The Gallery Spring 2011

The Gallery Spring 2011

G

the

allery

Volume 25, Number 2 Spring 2011

Staff Editor-in-Chief Carrie Crow Associate Editor Arielle Kahn Layout Editor Katie Demeria Prose Editor Brian Croarkin James Beardsley Art Editors Ashley Brykman Christina Paladeau Poetry Editors Sarah Schall Connor Smith Editor of Non-Sequitur Marisa Sprowls Manager of Silly Voices Connor Smith Webmaster Kristine Mosuela

Table of Contents Poetry

Acknowledge A Distant Cry Knot It Bodyscape My Ire’s Egg Ode To A Silent Morning 9:35 Try Harder Mourning With O’Keefe’s Cow Skull Time Spent While Apart January Space Race Nobody Need Wait

Prose

Adrian Dumpleton Party Of Two Jack Rabbit Coyote Magic The Murmuration Regrets

Art

Angelic Cat on a Rainy Day Forgotten Permeable Bodies Reflection Flight Mechanics Suspension 17th Street Farmers Market Feather State Fair Mechanical Bird Temptation Bridges Over Calm Water Emma Water and Sky Descent Tracks to Nowhere

Ginny Martin Katherine Acrement Sam Roth Neil Kennovin Danielle Weber Ben Kenzer Katherine Acrement Elizabeth Tompkins Ben Kenzer Alison Gondek Elizabeth Tompkins Noa Nir Ginny Martin

4 10 13 20 22 29 33 34 35 41 42 43 46

Jack Nicholls Thomas R. Seabrook Julie Thatcher Jack Nicholls Katherine Acrement

6 14 30 36 44

Emily Matson Afifah Khan Erin Spencer Katie Ikeler Sofia Chabolla Sofia Chabolla Katie Ikeler Matt Riley Sofia Chabolla Erin Spencer Sofia Chabolla Erin Spencer Emily Matson Sofia Chabolla Emily Matson Emily Matson Erin Spencer

5 9 11 12 17 21 24 25 26 27 28 32 34 38 42 45 47

ACKNOWLEDGE a distant

CRY

Sometimes she leaps so high, so very, very far, that he worries about her return about her staying grounded as her journey carries her farther and farther out of eye-sight…

“Be careful, and call me when you get there” stale words repeated again emerging from a weary throat the exhausted throat of a weathered father back bent, lips indiscernible from their leather canvas worn from the Time’s passing and her ever evading his safe embrace as she constantly whirls stopping only to dabble her prancing feet in a gentle brook or to accept the sun’s embrace as she briefly roots her toes in the fresh ground long enough to rejoice at the dew only to sashay away again She hardly hears the ragged plea “Be careful! Call me when you…”

—Ginny Martin

4

Angelic Emily Matson

5

Adrian Dumpleton

by Jack Nicholls

6

Adrian Dumpleton, oh my God. Adrian Dumpleton, oh my God. I could grate cheese on his abs, if he were to develop some, and then use the cheese to make him the world’s most amorous sandwich. Adrian Dumpleton would devour the sandwich and then we would fly to Paris. Doubtless he is the kind of man to make reckless decisions like that.

Every time I glance over at his desk, he inspires me to edit screenplays in my head, re-writing film roles so he will suit them better. Adrian Dumpleton in Kes, jutting out his full bottom lip while seductively tearing a kestrel in half.

Adrian Dumpleton doing keepie-ups in Castaway. Adrian Dumpleton in Cocktail, his tight proud gut packaged in a sparkly shirt, stood behind a bar mixing endless snakebites, black and tans, Vimto and mild.

He is an administrative assistant, like Kelly and I, in Sheffield. I wish you could see him. To look upon his gigantic superhero-style chin is to instantaneously develop a chin fetish, and treat chinless men with the same mixture of pity and disgust as one treats diseased kittens.

He hasn’t been here for about a week, actually. He’s probably on holiday. After

his lunch break he smells like Marlie Lights and cream of tomato and makes me wish I were cigarettes, wish I were soup.

Kelly doesn’t see it.

‘What do you reckon of him, then?’ I asked her, a week after he had started here at Blunt-Palmer. I can’t remember the exact details—it was three years ago—but it’s almost a certainty that we were drinking muddy vending-machine coffee, and it was pissing it down outside.

‘Bit weird-looking, int he?’ said Kelly.

‘Yeah, but, you know. Alright, like.’

‘Ah, I dunno. Thought he’d got a fat lip when he first come in. That or a bee stung it.’

‘I spose. He’s shy an all.’

‘Too right he’s bloody shy! He’s said about two bloody words to us since he started.’

‘Aw, I know. Bless. Little lamb.’

Kelly snorted. ‘Little dickhead more like.’

That settled it, then. We were going to compete for Adrian Dumpleton. Of course—it was inevitable that we would share Dumpletonian dreams, clashing over them while he sat in his corner of the office next to the radiator, silent and

sexual as a bangable houseplant. I used to wonder which of us would be victorious.

Would it be Kelly who would get to ride on Adrian Dumpleton’s back through the supermarket, as though it were normal, and have people grow tired and irritable looking at them? She is all skin and bones, and still had her bob back then.

Surely it ought to be I, who could only look resplendent as Napoleon crossing the Alps, folding my arms over Adrian Dumpleton’s gorgeously avian chest and directing him to the frozen food aisle?

None of that happened, as it turns out. Adrian Dumpleton sits perfectly silently in his corner and has said perhaps seventeen sentences to either Kelly or I in the entirety of his time at BluntPalmer, nearly all of them regarding the borrowing of a stapler. His cherubic lips stay sealed, and he keeps schtum as admirably as the Byronic hero of a gothic novel. I tried to engage him in conversation once, by the photocopier.

‘Alright, then?’ I said.

‘Yeah. Just waiting for this to all print.’

‘Oh ah. Watch ‘enders last night?’

‘Nah, that one, ehm… Silence of the Lambs. On DVD.’ The photocopier finished spitting out paper, and he grabbed them all up.

‘Is that the one with the woman and the moth on her face?’

‘Eh?’ ‘On the, um, cover. Of the DVD.’ ‘Oh, ah, yeah, I think so, yeah. Yeah, it’s alright. Can I use your stapler?’

You see his cruelty, to reject my advances so outright. I don’t mind. Great men can’t be strangers to cruelty. Adrian Dumpleton is a great man. In another age I would have birthed an army of his progeny, and he would mercilessly

conquer a continent with them. I can accept the necessity of his callousness, then, but it doesn’t dull the sting. I shudder to think of what would happen if Adrian Dumpleton got his own stapler.

My only other actual conversation with him happened around a year later.

He had been gone all morning. When Kelly and I came back from the break room after lunch he had appeared at his desk a different man. That’s the only way I can put it. He hadn’t shaved, for a start, and fine yellow stubble dusted that titanic jaw of his. He was dressed differently, too: a full suit, with a matching jacket and a dark, slim tie. It looked good. This was the get-up of a man who would speak, laugh, drink, take me to restaurants, win at blackjack, save the world from an improbable evil. The Adrian Dumpleton who silently swanned into work half a day late in his best clothes was the one who I knew could kill a man, if he immediately presented himself as a threat to all of humanity. I mentally edited the screenplay of that modern-day Romeo and Juliet with him from Titanic in it, paring it down to five minutes of Adrian Dumpleton shooting everyone in Juliet’s family, followed by an hour and a half of shagging on the beach. I sat down at my desk and Adrian Dumpleton walked over to me, looking me right in the eyes.

‘Ehm—do you have the spreadsheet saved about March’s figures?’

‘Oh, uh, yeah. Hang about.’ I could scarcely type, of course, but I coped admirably. ‘There you go. I’ve emailed em to you.’

‘Cheers,’ he said, turning around.

‘Are you alright, then?’ I asked.

‘Oh, well. Yeah, I spose. Thanks for asking.’ He walked back to his desk and sat down. I typed aimlessly for five

7

‘Ay?’ I yelped, when we were there. up to this for years? Had he been seized ‘What?’ she said. by inspiration this morning? Where was ‘What do you reckon that was?’ he taking me for dinner tonight? What ‘I don’t know,’ said Kelly. ‘What do would our first non-conventional sex you mean?’ position be? If our firstborn was a girl, ‘All that with him!’ should we still call it Adrian, or wait for ‘All what? I dunno where he was, if a boy? that’s what you’re on about. I came to get Kelly came in and began to renegotiate a Kit-Kat.’ with the Kit-Kat. ‘Nah, listen a sec. He’s giving me ‘He worn’t giving you the eye, by the the eye!’ I paced back and forth, a bag way.’ of nervous energy. Kelly yawned, and ‘Eh?’ leaned against the chocolate machine, ‘Nah, it was his mum’s funeral this presumably eaten with jealousy. morning.’

‘He int.’

‘Oh. Ohhh.’

‘He is!’

‘Yeah.’

‘Oh,’ mused Kelly. ‘Do you have fifty ‘Oh. Do you reckon he’d still—’ pee?’

‘Probably not.’

I gave her the coin and she fed it to the ‘Ah, you’re right.’ machine, which ‘ Ye a h , ’ did nothing. said Kelly Anyone who says ‘yeah’ ‘I think he’s sympathetically, funny-looking,’ like that to a friend ought to smugly, and right said Kelly, I wanted be guillotined by a clown away smacking the her to perish glass with the in the most palm of her humiliating way hand. ‘What do you reckon? Fancy him possible. Anyone who says ‘yeah’ like then?’ that to a friend ought to be guillotined ‘Well—I mean—you know—’ by a clown. Silly sound effects need to ‘Oh ah, but like. Fancy-fancy him.’ be provided for when the blade falls.

‘Oh. Er. He’s alright, I spose.’

Her stupid ‘yeah’ing head should hit the ‘Ah, I spose. You don’t have another head-basket with fresh warm blood in fifty pee do you?’ its cheeks, before the clown plucks it out ‘It’ll just—no, I—’ and uses it to juggle with. Forgive and ‘I’ll go get one off him,’ she said, and forget, though. left before I could stop her. I put my feet Adrian Dumpleton, oh my God. I up onto one of the coffee-stained chairs swear there’s never been a better man. and considered what was happening. Of I would kiss him on the forehead and course it didn’t take any great leap of make him dinner every day for the rest imagination to understand that he had of his life. I would wallpaper a room with dressed up for me. The erotic tension pictures of his genitals. I would take that crackling in our earlier exchange had left proud skull of his, keep it on my desk, little doubt there. Had he been building and open bottles of his favourite beer on

‘‘

8

’’

Cat On A Rainy Day Afifah Khan that goddamned fantastic chin. He isn’t coming back. Today, Kelly told me that Adrian Dumpleton got married, and has transferred to Blunt-Palmer’s Mansfield branch.

‘Married?’ I asked.

‘Yep.’ ‘Who to?’

‘D’you know Danielle Fosby?’

‘I dunno, do I?’ ‘She works down the Ship and Pelican on weekends.’

‘Is that the one with the pool tournaments or the pub quiz?’

‘Pub quiz.’

‘Nah, I don’t.’

‘Oh. So yeah, they’ve moved to Mansfield an all. Bought an ouse.’

‘Poor sods.’

‘Yeah. Fancy a coffee?’

‘Ah, alright. I’ll just get this stuff done.’

I shuffled the morning’s paperwork into a neat pile, feeling hollow. I edited

screenplays in my head. Me in The Graduate, breaking into the church and smuggling Adrian Dumpleton onto a minibus. Me in Pet Sematary, blasting The Ramones on the radio and smooshing Danielle Fosby with a lorry. Me in Superman 2, or Superman 3, the one where Lois Lane’s falling, you know the one, she’s falling from one of them skyscrapers. I can’t remember why she’s falling, but she is.

And Superman’s about to catch her, he flies up from underneath her and she’s alright. Gets her in his arms. It might be Superman 1. Adrian Dumpleton flying from beneath me, iron arms at the ready, rushing up at me faster than the speed of sound. Me falling. Anyway. I searched through the drawers in my desk, and I’m pretty sure he’s nicked my stapler. G

9

Knot It You didn’t love me when it came time for that to happen.

It was expected, even welcomed, but the phone never rang.

There was no notice on my front door, telling me That you would speak now. Or maybe there had been, and you Had just ripped it off and thrown it in the trash, like it Didn’t matter anyway, because in my family that four-letter Word has been tarnished by divorce and unhappiness and death.

I asked God for a sign, something small like a ladybug, And then in the winter we had that infestation, but you still Didn’t say anything, and what if it had just been cold Outside, and that’s why they were circling the fireplace, Their wings fluttering in tandem. They made you nervous, so We called the exterminator. For a while after that you slept As far away from me on the bed as possible, afraid of something You hadn’t yet named.

My next resort was to put an ad out in the paper, asking If anyone could tell me how to recognize love.

Nearly everyone in the town responded, but no one Described your face, or your voice, and you burned the rest Of the letters, because what the hell was this bullshit cluttering The counter? And all the warmth I clutched around me must have Escaped through the fireplace; I haven’t been able to find it since.

At last, this morning I asked you through the shower glass and The sound of water hitting your freckles if you loved me, and you Just said “What?” and told me to go away, I’m not in the mood.

A ladybug was in my nightstand when I began to pack. I killed it Quickly, because I remembered that they made you nervous, And isn’t that what love is about?

—Katherine Arcement

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Forgotten Erin Spencer

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Permeable Bodies Katie Ikeler

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Bodyscape This room is too small to contain the feeling of his eyes on my back and instead of paying attention to the teacher I’m sneaking small glances over my shoulder trapped in a too-tight muslin dress my lungs tighten as under my eyelashes I watch him inhale his chest expanding in the barrel millimeters of a countryside little god in old and ancient times and unlike a good village daughter I’m sneaking small glances over my shoulder watching him stretch long arms above his head his brother’s hand me down shirt as tight on his torso as my dress is on mine I’m going to picture him not wearing it and sweating in the sun picking wheat shards out of his hair as his father yells at him to hurry but he can’t hurry because he’s thinking about my shoulders naked in the moonlight like they were last night and that’s what he’s picturing now instead of the muslin.

—Sam Roth

13

Party of

Two

by Thomas R. Seabrook

14

Pat Peters opened the car door and eased her way onto the sidewalk, stretching her legs slowly. She turned around, taking in the tall buildings and breathing the city air, exhaling the unfamiliar fumes quickly as her husband locked the car and took her arm. They crossed the street briskly and turned right.

“What time did you say our reservation was for, dear?”

“Six-thirty, I think.” The couple continued down the block and arrived at the door of a non-descript brownstone bearing a sign which read “Frankies.”

“Oh look, Arthur—they’ve forgotten the apostrophe. That can’t be a good sign.”

“Oh, have they? Hmm. Well, I think it adds to the charm of the place, don’t you?”

Mrs. Peters said nothing, but followed her husband down the steps and inside.

“Peters, party of two,” Arthur greeted the host. They were shown to the last table in the back room. “Frankies” was a

typical upscale restaurant, specializing in white napkins and unadventurous cuisine.

The room’s only other occupants were a threesome of old blue-haired ladies crowded around a table covered with picked-over plates. Pat settled into her chair and extracted her cigarette case: the inside cover was engraved, “To P.L. All my love. A.P.” “Oh, please don’t, Pat. Not here.”

She ignored him and bent over for a light. Arthur sighed and reluctantly struck a match, then waved it out and dropped it in the crystal ashtray. Pat crossed her legs and sat back, regarding the man across from her.

He had aged well, she gave him that. His dark, wavy hair was still thick, although some gray was creeping in at the temples. His face had filled out a little in the sixteen years since he had given her the silver case on the occasion of their engagement. He looked tired tonight, but his eyes gleamed with a light that she had not seen in, well, a rather long time. He was wearing a brown suit,

slightly worn but still presentable, and a had thrilled him at first with her exotic polka dot necktie, immaculately knotted. features and unconventional charm.

A pearl lapel pin caught the light, a relic As the years passed she settled into a of more prosperous years. Pat was jolted more comfortable kind of beauty, but out of her observation by the arrival of her eyes—very dark tonight in the low the waiter, a surly looking fellow, she light—still harbored the spark that had thought. He took their order, nodded drawn him to her so many years ago. curtly, left, and returned a few minutes It was September then—a cold one, later with champagne and a bucket of ice. he remembered, but the temperature Arthur poured a glass for his wife. only seemed to enhance the lingering late How would she take the news, he summer days. The good weather had wondered? He had said nothing to her held for a long time before breaking with about it since reaching a decision early a mighty thunder storm, the last of the that week; only the mysterious dinner season. It was the night of his first party reservation in since moving to the city, no the city earlier in As the years passed explanations the month. g i v e n .

Y o u n g she settled into a more S u r p r i s i n g l y, Arthur stepped she had not comfortable kind of beauty, out of the taxi protested, and made a dash but her eyes — very dark though Pat the door. tonight in the low light — for usually hated The doorman going out. Odd, still harbored the spark that met him halfway now that he with an open had drawn him to her so thought of it— umbrella, but many years ago. she had actually Arthur was seemed eager already soaked to get out of from the the house for an evening, and had even downpour. He thanked the doorman agreed to his choice of restaurant, a rare and stepped into the lobby of the Grand occurrence. He handed her the glass and Hotel. Smoothing his hair with his poured himself a drink, sipped it, feeling fingers and cleaning his spectacles with a the bubbles on his lips and moustache. damp handkerchief, Arthur shrugged out They sat in silence. The only sound of his wet topcoat and stepped into the for several minutes was the soft clink of ballroom. glass against table and the rustling of The room was packed with neat Pat’s dress as she shifted in her chair. young men, just home from France and Arthur studied his wife across the Germany and still in uniform. The ladies table as he refilled her glass. Yes, she of the city had turned out to welcome was still very beautiful. His friends the men home, dressed in their finest. had laughed at his devotion to her, for The ball was being thrown by Mrs. Luxor, she had not always been so attractive. one of the city’s most powerful socialites Well, to him she had, always; in fact, she and the wife of Thomas Luxor, heir

‘‘

’’

15

16

to the United Gas & Electric fortune.

Rumor had it that Mr. and Mrs. Luxor each had their own private rail cars to travel between functions held across the country. Seeing this crowd, Arthur did not doubt its veracity.

“Arthur! I say, old boy, how good to see you here! Completely unexpected, I assure you! How are you, old boy?”

Arthur turned and broke into a broad grin.

“Professor Davies! What a surprise!”

The professor was nearly eighty years old, but still vital. He moved slowly and with great purpose, gliding like a great walrus across the ballroom floor, the effect enhanced by his bushy moustache and heavy gray cutaway jacket. Arthur recalled fondly his university days, sitting in Davies’s religion class, discussing Tolstoy and Paine. “I’m well, sir, and how are you getting on these days?”

“Fine, lad, just fine. How is your work coming along? Have you been overseas at all? I haven’t seen you at any of these before.”

“I was down in Montgomery doing work for the war department, but that’s all over now, of course. I’ve just moved back here and started at the new laboratory, the one out in Riverside—remember, I wrote you about my transfer?”

“Ah, yes, now I do! You’ll have to forgive an old man the occasional lapse of memory. I always said it was a shame you didn’t go into the seminary, Peters, but I must say I am glad to see you doing so well for yourself. Oh, hang on, here’s someone I’d like you to meet—Pat, come here, my dear.”

Dr. Davies ushered a young woman forward. “Pat, here’s a gentleman I’d like you to meet—Dr. Arthur Peters, a fellow Nassau alum, and a very distinguished

one, too. Peters, may I present Miss Patricia LeRoux.”

They shook hands and exchanged the customary pleasantries. He was immediately struck by her appearance; he could not put his finger on exactly what drew him to her, but the attraction was immediate and strong. Looking back on that night, he found that she belied description. The one detail that stuck in Arthur’s mind was the depth of her eyes; he could not remember later what color they were, but they made a profound impression.

Later that evening, he found himself alone with Pat on the balcony of the hotel.

“Miss Leroux, I don’t know if you remember me, we were introduced earlier—” “Dr. Arthur Peters, yes, I remember.

You were only two years ahead of me at school, so I’d heard about you before Professor Davies introduced us. What brings you to this high society gathering?” She flashed a conspiratorial grin and absentmindedly fidgeted with the string of heavy pearls she wore.

“Well, I just moved back to the city, and my family is connected with the Luxors through business.” He offered her a cigarette, then struck a match and lit it for her. “It’s a real pleasure to meet you, Miss LeRoux.”

She looked up suddenly, meeting his eyes with her own, almost black in the shadows. “Please—call me Pat.” A rough voice broke through Arthur’s memory. “Sir. Are you ready to order, sir?” Arthur thumbed the menu carelessly and selected a filet mignon, medium well, please. He turned to his wife. “What are you having, Pat?”

Reflection Sofia Chabolla “I ordered the halibut. You know I’ve been off red meat for a while now, dear.

You should really follow my example— all that flesh you eat just can’t be good for your heart.” She leaned back in her chair, swirling the champagne around and around in its glass before tipping it back and finishing it off.

“The way you’ve been smoking lately, Patty, I’m surprised you’re worried about my health.” He avoided her eye and busied himself with a roll and some butter.

Pat hoped the meal would come quickly. Arthur was quiet tonight. His initial excitement had given way to contemplative silence; to top it off, he was now criticizing her again. It annoyed her. In a way, the same could be said of

their marriage; they had started off so happy, and now—well, these last years had been trying for a woman accustomed to getting what she wants, a woman like Patricia Evelyn Peters.

The reorganization of the sitting room had been the most recent example.

The sofa had never looked good shoved in the corner like that. Arthur had finally emerged from his study after she had spent an hour attempting to rearrange the furniture: that wretched sofa was much heavier than it looked, and she was a small woman to begin with. Arthur could not understand why she felt the need to rearrange.

“What’s wrong with where it is now?”

“It’s just—aesthetically frustrating, that’s all! Don’t just stand there, help me

17

with this thing.” one can still order a decent halibut. She “Really, dear, it’s fine just there. Would smiled at Arthur as his steak arrived. you please let it be? All this racket is not He glanced up and returned her smile helping my work.” He had stomped back bemusedly. to the study, leaving his wife breathless “How is it, dear?” and the sofa sitting forlornly in the “Mmm, it’s good. How’s your steak?” middle of the rug.

“Parfait.” He pressed the tips of Pat had thought for a long time his fingers to his mouth and opened after Arthur had surprised her with the them with a smack of appreciation, his suggestion of dinner out. They had impression of a European gourmand. slipped into a routine in the years since Pat smiled again. This was nice, after all, he had lost his university job and they sitting here together. It reminded her of had moved to the suburbs. Not an the good old days. My, she thought, I am exciting life, maybe, but it had been a life getting old, thinking that way! together. Lately, Arthur sliced though, Arthur’s his steak and Whatever else is wrong tried to think late nights were taking their toll in this world, she thought, his way through on Pat. She had Pat’s possible been going to bed at least one can still order a r e a c t i o n s . alone, waiting Would she be decent halibut. sleeplessly until excited, happy Arthur came in for him and from the study in which he barricaded his accomplishment? Or would she be himself all day. She had taken him angry? She had seemed on edge lately, dinner in the study a few times, but a fact he attributed to their economic had then insisted on his presence at the situation. Oh well, it was worth it to live table. Some nights Arthur was taciturn frugally for a little while—hopefully the and sullen over dinner; other times, he hard times were on the way out now. He seemed brim-full of some intensely could buy her the things she wanted again; pleasurable secret. No matter his mood, that new Chrysler she had cooed over in he was always distracted. When he did the street the other day, for example. Yes, remember to ask about Pat’s day, he did that would be a nice thing for her. Ah, not seem interested in her reply. He she shouldn’t have married a scientist, had withdrawn into his work after the he thought. It’s not a field that produces publishers had turned down his book. many millionaires. Arthur washed down That was almost two years ago, Pat a piece of steak and withdrew into his realized. She had been trying so hard; thoughts until Pat spoke. maybe it was time she faced the truth “Did you hear about the Patersons?” about their future together.

“What about them?”

A steaming plate of fish landed in “They’ve had a divorce,” Pat said front of Pat. She inhaled the tangy scent casually. and smiled to herself. Whatever else is “Aren’t they Catholics?” wrong in this world, she thought, at least “I suppose times are changing for

‘‘

18

’’

everyone. Anyone with a good lawyer can get one now, you know.”

Arthur nodded with a grunt. “It’s a damn shame,” he said gruffly, digging into his steak again.

Pat cut a piece of fish. “Yes, isn’t it,” she muttered, more to herself than to her husband, who continued eating as if he had not heard.

She replaced her fork and knife and straightened in her chair. “Arthur—” “Pat, I’ve got something to tell you.” Arthur leaned forward over the table, reaching for his wife’s hand. She hesitated, then let him take it.

“I don’t know how to tell you this.

It’s taken ages…my book has finally been accepted for publication and I’ve accepted a position as professor of atomics at Nassau. We’ll have to move, Pat, but don’t be too disappointed, because the position comes with a significant salary increase and my book royalties will help, too.”

Pat said nothing, just looked at her husband, waiting for him to continue.

“We’re going to get it all back, Patty, everything we had. I couldn’t tell you because I wasn’t sure it would come through, but don’t you see? That’s what I’ve been working on, my book, and now I’ll finally get published and we’ll have everything we want. After all these years, Pat. Please tell me you’re not sore?” He looked at her expectantly and squeezed her hand.

Pat shook her head mechanically.

“Of course not, Arthur, I’m certainly very happy for you. For us. When must we move?”

“I thought we could drive down tomorrow or the next day and start looking at places. I’m supposed to start teaching in September, so we have a few

months to work everything out. I was down last week and there are some swell new houses being put up in the valley—I think you’ll like them.”

Wordlessly Pat finished her meal as Arthur, no longer at a loss for words, told her all about the new position, his book, and the trouble he had had finding a suitable publisher. She stopped listening and concentrated on her halibut, trying to digest both the news and the fish. Yes, it sounded grand; yes, it explained a lot; but would he really change? Tonight’s dinner made her hopeful. He seemed like his old self, cheerful and affectionate now that he had finally shared his secret. She thought about having another cigarette, but stopped herself; if this is a new beginning, she thought, we’re both going to have to work for it. Pat remembered how Mrs. Paterson had spoken about the divorce. It’s not worth it, Pat thought, not now.

Arthur raised his glass, catching his wife’s attention. “To us, Pat.” “To new beginnings,” she replied.

An hour later she followed him out into the street. She looked up to see the stars, but the sky was obscured by buildings and smoke. She caught up with Arthur and slipped her arm through his as they passed the park.

The waiter, alone in his restaurant, cleared away the last table in the back room, pocketing the silver cigarette case that had been hidden by a soiled napkin. He switched off the lights and walked out to the street to see if its owner was still around, but she had gone.

G

19

My

Ire’s Egg

I shall call you Briggs, for I know not your name, Nor do I care to learn it. You and your partner Are sent to interrogate a former murderer, Whose face has grown dim by the flame.

Your skin as dark as the reflection of Hell’s mirror, You stare into your partner’s eyes, searching for the Light of decay.

The murderer keeps his secrets from him, Although they are as close as his groin.

Your partner is lost in the labyrinth of his marrow as Fate drives him towards insanity.

Exploring the cavernous breaches of the murderer’s fortress, You examine his forsaken eyes and surmise of his safe.

Gentle and cautious in conversation, the murderer Prods your partner’s patience.

In the panic, I become you, Briggs, and like a doctor The murderer makes my throat smile.

All at once I fade into the iniquity of your skin And reveal the Red Sea of life.

I do not know your true name, Briggs, But the experience was certainly worthwhile.

— Neil Kennovin

20

Flight Mechanics Sofia Chabolla

21

Ode

to a

The loneliness sets her free— pity those insecure in solitude, fragile beings requiring the presence of others to affirm the worth of their own existence.

Why not savor the quietness, the silent hours to be spent pondering your own purpose— ponder alone, to render these thoughts pure, untainted by others.

Ponder this while others are yet hours from waking, ready only to wipe the remains of vomit, of another’s saliva from their lips, those lips so often opened to laugh, to speak in slurred speech— the consumption of closeness and ecstasy. Those opened lips ruin the silence.

22

silent

MORNING

The loneliness ruins a soul at ease.

Pity those who crave not the closeness of another being; the warm embraces exchanged— perhaps amidst a cloud of liquor, steaming bodies, perhaps urged by nothing more than attraction.

Revel in the silent mornings that allow you to sleep away your night’s exertions.

Revel in being able to wake to the near-afternoon sun and feel another’s presence on your cramped bed.

At least you’re not alone.

You dread that he will leave you; you wonder if he might stay, and not leave you alone again— until his departure ruins the silence.

—Danielle Weber

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Suspension Katie Ikeler

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17th Street Farmers Market Matt Riley

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Feather Sofia Chabolla

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State Fair Erin Spencer

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Mechanical Bird Sofia Chabolla

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The word-trapperWakes early, crawling out into the snow, And with grey clouds of morning, And a cage of iron, Imprisons phrases.

9:35 9:35

We shuffle into her kitchen, At 8:35 on the dot, As she lifts her knife-tongue, And, with a single slashSlaughters words.

In disgust, We stare as she flays them, Cuts out their heart, And with unkempt precision, Serves them raw.

“Eat! Eat!” She shrilly demands, “Mange! Mange la grammaire!”

We stare down at her “plat du dialogue”, And retch.

Dreams: We watch phrases wander through the woods, Laugh as “Avez-vous” and “un jardin”, Play-fight on blades of grassIn a chaotic harmony.

Les motsSont nés innocent, avec la vérité et le sens.

Et quand on domestique les gentilles bêtes…

On les tue.

C’est la faiblesse humaine.

—Ben Kenzer

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Coyote and Jack-Rabbit

Eye Magic

By Julie Thatcher

Jack-Rabbit knew eye magic inside and out. It was he who taught Coyote how to make eyes from mud and honey, and how to look through these false eyes as if they were his own. He also taught Coyote how to juggle his eyeballs. Of course, Jack-Rabbit didn’t know that he’d taught Coyote these things. Coyote had simply watched him when he thought he was alone.

At the time, Coyote was sleeping with Jack-Rabbit’s wife, and he got an idea from his new-found skills. He found Jack-Rabbit at home one day and approached him.

“Jack-Rabbit, I need your help. I’m in terrible trouble and I don’t know what to do!” Jack-Rabbit and Coyote were old enemies, so Jack-Rabbit thought this would be a perfect way to exact some revenge.

“What did you do, Coyote?” He asked calmly, laughing internally to see how Coyote fidgeted and whimpered in terror.

“I stole some corn from the people who live over the hills, and now they’re tracking me down to kill me. They want to cut me up and use my eyes as a trophy.

Oh Jack-Rabbit, help me!” Jack-Rabbit thought long and hard, delighting in making Coyote squirm.

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“I’ll help you, Coyote. Give me your eyes and I’ll take them to the people as proof that you’re dead.” Coyote’s eyes went wide.

“B-But I’m not dead!” Jack-Rabbit smiled.

“They don’t have to know that.”

Coyote thought for a moment before the realization dawned on him.

“That’s a great idea, Jack-Rabbit!

Give me a knife, I’ll do it now.” So JackRabbit gave him a knife, and Coyote went and hid behind a rock. He pulled two eyes made from honey and mud from his pocket, and a rag soaked in berry juice. He swapped the false eyes for his real ones as he howled in fake pain, then covered his eyes with the rag and came out from behind the rock. To JackRabbit, it looked as though Coyote had a blood-soaked bandage over his eyes.

Coyote reluctantly handed over his bright blue eyes, and Jack-Rabbit put them in his pocket.

“There you go, Coyote. That wasn’t so bad, now was it?” Coyote shook his head and rubbed at the bandage. “I’ll put these on a necklace and take them over the hills to show the people that you’re dead.” Coyote nodded gratefully.

“And when you’re done, you’ll give them back?” Jack-Rabbit shook his head,

then realized that Coyote couldn’t see the gesture and spoke.

“No. I’m not doing this as a favor between friends, Coyote. I’m going to keep your eyes as payment.” Coyote hung his head mournfully.

“Now I am a beggar. I cannot work without eyes.” So Coyote but on beggar’s clothing, and wandered the streets during the day begging for scraps. Jack-Rabbit settled the dispute between Coyote and the people, and wore his eyes all the time to prove how clever he was. During the night, Coyote went up into the hills and howled with pain and sorrow all night long. Or, at least, that’s what the animals thought he was doing.

“You look perfectly ridiculous with that bandage on, Coyote. Take it off.”

Mrs. Rabbit tugged the bandage off and kissed Coyote. He smiled devilishly and kissed her back. “What’s my husband up to tonight?” she asked. Coyote closed his dark brown eyes and concentrated.

The eyes hanging around Jack-Rabbit’s neck glanced around before returning to perfect stillness.

“He’s at Eagle’s house, sharing a meal. Eagle’s just offered to let him sleep there for the night and he has agreed.”

Coyote’s eyes snapped open and he grinned at Mrs. Rabbit. “It looks like we have all night, sweetheart.” He tugged at the hem of her skirt. “Now how about getting this off ?” Coyote’s howls were particularly long and sorrowful that night, the other animals thought.

The next day, Coyote came down to the village with something approaching a jaunty swagger. This was the good life, he thought to himself. Never having to work for your food, getting to sleep with Mrs. Rabbit every night, and always knowing what Jack-Rabbit’s up to. This train of happy thoughts came

to an abrupt end when Coyote entered the center of the village to find most of the animals there, including Grizzly himself. Coyote’s ears swung around as he recognized the voices of the various family heads.

“Um, hello. What are we all doing here?” he said nervously. The animals were arranged in a big circle, with a fire in the middle cooking lunch. Grizzly’s voice sounded like a deep roll of thunder, cutting across all other voices and silencing them.

“We’re here to settle this thing between you and Jack-Rabbit, Coyote. It’s not right for an animal to steal another animal’s eyes, and it’s not right for an ablebodied worker to be wandering around a beggar.” Coyote’s shoulders sunk as he realized what was about to happen. JackRabbit stepped forward from the crowd, lifting the eyes from around his neck.

“I’m sorry, Coyote. It was wrong of me to steal your eyes. Now take off the bandage so I can put them back.” Coyote took a step back.

“T-Take it off ? I don’t think that’s a good idea.” Jack-Rabbit ignored him and took off the bandage. All the animals saw that Coyote had two perfectly good, dark-brown eyes. Jack-Rabbit realized what must have happened, and angrily threw Coyote’s bright blue eyes into the fire.

“You lazy bastard, Coyote! All this time you’ve known how to make eyes, and you’ve tricked us into working for you. For that, you’ll never have your eyes back, and you’ll always have to use ones you make yourself.” Coyote hung his head, and from then on, he was scorned among the animals and always had brown eyes made from honey and mud.

G

31

Temptation Erin Spencer

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Try Harder Today I strained a muscle, and it made me feel older than I am.

The pain chased its tail up my leg and wrapped around my hip Curling there to fall asleep with its teeth sunk into my lower back.

This hurt is tangible, localized, while upstairs another type lurks With no cause except genetics and an undefined hormonal imbalance.

Psychologists who have not been depressed are not worth your Time, and even then sometimes they are lost inside themselves Just as this semester I descended the staircase and called too often.

Pills helped, but I am waiting to take them—I wonder what they do To my brain, and I hate myself for not being enough and not knowing.

My half-uncle killed himself before the message arrived.

I wonder if he believed in God, and if the job that he lost was worth His time. I didn’t know until I was too old that it wasn’t skin cancer So now I consider for half a moment as I turn off the car in the garage And before I use the stove, if I will ever be tempted to do the same.

—Katherine Arcement

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Mourning (After Morisot In a Park, 1876)

A chilling wind cuts through the summer day, a flashback to spring in the papery sound of swaying trees.

Madame kneels in the sea-green grass, dressed in mourning with cherubic Fanny lying in her lap; Raven-haired Giselle stands on the edge of the tree line regarding nothing; and a small black dog sits on its haunches, ears erect, their guardian, their protector now. —Elizabeth Tompkins

34

Bridges Over Calm Waters Emily Matson

With O’Keeffe’s

Cow Skull “You—Are—Alive.”

She glares at me with Empty eyes, solid madness: Growling- “You—Are—Alive.”

The shorn shingle cliffs: The nebulous pattern of her bone Shudder shoddily: “You—Are—Alive.”

Jealous rage in softShorn, muted horns, Gulping, sadlyMoaning: “You—Are—Alive.”

I grasp her- warm flesh On her heavy shingle-death.

I encompass her pitiable form My hand- her empty tears from Dusty ducts. I coo: “You. Are.” —Ben Kenzer

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Murmuration The

by Jack Nicholls

Outside on the windowsill sits the funniest bird, peeking in. Andrew is nude and shivering in his en suite bathroom.

“Come on,” he whispers to himself, “come on come on come on.” He looks at the mirror and sees his right bicep, balled up like tissue, and the rash of acne that butterflies over his chest. He can hear the funeral party arguing downstairs, his mother’s voice louder than the others.

“Come on,” he says, “oh come on you bastard,” softly though, quietly, because Lisa is in the next room, nude in between his sheets, and this was perfect.

His penis lies limply in his palm, yanked a sad, raw vermilion. “Fucking come on,” he says. He looks up and sees the bird.

The glass renders the bird silent. They look at one another.

“Oh fuh,” says Andrew, and crumples. He sobs violently, forgetting Lisa and the guests downstairs, the sobs tearing and heaving out of him, escaping his body and haunting the bathroom. His body curls on the cold linoleum. Outside the window, a colossal flock of birds flies past and the sky blackens, darkening the room.

A million starlings have come because they always do. Today it is beautiful and so Mummy packed a picnic and Mummy, Daddy and Andy are eating it in the

36

graveyard of St. Philip’s. All of the treebranches here are heavy with starlings and because it is summer the thick green leaves hide them. The noise the birds make is loud and everywhere.

Daddy is louder than all of the starlings because he is closer to Andy and he asks, “Have you finished your boiled egg?”

“Nowf,” says Andy, through a huge mouthful. Mummy wipes the sides of Andy’s mouth with a napkin.

“Did you know,” asks Mummy, “that these birds come here every year?”

“Yep,” says Andy.

“You did? You are clever.”

It is busy here today—the graveyard has the only grass for miles, and everyone’s come to enjoy the sunshine.

The trees belong to the starlings, and they drown out all the city noise. Andy pulls a handful of grass from the ground.

“So it’s the same birds every year?” he asks.

“No,” says Daddy.

Mummy tries to interrupt Daddy, but Daddy says, “It’s the same flock every year, but it isn’t every exact same bird.”

Mummy tries to interrupt Daddy again.

“I’m being exact,” Daddy says. “I’m telling him exactly. Andy, some of the birds die.”

“Oh,” says Andy, and pulls up more grass. Daddy had a quick few at the Diggers before the picnic and he sits down with a bump next to Andy in the family plot. He crosses his legs and starts pulling up grass with Andy.

Mummy says not all of the birds die and Daddy tells her to sod off. Mummy sods off, a Frisbee game stopping to let her through.

“Daddy?”

“Yes?” “Nursery rhyme?”

“Your mother’ll kill me.”

“I won’t tell. Nursery rhyme? Please?”

Daddy laughs and says okay, okay but make sure you don’t tell Mummy.

Daddy is always laughing when he tells the nursery rhymes and that makes Andy laugh, and he leans in close, too, and he says the words in the funniest way.

“Georgie Porgie, pudding and pie—” “Do the voice!”

“Alright, alright,” (he does the voice) “Georgie Porgie, pudding and pie, kissed a girl and come in her eye.”

Daddy giggles. Andy giggles.

“When her eye was dried and shut—” Andy can tell Daddy is about to burst out laughing and if Daddy bursts then Andy will.

“When her eye was dried and shut, Georgie fucked dat one-eyed slut!”

They laugh the hardest they will ever laugh, shoulders shaking side by side in the busy graveyard. They almost laugh louder than the birds.

Lisa from next door is in Andrew’s room with him, running her finger over the spines of his books. Andrew watches while Lisa pauses, turning her head to read while thoughtfully scratching her armpit.

She screams a battle cry and charges at him—she knocks him sideways on his bed, flips his skinny body onto his front, straddles him as though he were a pony.

His arm, thin and elastic like a young tree-branch, is twisted into a half-nelson.

Lisa laughs.

“Go on,” she says, “swear for me, you little wanker.”

Andrew’s face is muffled into his creaseless bedclothes.

“Resistance is futile. Talk, bitch!” She twists his arm harder, strokes his thumb with hers.

“Um. Sorry, can I not?”

Lisa lets go. “Wait— seriously?”

“Yeah. Uh. Sorry.”

“Well, shit. It’s no fun if you’re not going to play. Uh, don’t be sorry. I’m sorry. For the torture, and everything.”

“That’s alright.”

“Yeah. Well, let’s add ‘swearing’ to the list of things you find morally wrong, shall we? Along with drinking, smoking, talking to girls—” “No—it’s not— it’s not morals or anything. I just—I’d rather not. My mum gets upset by it. ‘Cause of my dad.”

“Steve doesn’t—” “No, my dad. He—can you get off me?”

“No. I love you and want to stay this close forever,” says Lisa, getting off.

Andrew sits up.

“Well, yeah, my dad. I don’t really remember much, but he’d swear a lot when he was drunk. Like, to me. He thought it was funny. Mum said he’d get smashed and just swear at me a ton.

Verbal abuse, sort of. And I was like, what, four years old.”

“Gosh. What a bastard.”

“Um. So they tell me.”

They are quiet. Lisa looks at the

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Emma Sofia Chabolla

38

bookshelves. Andrew twists his hair over his eyes and looks down at his feet. He says, “But yeah. It was kind of a reason why, um, he had to go. I mean, why my mum says he had to sort of leave. Told him to leave, I mean. Verbal abuse, you know, when he was. Ah. Drunk. And everything. Like, like he used to make up these nursery rhymes. Well, like, he’d make nursery rhymes dirty. And tell them to me. Mum said it was, um. Pretty upsetting. Like, they were disgusting.

About, uh, women. And everything. You

know.”

“Like Dice Clay?”

“What?”

“Dice Clay. He’s a comedian from the eighties. Did really moronic shit. Lots of jokes about, like, you know, banging sluts or whatever. And he did dirty nursery rhymes, like, that was his thing.”

“Um. I guess.”

“Here.” Lisa pulls her iPod from her pocket and offers Andrew a headphone.

“He’s pretty funny, if you take it all ironically.”

Andrew puts the bud in his ear and The picnic is packed away and a disembodied voice speaks to him in a Mummy comes back with a carton of thick New York accent. The headphones juice from the shop for Andy. They all get are split like a wishbone between them up and leave. Daddy puts his arm around and they sit side by side on the bed, Mummy’s shoulders and hangs off her. silently listening together, until Andrew Mummy is looking up at the trees and rips the headphone from his ear. His trying to spot an unhidden bird. Trees hands shake. This feels dangerously close stay alive by eating up soil with their roots. to his father speaking to him for the first Dead things go in the ground where they time in twelve years. Dangerously close. can rot and put their nutrients in the soil.

He had forgotten the voice, and the These trees eat up all of the graveyard rhymes— and his father had taken them. soil, and all of the nutrients from the His father had stolen them, from this dead things keep them alive. The trees awful comedian. are singing.

Dice whatever.

Dead things go in the His father was a “Aren’t they the photocopy of an ground where they can rot funniest birds?” eighties comedian. and put their nutrients in says Mummy.

Lisa was Andy feels a the soil. These trees eat up soft frowning at him. crunch “He—” says underfoot, as all of the graveyard soil, Andrew. “It’s him.” though he has and all of the nutrients “Its—what? stepped on a You—wait, you from the dead things keep crisp packet. mean he’s—” He looks down them alive. The trees are and sees he has “They were— they were these. stepped on the singing.

My Dad, he must wing of a fallen have—he stole starling. these jokes. He stole this Dice guy’s

jokes. These are the rhymes. I sort of—I The funeral party has safely stowed remember them.”

Andrew’s father in the ground at St. “Gosh,” says Lisa, “what a bastard.” Philip’s and now they are politely

sidestepping their mutual dislike of the Eventually they stop laughing and man in his ex-wife’s living room. Andrew Daddy clumsily sets about packing the sits on a kitchen chair that his mother has picnic away. stuck next to the fingerfood, and pulls a “When I said some of the birds die,” napkin apart with his hands. He watches says Daddy, hunched over the hamper, “I them—his family mingling stupidly and didn’t want you to worry or anything.”

Lisa awkwardly alone because her parents “Yep,” says Andy. Daddy almost trips. both had work—and tries to pick out a “It doesn’t matter when they die. The single conversation to listen to. He can’t. noise is still the same. You don’t even see His head hurts. Their chatter is deafening. them. The din’s still there.”

And how long will it be before they

‘‘

’’

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speak of his father as they did while his heart was beating? Andrew can hear the texture of their talk creasing and tearing maybe even now, as he drops fine shreds of serviette to the living room carpet.

Maybe even now he can feel the crowd shifting and the hecklers warming up against the bastard who drank, who stole jokes, who fathered him. Maybe soon an uncle will drink too much and argue, rationally, that his loss of an invisible father is not much of a loss at all. After all, the show has been rolling on without him for twelve years. To which Andrew may respond by lying awake until five in the morning and listening to distasteful comedy records every night.

Steve leans close to Andrew’s mother’s ear and earnestly says something that must be goddamned hilarious. Steve is a goddamned funny guy. Andrew tears the last of the napkin away and it falls without a sound. Andrew’s mother is laughing. Andrew grabs a wineglass from the table and empties it onto the floor, bangs it furiously with a tablespoon, climbs up onto his chair.

Silence fills the room. He looks down at them. Every face turns expectantly to his, and the whole murmuration— his mother, Steve, Lisa, his extended family—look at him with confusion. He notices that the wineglass has broken. He drops it and clears his throat. Loudly and lucidly, Andrew speaks.

“Mary, Mary, quite contrary. Trim dat pussy it’s so damn hairy.”

Though he has not practiced the voice, didn’t know this was going to happen, it comes out sweetly, perfect Bronx, or Queens, or wherever the hell it is. Nineteen eighties New York by way of nineteen nineties West Midlands.

“Jack and Jill went up the hill, each

had a buck and a quarter. Jill came down with two fifty.”

His audience looks at their feet. Noone is saying a word. Andrew is doing a pretty beautiful job.

“Little Boy Blue. He needed the money. Rock-a-bye baby, on a tree-top, your mom is a whore and I ain’t your pop.”

He speaks clearly and quickly, one after the other, reciting them like scripture in his perfect Dice Clay voice, he knows them all, he is unstoppable.

“Mary had a little lamb, she kept him in the yard.”

“Son,” says Steve.

“Fuck you,” replies Andrew, “you fucking cocksucker. And every time that Mary bent, his woolly dick got hard.”

His mother is crying, finally. Everyone looks at him, or at her, or at their feet.

And the chatter has stopped. He has killed the chatter. He recites what he has learned these past nights, eyes closed, headphones on.

“Georgie Porgie pudding and pie, kissed a girl and come in her eye. When her eye was dried and shut, Georgie fucked dat one-eyed slut. Thank you.”

Andrew hops down from his stage.

The funeral party has turned to stone.

And he is electric. He is dynamite.

Andrew weaves through the guests to Lisa. His mother sobs. There are chirrups from outside the window. And he is explosive. He takes Lisa’s hand.

And this is right. Lisa smiles. And he is the Undisputed Heavyweight Champion of Comedy. And he is a son. His mother sobs. He leads Lisa upstairs. It is silent.

And he is Dice fucking Clay. And he is a vengeful ghost. And this is perfect.G

Time He carefully placed A circle of silver.

“Don’t let it slip,” He whispered Before he left.

Red, salt eyes Reached out With restless fingers.

Sweet lips answered With light brushes And sharpened nails Carving out words.

Spent While

a pa r t

Sealed lips Forced back truths.

Cruel tongues revealed them.

Dirty sheets On a broken bed Smelt of sex and tears And bile.

Musty rooms and crying out The wrong names Filled nights and weeks.

Lying Hidden away In a drawer Was the ring.

— Alison Gondek

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January The brumal night sighs Lace falls from the down-filled clouds Deer walk on water —Elizabeth Tompkins

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Water and Sky Emily Matson

Space

Race

I think of you in terms of intermittent radio signals coming from some satellite, some probe given a cute monosyllabic name by a country with no technological reputation.

Surrounded by the nonmessenger of space (Why unknown? Why so far?) you bask in silence.

Fists clenched, I wait for the moments when the signal comes in— distant murmurs, tinny music, fingers spidering across your expanse of shoulder blade before dipping into the tangled ether of your hair.

Static bursts, waves of high frequency, a brief earthly translation—– the corners of my mouth reach skyward for days.

I want to fly up to join you, try to throw you off orbit, have you land on the bosom of the moon.

(How electrically shocking is that?

Did I catch your attention?)

I want to fly to you with the confidence of a thousand atmospheres (Is that what it takes just to hold you?) and stay suspended over that blue planet of mine, that uninterrupted ocean of doubt.

You laugh and rub the back of your neck, profiled against the stars, crescent of waning mouth half-turned.

Hey kid, you say to the ground, whatever gets you through the night.

—Noa Nir

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Regrets

By Katherine Arcement

“Hey! Get out of there!” George shouted into his megaphone. He was surprised when he had seen the girl in the water. Everyone at the resort knew to stay home; he hadn’t even worn sunscreen today. And now on his wrap-up patrol he’d seen a girl in the water, and George knew he’d have to go fetch her. She was too far offshore for it to be safe.

She just smiled, and waved to him. He motioned her in again. Suddenly she kicked up, half-out of the waves, showing off. Her bikini bottoms were made to look like scales. He had never seen that before. “A storm’s coming in!” he called out to her.

He knew she had heard when she suddenly began swimming to the right end of the cove, around the bend of the cliffs until he couldn’t see her anymore. The girl didn’t wave goodbye, but it didn’t matter. George was just glad that she was heading home. The only things over there were beach houses. She would be all right.

But sheltered from the hurricane inside the clubhouse, he had no distraction from the memory of her long, strange hair, and how green it had been in the sunlight.

When she washed up on shore a day later, the girl was naked, her bathing suit lost to the tide. In her autopsy report, the doctor noted that her fingers were webbed.G

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Descent Emily Matson 45

“How wonderful it is that nobody need wait a single moment before starting to improve the world” —Anne Frank

Nobody

Need

Wa i t

Sometimes when Mother is busy I will creep to the window and peep outside.

The sunlight glows upon my sneaky fingers and I feel the warmth of God. The best remedy for the afraid and lonely is the outdoors, somewhere where they can be quite alone with the heavens, nature and God. Though this is as close a communion with nature as I can now achieve I do believe in the beauty still around me.

Sometimes, before I am hastened away by Mother’s ragged hush and fervid rush to straighten the turncoat curtains, I will see a child laugh—a sensation I would hear if I could, I believe that I would if I pressed my ear to the imprisoning pane.

But Mother is most intolerant of my watching the turbulent world outside this static room.

A boy might carry his mother’s groceries An officer may help a grandmother cross the road The huddled corner-men have a few coins to jingle in their torn and worn caps and I realize that no one has ever become poor by giving.

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Girls prance to the movies sporting the fashions of the day.

Gazing upon my pale hands resting upon my own plain clothes I enviously remember Hanneli and Nannette...

Memories mean more to me than dresses.

In moments of misery I wonder if I shall ever see them again.

I consider the despair and decide to hope because it fills us with fresh courage and makes us strong again.

Acknowledging loss and allowing reflection:

It’s really a wonder that I haven’t dropped all my ideals, in my straight-backed chair in the middle of the sobbing night. because they seem so absurd to carry out.

Nothing but danger lurks in the darkness beyond that imprisoning pane Yet I keep them because in spite of everything, I still believe that people are really good at heart.

Ginny Martin —Ginny Martin

Tracks to Nowhere Erin Spencer

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Contributors’

Katherine Arcement gives all her characters mundane taste in breakfast cereal, although for some reason that part never makes it into the story. In addition to writing, she is studying the art of stop motion animation.

Sofia Chabolla is member of the Class of 2014 here at the College of William & Mary. She is originally from Jacksonville, Florida and is studying to become an Art History major. On campus, Sofia is a member of AMP and CCM as well as bieng a W&M student blogger and volunteer for the Muscarelle Museum of Art. Katie Ikeler is a Senior with an English and Art Major. After graduation, she plans on moving to DC to pursue a career in publishing or art. She loves dogs, peanut butter, and funny people.

Neil Kennovin is a part of the class of 2012 and is majoring in Government and English. His dreams are what inspire my poetry, for through dreams, we are able to see our most secret desires and fears. His favorite poet is Charles Baudelaire.

Ben Kenzer is a freshman who plans to major in International Relations. He first became interested in poetry during senior year of high school, thanks to his amazing Creative Writing teacher Ms. Yagel. Beyond writing, Ben keeps busy with IR club, Chinese Student Organization, the JBlair Historical Review, and Model Arab League.

Afifah Khan is from Oak Hill, VA. She likes to travel, play with cats, try foreign foods, sleep, study Neurobiology, lay out in the sunshine, and listen to music!

Ginny Martin is an english major and a senior here at William and Mary. After graduation she will return to her home in Texas before entering the Peace Corps.

She has been writing since she was young and she hopes to continue developing and growing as a writer by living an adventurous life.

Emily Matson is a rising senior at the College of William and Mary. Her majors are East Asian Studies and Chinese, and one of her main interests is cross-cultural communications. She speaks Spanish and Mandarin, and is learning Russian. When she was studying abroad in Beijing three years ago, she started taking pictures, and since then photography has become one of her favorite hobbies.

Notes

Jack Nicholls is an exchange student from Exeter University, England (he was exchanged for lots of coupons cut from cereal boxes). He hopes to work as a shop assistant for his entire life, but if this doesn’t work out, he will fall back onto writing fiction. These stories are his first published work, apart from a sonnet last year which he’s not counting because it was rubbish.

Noa Nir (‘14) hails from Arlington, Virginia, home of the cemetery and that weird cat on a leash she sees in her neighborhood on a regular basis. She lives and breathes creative writing and has been quoted as saying, “I really can’t imagine doing anything else for the rest of my life. No, seriously.” When she isn’t writing, Noa is pretending to do real-people things, which include finding a paying job and focusing in lecture classes.

Matthew D. Riley is a sophomore Neuroscience major with aspirations of attending medical school after graduation. He recently discovered photography but he is quickly falling in love with the art form.

Tom Seabrook is an English and History double major and a member of the class of 2012. He sings in the choir at William & Mary and studied abroad in Bath, England, for fall semester 2010. He comes from the small town of Hopewell, New Jersey.

Erin Spencer is a freshman from Baltimore, Maryland and has been studying photography for five years. On campus, she is on the sailing team, a photographer for the DoG Street Journal, and a member of a social sorority. You can see her other work by visiting www.etspencerphotography.webs.com.

Elizabeth Tompkins is currently a sophomore. She is majoring in Psychology and Literary & Cultural Studies with a focus in the International Political Economy. She has been writing since she was so little that she had to ask others to write her stories down for her. Her work can also be found in Lips: Expressions of Female Sexuality.

Danielle Weber is a freshman at William & Mary. She is planning on being a Psychology major, with a possible double major with English. She has always had a passion for writing, and is very excited to have a chance to display her work through the Gallery. She would like to thank the Gallery staff for selecting her piece, and anyone who chooses to read it.

Editor’s Note O Gallery, Gather around, little children, to hear the tale of The Gallery. What began as a Literary Arts Magazine in 1976 sputtered and croaked in 2004. Rumors tell robots sent through time infiltrated the Editor’s office, removed the data, burned the office and hunted down Gallery members one by one. ...Or the computer with the only copy of the 2004 issue crashed, and everyone wandered away despirited and broken. But really, which sounds more like William and Mary? Either way, The Gallery died only to be ressurected 3 years later. Frankly, that’s probably why we relate so closely to zombies. Or, it could be the reason we are distributing our Spring issue around Easter - you decide. At any rate, two sophomores pulled it out of the archives and fought to restore it.

When I joined The Gallery as a wide-eyed freshman, the first meeting I went to consisted of four people sitting in an elevator shaft on the third floor of Blair. We a pennyless magazine that published only online, received a handful of submissions that we begged from our friends, and hardly had a staff. We also walked 10 miles both ways in snow storms with a warm potato that served as The Gallery dinner, similar to Regular Ordinary Swedish Meal time. We concocted ways to get money, and after a harrowing bake sale raised $43.27 - apparently, potato cupcakes has yet to become a “thing.”

Still, we struggled to make an impact (tee hee) on the William adn Mary Campus. When you have over 300 years behind your college, the wheel hasn’t bothered to be reinvented since the ones in 1793 are still good enough. The best historical contribution of our fine magazine’s hallowed pages is certainly obvious: Our Zombie halloween issue. Clearly, high calibre zombie fiction is hard to find. Though biological plagues reducing mere mortals to soulless cannibals seems like a relevant issue to the literary community, it tragically has not been taken seriously.

Perhaps it’s our “means business” black and white pages, or the suspiciously witty Editor’s notes, staff bios and contributor’s notes. Perhaps people have remarked we juggle superciliousness with supersillyness. Maybe The Gallery is a high art grandfather perching you on his lap to regail the tales of his youth and meditations. Ultimately, the only conclusion we can come to is our brownies didn’t taste that great, but at least we put together a delicious magazine!

Carrie “Supersillyness” Crow Editor-In-Chief