare the works of God. I laugh. Tobiah has more treasure than he knows. I say goodbye and I go home.G

V. As we approach his home we hear a cry and Anna runs out to meet us and weeps My son, my son, my Tobiah! He lets her hug him and he offers a tight-lipped smile. She falls to my feet and thanks me but I help her up and shake my head and we smile at each other. She leads us inside and listens in amazement as Tobiah tells her about his new wife and her entourage. Tobit hears us and fumbles through the courtyard and shouts out Bless the Lord, my son returns and embraces Tobiah. You have the money, yes? So I can die now without worrying about you two. This last is tinged with bitterness. Tobiah hands him a bag weighted down with coins and gives me a sideways glance before sitting his father down. Ignoring Tobit’s protests

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Black Widow i. First they said: Oh but you are an itsy-bitsy thing Knobby-kneed, love-starved, careless So I disappeared into the sidewalk and made myself harder to kill ii. Some of us are born cold, shriveled and shivering Warmth becomes stifling prickly-panicked needles in arms and clawing at locked doors “for my own good” love becomes an addiction, love becomes self-sabotage No, I am blood-weary alone in the snow never look back - I am Underworld, I am rock salt on a January road, I am numb, I am failure, familiar iii. Were we not born to survive?

Then I am not broken, I am clawing my way to victorious A battle-hardened weaver-god Once-bitten twice-scarred and ultimately unafraid: it’s either him or me It was either him or me

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iv. Think of me as crushed velvet footfalls in a dark and hollow corridor, electric bursts of crimson behind your eyelids, the whisper of a silenced gunshot on a restless solstice I won’t bother you if you don’t bother me, but nothing ever goes according to plan I am fallible, still, somewhere under here Go on, crush my leather exoskeleton beneath your boot I will cauterize the wound and never look back I have eight legs and my love is poison red in the belly Come no closer, I regret nothing

— Riley Cohen

For My Sister Your lament shattered the still of my sleep.

My bare feet, slapping down the hall, My bare fist, slamming on your door: Are you okay, have you ever been okay Time has been good to us, I believed, The bottle-green sofa no longer your tomb, Your mind no longer a crypt.

The idea of your gradual improvement Had, like sediment, settled into my mind and Over eons lithified. Until: A single midnight scream, A nightmare not soon forgotten, A continental rift in my perception.

— Catherine Green

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46 The Gallery

Varun Desai

Rays of Hope

Photography

Spring 2017 Prose Staff Favorite

Colors

by Gwen Sachs

Mr. Russo often widened his eyes in shallow sympathy from behind his desk.

He stared straight ahead while his long fingers fiddled with a rubber band. He spoke slowly and softly, pausing between every word. There was a tissue box an arm’s reach away that he could quickly shove towards any crying face in front of him. Cindy and Jackie were not crying.

“Now all that’s left is the drape. It’s customary to place a cloth over the casket so that flowers can be set atop,” said Mr. Russo.

“Of course,” Cindy answered. Jackie was a few inches taller than Cindy, but people never thought so. Jackie guessed it was because she slouched.

“You get to choose the color,” said Mr. Russo.

“Oh, we don’t really care.” Cindy gave a forced smile.

“It should be mom’s favorite color,” Jackie mumbled.

As a child, Jackie had always been told to speak up. It didn’t matter though. The room was near silent.

Cindy assumed the condescending tone that Jackie had long gotten used to.

“Okay Jackie,” she leaned back in her chair, “you choose.”

“Well, we can’t pick a color she didn’t like. It should be her favorite color. So? I mean her favorite color…”

Cindy turned to Mr. Russo. “How about a nice blue? Do you have blue?”

“Did Mom even like blue?”

“Everyone likes blue.”

Jackie bit her lip. “Did Mom? “Look,” Cindy straightened up again, “I’m sure that Mr. Russo is very busy-” “Take as long as you need,” Mr. Russo said slowly, his head bobbing methodically.

“I’ll remember soon,” said Jackie, “Soon. She had a green scarf. Was green her favorite?”

“I don’t know Jackie. I can’t exactly ask her.”

Cindy looked a little embarrassed at the sharpness of her comment. She glanced at Mr. Russo, but he appeared unmoved. His fingers wove in and out of the rubber band.

Jackie just stared at the carpet. The gray stitches looked tired from having to carry the weight of countless feet on their backs.

Cindy’s voice cut through the silence.

“Blue is perfect. Now, if I want to get here a bit early, what time will the doors be unlocked?”

“What was her favorite color?” Jackie said, but no one was listening. G

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Contributors’ Ashley Anderson would like to dedicate this writing to her eight-year-old self. Age eight was when she realized that she didn't want to be a black girl anymore. It was only as she wrote this essay this past fall that she began turning from that and loving herself once again.

Alvin Chan wants to share a living space with you in New York.

Interested? Text or email at 7033216889 or alvin.chan17@gmail.com.

Bye. James Card is an amateur photographer who learned from his father and uncle on how to find the messages nature tells you through imagery.

When he took this, he saw that the swan was looking back at him, like he knew he was being photographed.

Riley Cohen, class of 2020, hails from northern Virginia and has been writing and performing free verse and spoken-word poetry for several years. She plans to major in lesbianism and procrastination and would like to thank her parents, her professors, and her peers for supporting her and for providing her with a wealth of material to discuss in her poetry.

Varun Desai would like to dedicate these photographs to his Gurudev, and Prachi Didi and Avina Didi, his mentors. He must also thank his partner-in-crime, Rushabh, and Sunil Bhaiya who started him on the path of photography.

Victoria Diaz loves experimenting with different forms of expression.

She began at a young age, tracing pictures out of books, and now she feels like she finds inspiration in everyday objects. She always looks past an object's intended use and thinks about how she can make it transform on paper. Photography and drawing is an interest, but painting is definitely her forte.

Patrick Eberhardt is a dimension-traveling space poet from the future.

Since his arrival in our dimension, he has been battling our robot overlords with art and poetry for the freedom of humanity. Please help him.

Kiana Espinoza is a sophomore year English major who keeps busy with dancing, writing and working. She is also a strong believer in having multiple outlets for expression.

48 The Gallery

Notes Katie Hogan is a junior at the college and is currently abroad in Florence! She studies economics but art and architecture are her passions, along with Star Trek and sailing. Arrivaderci!

Stephen Holt is a sophomore here at the College of William & Mary.

Fiction writing, especially short stories and poetry that are precise and poignant, have always been an interest of his, but since he took the introductory creative writing course here, he was never forced to create cohesive, polished works of his own. While he is very busy, creative writing courses have given him more motivation to create more.

Makeda Jackson is a junior kinesiology major from Woodbridge, Va. Favored pastimes include ukulele playing, Netflix watching, and napping.

Heather Lawrence is a junior and an English and sociology major. Her dream is to write a piece that gets read in a college English class so she can sit in on the discussion. The Night Visitor is based on a true story, all names and places have been changed to protect the individuals involved.

Quinn Monette: This story was written by a white college student. Context provided not to preempt criticism, but to invite it.

Rebecca Shkeyrov: Join my insta cult @theboldstylo Jessie Urgo loves getting to know people and hearing their stories, and she loves to tell stories as well. When she is not daydreaming, she is probably scribbling in a notebook or wandering around outdoors.

Maddy Wheeler is a portrait & lifestyle photographer and a sophomore at the College. She would like to thank her loved ones for their fierce encouragement and relentless support - you know who you are.

Elaine Xing was inspired by the Chinese ink wash painting of Wu Guanzhong while making this painting. She used the composition and subjects in the original ink wash, and tried to use more abstract forms and brighter colors to convey a similar feeling.

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Editors’ Note Dear Reader,

Back in the distant year of 2014, we entered The Gallery as eager freshmen. Now, both of us are headed into our senior year looking to make our final two semesters the best. We’ve seen many changes to the magazine over the course of our time with The Gallery, and even facilitated a few of them. For our last year at the College, we strive to leave our mark on magazine and hope to end our time as editors on a high note.

This spring, we decided to push our deadline up by a few weeks, though we nevertheless received just as many submissions as usual. We even had more prose submissions than recent semesters, as well as more mixed media pieces and works inspired by social issues. We enjoyed the opportunity to discuss a wide variety of style and content, which often led to lively discussions during our meetings in Tucker Hall.

Since completing this spring edition of The Gallery, we have started the transition process of selecting the new editors who will follow in our footsteps.

Both of us will be seniors in the fall, and while we’ll still be very active with the magazine, we will be focusing on making sure the next generation of The Gallery is in safe hands. Fortunately, both our staff and the amount of submissions we receive has grown, so we share an optimistic outlook for the future of the magazine. But let’s not get ahead of ourselves – we still have another year to enjoy and ponder all of the artwork, poetry, and prose the talented students of William and Mary have to offer.

We hope you enjoy this issue of The Gallery!

-Heather Lawrence and Dominic DeAngio

Colophon

The Gallery Volume 31 Issue 2 was produced by the student staff at the College of William & Mary and published by Western Newspaper Publishing Co. in Indianapolis, Indiana. Submissions are accepted anonymously through a staff vote. The magazine was designed using Adobe Indesign CS5 and Adobe Photoshop CS5. The magazine’s 52, 6x9 pages are set in Garamond. The cover font and the titles of all the pieces are “Derivia”.

The Spring 2012 issue of The Gallery was a CSPA Gold Medalist with All-Columbian honors in content.

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