genesis literary & art magazine volume forty-nine issue two fall 2020
Staff Managing Editors Joseph Alcala Abigail Freestone Zoe Hanquier Sarah Seyfried
Editors
W280 Apprentices
Danilo Almeida Sarah Bush Angelina Butters Ashley Conner Katherine Culp Abby Fortune Hunter Godby-Schwab Brandon Hopson Kayelee Hudson Sage Justice Briesa Koch Alexa Quezada Jasonna Rogers Bhri'ona Shoff Zach Thomas Hannah Warfel
Hannah Bryson-Price Natalie Burton Julieanna Childs Ray Colbert Lawren Coleman Ashley Duncan MacAna Gilkerson Rashida Greene Kelsey Hawkins Sam Hayat Jorah Heitz Kaylee Kriese Kate Lunsford Heather McCord Simone Meadows Cassie Smith Andrew Tanner Holly Ward
Faculty Advisor Sarah Layden
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Letter from the Editors We were pleasantly surprised by the diversity of style and influence included in this issue. Many of these pieces speak to a sense of shared culture, whether through community as shown in “They’re Building a House Next Door” or inspiration from tradition as seen in “13.” Perhaps no piece better embodies the fluidity of genre apparent in this issue than “Shame and Queer Desire: A Storied Reading of Lady Audley’s Secret,” a narrative essay that pulls from literary analysis and memoir, among other genres. Some artists have commented on our contemporary environment through a historical and cultural lens. In exploring their own histories, they have returned with pieces that share parts of their personal lives, and in doing so they have spoken to the larger truths that bind us. Regardless of the differences in style and content, these pieces provide a sense of connection currently missing in our daily lives. Joseph, Abigail, Zoe, & Sarah Managing Editors
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Table of Contents Art 13 (best of) The 4th Precept Afternoon in the Greenhouse The Face of Love Fingertoes! ipanema rain Never Travelled (back cover art) Party is Over Rock Concert Rose Colored Laughter Self Portrait Skater Kids Sorrow the Face of God (front cover art) The Undine Grandma and Grandpa
46 47 34 29 23 19 36 7 35 49 18 22 27
Chanya Ruby Chanya Ruby Amelia Harden Bailey Kinder Chloe Greenberg Nadia Campbell Connor Stump Savannah Jacob David Chadburn Emily Howson Chloe Greenberg Haley Moore Connor Stump
17 30
Veronica Breach Caroline Hawkins
Fiction La Rosa Spelunking (best of)
31 8
Julieanna Childs Ashton Hall
Nonfiction Huntingburg: Summer, 2007 Shame and Queer Desire: A Storied Reading of Lady Audley's Secret (best of)
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48 37
Abigail Hopf Nathan Marquam
Poetry Its Mother (best of) Nomenclature Support Group Share, September 2020 They're Building a House Next Door Trailer Trash: Track One
28 24 26
Laura Tuzzio Hannah Bryson-Price Georgey Elaine
6
Ron Lauderbach
20
Kaylee Kriese
Artists' Notes 50
Information & Acknowledgements 59-60
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They're Building a House Next Door Ron Lauderbach
Clay tiles on weathered rafters weeks after delivery look weary, like the plumber’s countenance as he carries out a shiny sink, the wrong model, and drops it into his truck-bed. His truck needs tires. He might be waiting for a bargain or it could be news from his oncologist. I see two electricians wander the job, eat their lunches, laugh a lot, and leave. A concrete finishing crew works fast because two guys didn’t show up on this hot day and the mud doesn’t care. Their boss jabs his finger into the chest of some guy who’s holding a big bucket of paint and I think about Jim Rhoads, the meanest foreman I’ve ever known, who years ago had me in tears before draping his arm around my shoulders and saying, Don’t worry kid, this place may get built in spite of us.
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Party is Over
Savannah Jacob
Acrylic on illustration board, 15" x 22" -7-
Spelunking
Ashton Hall When my phone rang at four AM, I knew who it was before I opened my eyes. No one else would have the nerve to call before seven. While I fumbled to answer, my beagle howled in harmony with the ringtone. “Nomi?” I asked. I reached down to rub Jinx’s ears. She licked my fingers. “Hey,” she replied. “Let’s go hiking.” “Where have you been? I haven’t heard from you in-” “There’s a new park I want to check out. It’s only three hours away,” Nomi said, breathless. She sounded like she’d just taken the stairs to the top of a skyscraper. “It’s got a lot of cool trails-” “Honey,” I said, rubbing a hand over my face. “You know I love you, but I have class. And work. I’d love to go hiking and catch up, but can we do it Saturday?” Nomi breathed into the phone. “Saturday. Yeah, okay. I can wait until then.” She paused. “Sorry. This was weird.” “No. You know you can call me anytime. It’s a bestie perk.” I yawned. “Thanks for inviting me, just don’t wait so long to call next time. I missed you.” “I missed you too,” Nomi replied. “Thanks for answering.” She took a breath, like she was about to say something, and the line went dead. I watched the phone for an entire minute, waiting for it to ring again. But it never did. If there was one thing Nomi hated, it was saying goodbye. If there was one thing I hated, it was a lack of closure. As a compromise, I sent her a text: Love you! See you soon, bitch! “C’mere, Jinx,” I said, patting the covers beside me. Jinx leapt onto the bed in one bound. She turned in a loose, luxurious circle and nestled down against my side. “This is just for tonight,” I said to her. “Don’t get comfortable.” She huffed and went to sleep. It took me much longer. -8-
Nomi pulled up in Chanelle, the dented Jeep she bought in high school. It was one of the boxy pieces of junk familiar to anyone who’d ever bought a used car. But Nomi made it special. She hung crystals from the rearview mirror and reupholstered the back seat with cheetah-print fabric she found at a flea market. “I brought snaaaa-acks,” I sing-songed as I buckled into the passenger seat. “Licorice for me, trail mix for you. And, of course, some blue Gatorade for the road.” “Light blue or dark blue?” Nomi asked. Her mouth was pulled into a smile, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “Dark blue, of course. Wouldn’t want to ruin your life.” I smiled back, but it was like Nomi was a mannequin in the store window. She looked real enough, but there was something artificial about her expression. Normally, our injoke made her crack up, and she’d launch into “remember when?” Instead, she pulled away from the curb and headed for the highway. We drove in silence. The air felt charged with static electricity, making the hair on my arms stand up. Nomi was known for her ability to outtalk a radio televangelist. I’d heard her go on for half an hour about gossip she’d overheard at Whole Foods. “Nomes,” I said as we wove in and out of a line of semitrucks. “It seems like you’re feeling something. What’s up?” Nomi smiled her mannequin smile and pushed her kinky hair away from her face. “Nothing,” she said. “I’m just excited to go hiking with my best friend.” “Okay, but-” “Do you mind if I turn on the radio?” Nomi asked. I swallowed what I really wanted to say and sat back in my seat. “Uh, sure. That’s fine.” Nomi and I, we’d played this game before. In high school, Chanelle had been one of our safe places. How many times had Nomi and I sat in these seats, smiling at each other, until one of us broke down in tears? Chanelle has seen the aftermath of my first visit to a therapist, the famous Fourth of July blowout, when I’d come out as Renee, Nomi’s first few -9-
Spelunking
weeks on antidepressants, and when she’d kissed me because there was no one else around for her to kiss. The car was so jammed with emotion that I could feel it blow out of the vents when we turned on the air conditioner. The countryside blew past the window in a green blur. Corn fields turned into tangled woods while staticky pop music spilled from the car speakers. Nomi and I didn’t speak a word until she pulled onto a dirt road and parked the car with two wheels in a ditch. “We’re here,” she said. I glanced around. On one side of the road, gnarled oak trees stood shoulder to shoulder. On the other, a bare field was strewn with the remains of last year’s harvest. As I followed Nomi, an ominous feeling blossomed in my gut like a poisonous flower. “Are you sure we’re in the right place?” I asked, turning in a slow circle. “I don’t see any signs.” “It’s not an official park,” Nomi said. “It’s more a word of mouth thing. There’s a huge cave with some passages that haven’t even been explored.” A cave. “Nomi, you told me we were hiking.” “We are hiking. It’s at least a mile to the cave from here.” “You know what I mean.” Nomi crossed her arms over her chest. A floral sleeve crawled down her left shoulder, covering up her scars; it had as many thorns as it did roses. “We used to go caving all the time. I don’t see why this is such a big deal.” “You know it’s–” I stopped and took a deep breath. “I just wish you’d been honest with me. You know I’d still have come.” I didn’t mention that she’d dropped off the face of the Earth. I’d be willing to go snorkeling in a landfill to make sure she was okay. “I know you don’t like caves anymore.” “They’re not as fun as they used to be,” I said. “But I know you still like them. And I’ve forced you to watch the entire Monty Python collection. Best friends do things for each other.” Nomi looked down at her boots and kicked a pebble across - 10 -
Ashton Hall
the road. “You’re scared.” “I don’t like the dark. But you brought flashlights, right?” “Two flashlights and two headlamps. With extra batteries.” I smiled and swallowed past the tightness in my throat. “See? It’ll be fine. Caving Queens for life, right?” “I’m sorry, Renee,” Nomi said, still staring at her shoes. “It’s okay,” I said. “I’m still happy you brought me. Now, let’s get a move on before I lose my nerve.” Nomi led the way into the forest. Although there was no marked path, she walked over the carpet of decaying leaves with long, sure strides. “How do you know where we’re going?” I asked. “I’ve been here before,” Nomi replied. “By yourself?” “Yeah,” Nomi said. We hiked without stopping. The pace made my chest tight. When we used to hike together, Nomi and I would meander around, tucking flowers behind our ears and stopping to snoop in rotten tree trunks. She’d always been mindful that she was taller, leaner, stronger than me. But now it was like she was working hard to leave me behind. I was winded when we stopped. A blanket of clouds obscured the sun. There was a bite in the breeze but sweat still dampened the collar of my crewneck. The entrance to the cave was hardly more than a hole in the ground. It looked a bit like the mouth of a buried giant; its yawn contained a piece of the void. My skin prickled. Nomi pulled the lights out of her backpack. We geared up in silence, routine taking over. When I pulled the headlamp over my pixie cut, I felt like we were sixteen again. Two girls willing to do anything to get away from our small town— including descending into the underworld itself. It was not a period of my life that I’d missed. Without a word, Nomi flicked on her headlamp and dangled her legs over the lip of the cave. For a moment, she seemed to hang in empty space. Then she jumped, hitting the ground with a solid thunk that made my ankles ache in - 11 -
Spelunking
sympathy. Her headlamp illuminated the clammy brown and white walls of the cave. I could smell the chalky perfume of the underground already. It was like I was standing in the doorway of a childhood home – everything ancient but familiar. Then light began to fade, and I realized Nomi was walking away from me. Again. “Nomi! Wait!” I called. The light bobbed in place. My pulse pounded in my ears, but it was either jump in or let Nomi go alone. And the latter had never been an option. I closed my eyes and jumped into the hole. My boots struck slick stone. My foot skidded. My ankle turned. I dropped, skinning my knees against the gritty limestone. Blood welled up and mixed with the mud on the floor. “Ow,” I huffed. I rose to my feet. My ankle panged. “Ow!” “Are you okay?” Nomi asked. She put a hand on my shoulder. “Great,” I huffed. “Just a couple scrapes. And I think I might have twisted my ankle.” “Sit over here,” Nomi said. She led me to a stone shelf, and I sat. Moisture seeped through the seat of my pants. It was like sitting in a cooler. Nomi knelt to examine my ankle. In the white light of my headlamp, her skin looked taut and ashen, her dark eyes sunken into her skull. She was a consumption victim, straight out of a period drama. “Do you mind if I put a little pressure on it?” she asked. I blinked at her, and she transformed back into the Nomi I knew. “Be my guest,” I said. Nomi supported my heel with one hand and pushed the toe of my shoe back with the other. My ankle screamed. “Okay! Okay! Stop!” Nomi stood, crossed her arms over her chest. “Don’t have to be a doctor to know you twisted that pretty good,” she said. I closed my eyes. I could feel blood dripping down my shins. - 12 -
Ashton Hall
“Sorry. I really wanted to explore with you.” “No. It’s not your fault.” Nomi glanced at the hole. “I should’ve brought a rope.” “Well, it’s not your fault either. You know how clumsy I am. Remember when I tripped down the stairs in the commons and broke my arm?” I forced a laugh. Nomi didn’t laugh with me. “You would not believe how much I’ve been fucking up lately,” she said. “This isn’t the least of it.” “Fucking up? What are you talking about?” “I mean, you’re hurt, and… Never mind.” She shook her head. “I didn’t mean anything. I’m just being dramatic.” “Nomi, you did mean something,” I said. I tried to soften my voice. “I’m worried about you. I haven’t heard from you in weeks, and you’ve been cryptic all day. Plus, you’re caving again. I wanted to give you space if you needed it, but I’m scared. The last time we went caving…” I swallowed. “Please tell me what’s happening, Nomes.” Nomi turned so that I could only see a sliver of her face. Her figure cast a severe shadow on the wall, all sharp angles. Her shoulders were so tight it seemed like they could pop out of their sockets at any moment. “Nothing’s happening,” she said. Her voice echoed through the cavern, bouncing back to us over and over. “I’ve just been a little stressed. It’s fine.” I gritted my teeth. “Stop being so stubborn. You’re acting like I don’t know you.” Nomi shook her head. “We’ll talk about it on the way home, okay?” She wrapped her arms around herself. “We came all this way… I’d really like to check out some of the passages first. Clear my head. Is that okay?” When we were kids, Nomi had made me muffle frustrated screams in the crook of my elbow on a weekly basis. I was tempted to do that instead of answer. But we weren’t kids anymore. “As long as you promise we can talk about it in the car, I’m happy,” I said. “Go explore. Just try not to get lost, okay? I’ll be waiting for you.” - 13 -
Spelunking
A few muscle fibers in Nomi’s shoulders relaxed. “Thank you,” she said. “If I see a single spider, though, I’m going to scream, and you’d better haul ass to get here.” “I’ll do my best,” Nomi said. She readjusted her headlamp. “Be back soon.” “Have fun. Don’t die!” That usually made Nomi laugh, but she didn’t even smile before turning around and heading for a passage so small that she had to bend double. Before she squeezed through its stone jaws, she glanced back at me. I wiped my bloody hands on my pants and flashed her a thumbs up. With that, she disappeared into the darkness, and I was alone. I tried to think about the chores I had to do around the apartment, projects at work, my upcoming finals, but nothing stuck in my mind for more than a heartbeat. Distractions were like moths flying into a zapper—dead on contact. All I could think about was Nomi wandering the cave alone, descending further and further from the surface. With secrets she didn’t feel like she could share with me. Dread soaked me like a downpour. Every time I closed my eyes, I could see a slumped figure, a limp hand, a slicked floor. Gritting my teeth, I limped toward the passage into which Nomi had disappeared and ducked inside. The part of caving that I’d always hated the most was the narrow passages. There was something chilling about not knowing what was going to be around the next bend. My breaths were fast and tight, but I pushed forward. I found Nomi beside a tumble of broken stone. She had her back to the wall and her face pressed into her knees. She trembled like she’d been caught in a blizzard. I dropped to my knees beside her. My shins oozed fresh blood. “Nomi,” I said, “honey, are you okay?” Nomi didn’t reply. She didn’t even raise her head to acknowledge me. I put a hand on her back, and her muscles jumped under my touch. - 14 -
Ashton Hall
“Nomi, I’m here. It’s okay. Are you hurt?” Nothing. If it wasn’t for the shaking, I’d worry she was dead. I scanned for new cuts, another blade, a fresh puddle of blood, but there was nothing. Just Nomi, curled in on herself, as small as she’d looked freshman year. I plopped beside her, close enough that our thighs brushed together. “Now that we’re gathered here together, the twenty-second official meeting of the Caving Queens can commence.” I felt a knot forming in my throat. “Today’s agenda includes our dating lives, mean things people have said to us in the last two weeks, and why we’re sitting in this cave, miles from civilization, instead of going to brunch. Does the co-president have anything to add to the agenda?” Nomi raised her head. Her eyes were bloodshot. Tears and snot slicked her face from cheeks to chin. “I think–” she said, voice thick, “that it’s the twenty-third official meeting.” I could feel tears well in my eyes. “Let it be known that the co-president states that it’s the twenty-third official meeting and that the other co-president does not give a shit.” Nomi made a sound that could have been a laugh or a sob. Or both. I wrapped both my arms around her, pulling her as close to my chest as possible. “It’s time to talk,” I said. “No more bullshit. No more lies. No more dodging my questions.” “Okay,” Nomi said into her knees. “I’m sorry.” “Don’t be sorry, just be honest. What’s going on?” “I haven’t been feeling great, lately.” “Yeah?” I pressed. “Yeah. The last few weeks have been… bad.” “How bad?” “I, uh, lost my job. So I don’t have insurance anymore. And you know how expensive my pills are. I just feel like–” Nomi choked back a sob. “This just felt… Inevitable, you know?” “What felt inevitable?” “I just wanted to get it over with,” Nomi said. She shook her head and tears dripped from her chin. “Thursday morning, - 15 -
I came here to kill myself.” My breath jammed in my throat, and I coughed. “Oh,” I said. What else was there to say? That’s horrible? Why would you want to do that? I’m so glad you didn’t you unbelievably stupid asshole? “I was in the car, about to get out, when I remembered the dumbest thing. Do you remember the pact we made sophomore year?” “Of course I remember it.” It was right before I started hormone therapy and Nomi started to question the oppressive fog in her mind. When we couldn’t pick apart hormones from loneliness from mental illness. Our pact, where we promised never to kill ourselves while the other person was alive. It was the only reason I survived high school. “Yeah?” Nomi said. “Well, I was thinking how shitty it would feel to break a promise to you.” I felt tears slipping down my face, but I didn’t have the strength to wipe them away. “Good. That’s the point of a promise, bitch.” “I just kept-” she shook her head, “I kept thinking about us as stupid kids. And how horrible it’d be if you broke our promise. If you were gone, I wouldn’t be here anymore. I know it.” I squeezed her so tight that I heard her bones grind together. “I’m so glad you called me, Nomi. I’m so fucking glad.” She squeezed me back, just as hard. “Me too.” “I swear to God, if you ever try to drag me into a cave again-” I shook my head and tears fell from my chin onto my bloody knees. “No,” she said. “I’m done.” “Good. Get up. You’re coming home with me.” I kissed her damp cheek. “Jinx is just going to have to get used to sleeping on the floor again.” “I’m not sleeping in your twin bed with you. You’ll spoon me,” Nomi said. “I will, and you’ll love it. It’s going to be so comfy I doubt you’ll ever leave. In fact, I’m feeling a cuddle coming on now. Let’s go, before it overtakes me.” We shared a wrung-out, exhausted laugh. Nomi stood and pulled me to my feet along with her. Later, there would be a reckoning. And more tears. And renewed promises. But first, we had to leave the cave. Together, Nomi and I wove through the passage, leaving the darkness behind us. - 16 -
The Undine
Veronica Breach
Oil on canvas, 24" x 36" - 17 -
Self Portrait
Chloe Greenberg
Digital collage & acrylic, 10" x 5"
- 18 -
ipanema rain
Nadia Campbell
Digital collage & illustration, 22" x 22.693"
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Trailer Trash: Track One Kaylee Kriese
I was ripened in the freckle constellations of my mother’s shoulders. Rusted nails that had buried themselves in my father’s feet. Dollar menu days when happy meals couldn’t be afforded. Gravel roads writhing with scraped knees & spinning bicycle tires. Fearless mud pie makers, with perpetually dirty fingernails. Cheeks ballooning with air, poised for birthday wishes. My brother and I, grounded, kicking the screen free, shimmying out the window. Mosquito scarred, dreamciclestached, my blonde-streaked tresses choking with smoke. A twisted expression when “I hate you,” was something I thought I meant. Lake mucked in knee-high grasses, breathless with yearning. Small hands, mirroring my mother’s, as she pieced me - 20 -
back together when I sobbed. Pocketing my heart from where I’d cupped it in my hands. I was ripened in the heart-ache of tomorrow, the arthritic a-frames of houses heavy with hope. These tender freedoms, ephemeral, these things I choose to remember.
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Skater Kids
Haley Moore
Digital illustration, 10" x 24" - 22 -
Fingertoes!
Chloe Greenberg
Digital collage & acrylic paint, 6.5" x 6.5"
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Nomenclature
Hannah Bryson-Price Names society gave my body: fat repulsive undesirable cow project fetish big My body is big. Its gelatin hills on my back jiggle comfortably in my hoodie as my feet fly on the treadmill. My body is big and it likes to run. Despite my cuddlebear plushness, don’t be surprised when I roll my eyes if they say, “You’re pretty for a big girl.” “You’re strong for a big girl.” “You’re smart for a big girl.” “You’re sexy for a big girl.” As if no one expected my bounding bigness to shake their foundations. My body is big but it’s not all of me. They saw my body has fat so they called me fat with daggers in their spit. They saw craters in my thighs and named me careless. They claimed love - 24 -
disgusting
for my body and called it a trend asking for my thanks. They saw my stomach drooping down and named me heifer. They heard me walking and swore they heard a stampede. Funny how ears mistake my footsteps for the earth trembling beneath me; for thunder shattering the sky after lightning electrocutes the ground I stand on returning flashes of light to storm clouds leaving remnants of energy in my skin called stretch marks. Yes, my body is big. It’s necessary to hold the force of nature cemented in the woman I am. The names I gave my body: big powerful beautiful strong relentless enough
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worthy
Support Group Share, September 2020 Georgey Elaine
I am always packing to leave him. Forever scraping my fingertips over shiny bits of gemstone and silver; jewelry, jewels, and pants. Every time I turn around there is still something left to pack. In my dreams he hides outside the door, smacking on stinking mint gum. I beat him back with a broom. He flings my hard work across the floor of my childhood bedroom with a tomato red face. In my dreams my younger siblings help me pack scraps of paper into plastic shopping bags. In the real world everyone blames me for ruining Christmas by leaving my abuser.
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Sorrow the Face of God Connor Stump
Digitally colored graphite, 18.3" x 28.8" - 27 -
Its Mother
Laura Tuzzio ‘Twas brillig they say, you remember the day. My Jabberwock he stood, nose to gale He picked up your scent not far away. Teeth, they gnashed, claws, they splayed. Vorpal sword gripped by weak fleshy hand. An unexpected foe did present itself Vigor for which my seed had not planned. Young snack turned hunter, trophy to shelf. Your mother, she beamed, my Jabberwock unalive. Your stench, boggish, still attached to his scales Now to mine. Lying in wait, anger did thrive Callooh! Callay! Echoing nightmarish wales. ‘Twas brillig, they say, you remember the day. Nose to gale, a familiar malodor. Unfortunate timing, dear beastly prey, Claws meet flesh, beamish no more.
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The Face of Love Bailey Kinder
Prismacolor pencils, 16" x 20"
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Grandma and Grandpa Caroline Hawkins
Oil on canvas, 18" x 24" - 30 -
La Rosa
Julieanna Childs He still sneaks away from the women in his family to take his smoke breaks; it’s as much of a tradition in their Italian home as Mass and lasagna on Sundays. Sofia knew about his smoking, of course, just like she knew about the whiskey breaks he took in their early years together before the children came along. Grumbling his frustrations whenever she caught him escaping, he’d argue, “A hard-working man should be able to sit in his own home and enjoy a stiff one at the end of a hard day’s work without shame.” He stood up to her on those nights when he was this side of a three-fingered pour, and she had a way of letting him know where he’d sleep that night if he finished it. After 49 years of marriage, he’d never known her to pick a battle she couldn’t win. Sofia held everyone under their roof to the same Catholic standards she was raised with by her parents. He’d seen Jameson take down more than its fair share of tough guys in the neighborhood, but he’d never met a whiskey that could go toe-to-toe with his beautiful wife. He’d talk a big game to her, but he was more afraid of her than anyone he’d ever met. Along the way, she’d figured that out. Today, he sits at their youngest granddaughter’s wedding reception, his heart overflowing with pride and joy. He begins to sneak away before anyone notices, but Sofia’s loving gaze catches him. The young man inside him still yearns to wrap her inside his embrace. But his old bones take longer to move these days. He looks over his shoulder at her. Weightlessly, she makes her way around the room, briefly pausing to acknowledge his exit with a smile. They speak their own language, seen and heard by no one else. His nerves remind him that he’ll give his speech shortly. He slips out the back door and into the fresh air. Beyond the beams of sunlight, he finds a group of well-dressed men forging a wall against the brick corner of the building. Their smoke billows up overhead, dismissing them as it rolls away and down the Garden State Parkway. One of the younger - 31 -
La Rosa
men lights his cigar and congratulations are all around. He pats a tired hand to his breast pocket making sure Sofia’s handkerchief is there. As the group makes their way back inside, he excuses himself to the men’s room. Shaking any remaining smoke from his tuxedo jacket, he washes his hands and attends to the image reflected at him. He thinks back to those years of hard work, building the family’s construction business from nothing. And it was worth every minute just to see the joy and laughter of his family today. A smile nudges the wrinkles towards his ears. He straightens himself in the full-length mirror, remembering the day he gave their daughter Teresa away at her own wedding. Never without her handkerchief, Sofia wiping the tears throughout the day. Their daughter has done a great job raising all four of her girls. Adriana turned out especially well, finishing school early and now applying for legal jobs in New York. The last few years have been hard on Teresa, her husband traveling for work most of the time. She’s a tough Italian woman though, raised by an even tougher Italian mother. The night before Teresa’s wedding, Sofia gave her an antique trousseau. The hope chest included recipes handed down through the generations, linens, art pieces, and clothing items from Italy they’d brought over when they migrated to the states in the 1960s. The handkerchief in his pocket was Sofia’s favorite linen they’d saved from the old country; delicate, beautiful, and strong—just like his girls. Last night Teresa gave Adriana a trousseau of her own, including some of the original items from the trunk that sailed with them when they began their new life in America. Cleaning his glasses, he remembers when Adriana’s boyfriend came to him a year ago to ask for her hand in marriage. He was honored to support Adriana marrying her high-school sweetheart, just like he and Sofia had been. While he makes his way past the head table where his family sits, Sofia continues to float around, fussing over the arrangements. He pauses to finish his glass of chianti. Adriana joins him, holding his arm as they step up onto the stage. - 32 -
Julieanna Childs
Unsteady on his feet, he reaches the microphone. With his speech in one hand, he feels for the handkerchief with the other. The linen rests in his pocket, always paying tribute to la Rosa (The Rose). He knows he isn’t strong enough to hold his own. From somewhere inside the ballroom a guest taps their glass, gathering the attention of the room. He squints into the crowd, questioning his courage, struggling to adjust his glasses onto the bridge of his nose. He needs Sofia to hold his hand in these moments when his strength fades. His eyes scan the mass of familiar and unknown faces. He wonders if she has gone. Standing beside her grandfather, Adriana takes his hand. She’s as graceful as any bride he’s ever seen. Squeezing his hand, she whispers “Nonna is here, papa. I can feel her.” Her presence calms his concerns. He kisses her forehead. “She’d be so proud of you today, sweetheart,” he whispers into the lace cascading around her face. And then Sofia’s spirit finds him again. Sometimes she’s standing near their children, other times she sits beside them. Freeing her handkerchief from his pocket, he wipes his eye. After all these years, it still holds the aroma of her rose perfume.
- 33 -
Afternoon in the Greenhouse Amelia Harden
Watercolor painting, 9" x 14"
- 34 -
ROCK CONCERT David Chadburn
Oil on canvas, 36" x 24"
- 35 -
Never Travelled Connor Stump
Digitally colored graphite, 14.5" x 20" - 36 -
Shame and Queer Desire: A Storied Reading of Lady Audley's Secret Nathan Marquam
When I was thirteen, I told my mother that I was bisexual. “Well, that’s ok, honey,” she said, “But unless you really fall in love with a girl, you should probably keep that sort of thing to yourself. Otherwise, your life is going to be a lot harder.” Then she told me about how she had a crush on her best friend in middle school. “It didn’t mean I was a queer,” she said. “You’re too young to know who you are. You don’t need a label.” Sometimes, literary critics sound like my mother. In his essay “Robert Audley's Secret: Male Homosocial Desire in Lady Audley's Secret," Richard Nemesvari says “I am not arguing something so simplistic as that he is homosexual…” as if queerness is a thing to be justified, an otherness that requires concrete proof. All of his words run together—something about the danger of generalizations and remembering the historical context, like he’s scolding me for looking for an image of myself. How reductive, how simplistic of me to read a character in Victorian literature as queer, to think that people like me could ever have a clearly defined place in history. I spent so many years trying to keep it quiet until I knew who I was for certain, waiting for some objective proof. Somewhere in there, my queerness and my silence grew together into a shame that has always kept me in its shadow. And in that shadow, I found the forbidden romance of George Talboys and Robert Audley. * Lady Audley’s Secret is a sensationalist novel by Mary Elizabeth Braddon that was published in 1862. It’s got everything scandalous—murder, love affairs, mental illness, homosexual undertones, etc. These days, critics seem to be interested in it mainly for feminist reasons—Lady Audley is terrible and wonderful all wrapped into one, just as empowering as she is problematic. She’s hysterical and unhinged, though rightfully so. Today’s critics seem to be cheering when she pushes her terrible estranged husband into a well, and honestly, I can’t say - 37 -
Shame and Queer Desire: A Storied Reading of Lady Audley's Secret
that I disagree—stories that center men’s narratives often (even and especially when those men are implied to be queer) push women’s voices to the side. And yet, there’s something unusually compelling about Robert and George. The plot of the book goes something like this: there’s this man, George Talboys, who leaves his wife for three and a half years (three and a half years!) in the hope of making a fortune. He comes back to find that she has died. He is devastated, unable to cope, but then he is found by Robert Audley, his old schoolmate. Meanwhile, far away, a beautiful young lady named Lucy Graham marries a much older rich man—Sir Michael Audley, Robert’s uncle. Robert and George roam the world together with George always being depressed and listless, and Robert being more loving, cheerful, and patient than even a lover might be. They visit Sir Michael and his new wife, and George goes missing. It eventually comes to light that Lady Audley—Sir Michael’s new wife— is actually George’s ‘dead’ wife. And when George confronts her, she pushes him into a well. George disappears mysteriously at the end of chapter 12— barely a third of the way into the book—and yet the sweetness that existed between him and Robert is woven through the rest of the narrative. The purity of Robert’s obsession with finding out what happened to his friend drives the plot of the novel forward. All of the romance, the illicit affairs, and lies and deceit in the novel are carried along in the forward motion of Robert’s desire. His love for George is a single, unstoppable stream, seemingly unrequited while George was present and only stronger in his absence. Nemesvari posits that Robert was looking for something in himself more than he was looking for George. Some answer to his homosexual desires, he says, some resolution. I like my version better, but I still don’t know why it can’t be both. * As far back as I can remember, my desire was always intertwined with shame. The moment anyone beautiful would catch my eye, I’d immediately feel guilty for wanting them. I remember the first time I met Elaine. I found my eye wandering to her in class—her smile, the curve of her jeans—and hastily looking away again. She had the short hair, the long gay girl - 38 -
Nathan Marquam
earrings, but maybe she wasn’t like me. And it shouldn’t matter anyway, I told myself—I had a boyfriend. But then she sat next to me and said hi, and I said hi back. By the end of the semester, she was sitting on the desk in front of me while I cried about how I might leave my boyfriend. “I have a pumpkin muffin,” she said. “Would that make it better?” She wiped my tears away with her sleeve and let me cry on her shoulder. I clung to her, felt her fingers trace the back of my neck. I wanted to stay there forever, held in the space between her cheek and her shoulders, my face pressed against her furry winter coat. I wanted to stay in the absolute comfort and safety that I found there, a thing so vastly unlike the love I’d known before. When we said goodbye, she slipped one of her gloves into my hand. “For whenever you feel alone,” she said, “So you know I’m there for you.” I still have that glove. I still slip it onto my hand sometimes, just to remember what her fingers felt like against mine. * Another literary scholar—Jennifer Kushnier, who I like a lot more—posits that the homoerotic/homosocial undertones of Robert and George’s relationship was founded in their history as schoolboys. In her essay "Educating Boys to Be Queer: Braddon’s Lady Audley’s Secret," she says that it was likely Eaton where they studied together. This school had a scandalous subculture of “fagging”—older boys enslaving younger ones—and the boys were left largely unsupervised in the evenings. This gave rise to a homosexual subculture, which would have been a relevant scandal when Braddon published Lady Audley’s Secret. It’s unknown how much of this subculture was based in those broken and strange power dynamics and how much of it was something else. But regardless, it was in this odd, isolated place where queerness was almost mainstream that Robert and George found each other. The first thing I thought was that I wanted a prequel. Not the prequel that Braddon would have written, but a really fanfictiony one—one full of stolen glances and passionate sex in the library at night. Cute boys slowly falling for each other in a world that tells them that everything that exists between them must be temporary. I want college-age Robert and George - 39 -
Shame and Queer Desire: A Storied Reading of Lady Audley's Secret
laughing in the autumn leaves, Robert pulling George in by the scarf to kiss him on the lips. I want everything that falls in the space between Braddon’s words to spring to life, fully present and so undeniably queer that not even the most doubtful literary critics could dispute it. But then I realized that I want it to be more than fanfiction, because all of this and more is already there in the text. The chance meeting that brought the two men back together. The immediate linking of their arms, so reminiscent of their boyhoods. George’s fainting spell after learning about the death of his wife, with “Robert Audley's handsome face looking at him full of compassionate alarm.” Then George waking up next to Robert, them listening together to the birds singing. Robert’s steady hand giving George an opiate, telling him to rest, tucking him into bed. Just in the text that’s already there, Braddon’s written an entire love story. It carries within it all the tenderness and intimacy of a life already lived together and lost. I know how George felt, letting himself be held and cared for by the right person at last; the collapse of every dusty year coming to bear on that moment, and the deliciousness of those arms being there to catch him. The obnoxious critic, the one who sounds like my mother—what does he think George was looking for when he went away? Lady Audley’s beauty was supposedly irresistible, yet he left her behind and went an ocean away. And sure, he said he did it for her. That he wanted to give her everything she deserved. But was it love for her that drove him away, or was it the shame of his boyhood dreams? The forbidden romance never quite forgotten, that strong, handsome face of his friend? Perhaps I’m making broad generalizations, a reductive argument. But goddamn, I still want that prequel. * To this day, I bet Elaine would say that she never cheated on her boyfriend. Maybe because to her I wasn’t really a boy, and boyfriends are almost always convinced that girls don’t count, or maybe because we never actually kissed before they broke up. But even if she did cheat, it felt almost predetermined that she would. We always seem to find each other when we don’t mean to—on - 40 -
Nathan Marquam
street corners, in classrooms and parking garages and every space in between. It’s always unlikely, but it just keeps happening. The music at the bar was loud and harsh, but Elaine’s smile was soft around the edges. My entire body was turned toward her, waiting for the moments when she’d turn and press against me. I closed my eyes, buried my face in her hair, and wound my arms around her shoulders from behind until she pulled me around to face her, one arm draped lazily over my shoulder. “Hey,” she said, stroking my cheek. “What are you thinking about?” And suddenly I was talking, telling her everything that I swore I never would. That she should leave her boyfriend. That I’ve always loved her, always been an option. That I would have left my boyfriend for her in a heartbeat from the first day we met. All of the silence and restraint those long years of longing had pounded into me was gone, my desire laid bare in front of her. “I think it’s time to go home,” she said. We went back to my place, opened a bottle of chocolate wine, and put Rent on the TV. She accidentally spilled wine across my lap, so I kicked off my jeans. Giggling, she kicked off hers, and then we were slow dancing forehead to forehead, almost kissing—her arm soft across the small of my back, hips pressed toward mine. We almost kissed so many times, but she always pulled away at the last moment. She fell asleep against my chest that night, clutching at my shoulders and whispering that the world wouldn’t stop spinning. It’s ok, I told her. I’ve got you. My arm fell asleep, but I never moved her at all except to touch that perfect, delicate cheek with the single curl draped across it. I don’t know how much I slept and how much I didn’t, just that I woke up in the morning sober enough to drive her home. But I spent what felt like an eternity just watching the rise and fall of her breathing, worrying that I should have made her drink more water and wondering if this was all we would ever get. I wished more than anything that we could be real. That she’d kiss me on the mouth, or at least admit that she wanted to. That loving her could be more than subtext. * I would have agreed with critics who thought the - 41 -
Shame and Queer Desire: A Storied Reading of Lady Audley's Secret
representation in Lady Audley’s Secret not quite overt enough to be canonized as queer representation. Despite the sheer volume of novels that include exclusively straight characters without even the shadow of an intention of queerness, I would have let them have this one too. After all, Robert did eventually fall in love with a woman. It’s right there in the text, clearly defined. It completely disregards Robert’s continued dispassion for women. Early in the text, he thinks "I hate women… They're bold, brazen, abominable creatures, invented for the annoyance and destruction of their superiors.” And the woman he eventually ends up with is Clara Talboys, George’s sister, who has eyes exactly like his. In almost every passage about Clara, Robert is thinking either about how much Clara resembles George or about how much he wants to be dominated by her—humiliated, even. But I guess if you look only at what’s on the page and not at all at what wasn’t allowed to be, then Robert could have been straight. I would have given into that logic if not for the book’s ending. When George fell down the well, he didn’t die. He pulled himself out, one queer hand after the other across the irregular well-rock, and he escaped that place. He lived in New York for a while, friendless and alone. But something brought him back to Robert, as it always seemed to. “I yearned for the strong grasp of your hand, Bob,” he said, “the friendly touch of the hand which had guided me through the darkest passage of my life.” People like me don’t get happy endings. If Robert’s search for George wasn’t really about George and was instead about fitting into heterosexual standards, he would have stopped when he met Clara. George could have easily stayed dead—it would have been an easy write-off—but instead he came back. With Clara there, the happy ending feels overfull, like Clara’s just there to keep us from watching Robert and George too closely. But despite that, somehow, impossibly, Robert and George were reunited. * I understand how Robert felt. Back when I thought I was a girl, I dated a boy. I threw myself at him to be dominated, humiliated, whatever he wanted. I thought it would make me normal. The first night we spent together, he begged me to touch him until I finally said yes because I didn’t know what else to - 42 -
Nathan Marquam
say. After it was over and I had washed him off of my hands, he put his arm around me and said “See? It happened, and there’s nothing different. Nothing different at all.” But no matter how many times I brushed my teeth, I still couldn’t wash away the taste. When he touched me, it was heavier somehow, laden with sweat and memory. There was no more tenderness left, no mystery. Then there was the time I had the big fight with my mother and I showed up at his house crying. He held me against his chest and it felt good. Then he held me tighter and with less clothes on, and it was still better than being alone, so I let him. He stripped me down and claimed every part of me with his mouth, and I lay as still as I could, imagining that it made me whole. I let him sleep in my bed. I signed a lease with him. I learned how to need him. I never felt anything that a person in love should feel. But all of the faking it, all those strained I love you’s didn’t stop my eyes from meeting Elaine’s from across that classroom—and when she gathered me into her arms that day, I felt more intimacy than I had in two years with him. I used to stare out my bedroom window and think about her while he did whatever he wanted to do to my body. I used to imagine getting in my car and driving somewhere far, far away where he couldn’t find me, where my mother couldn’t find me, where even my own shame might fade into the distant sunrise, even if only for a moment. Maybe that’s too different from Robert’s situation; maybe I read too much of myself into him. But I know what might compel a person to board a ship and decide never to return until things made sense again. * I still don’t know how this trans body can mean so many different things to other people when it doesn’t even feel like it belongs to me. Straight men see the clash of my boy-name and boy-clothes against my girl-body and are horrified that they used to flirt with me. Straight women make out with me when they’re drunk because they think it’s funny or because they’re curious (and ashamed of their curiosity). Even when I’m with a woman, I don’t feel straight. This is complicated. All of it disappeared when Elaine kissed me. - 43 -
Shame and Queer Desire: A Storied Reading of Lady Audley's Secret
It started when I grabbed her hand on the drive back to my place. She was halfway through all her it’s-been-so-long-howare-you’s when I reached for her. Her hand was small and steady in mine, our fingers lacing together with an aching familiarity. Holding tight to me, she said that she still wasn’t over her boyfriend. That she left him, but she’s still recovering. “That’s ok,” I told her, and really thought I meant it. As soon as I’d parked, her mouth was on mine. The details of that night ran together—her messy-drunk again, sprawled out on the kitchen floor. Me lying across her stomach, listening to the smooth music of her laughter. Us tumbling into my bed, holding each other with all the tenderness we could manage through the drunken haze. But I do remember the way we kept pausing to ask each other questions: Do you like this? and are you ok? and what do you want? I remember saying yes and meaning it. I remember crying after it was over because no one had ever asked me what I wanted before. More than anything, I remember her arms around me, holding me close into the morning light. When I went to work the next day, I kept my scarf on the whole time, kept the memory of her tucked away with the purple bruises that peeked out at the edges. I knew that when they faded, the last trace of her would be gone. We were real, but not for long. We loved like boys at Eaton—all youth and haste, waiting for some need inside of us to be filled, to disappear. We always knew how that story would end. * Even among queer scholars, it’s a constant push and pull between the innate queerness of how we see the world and the compulsory nature of the culture we were raised in—the need to say of course things are a certain way. To take for granted our deviation, our otherness. To warn of stereotypes and toobroad generalizations every time we see ourselves reflected in anything. I won’t settle for an ambiguously queer reading of Lady Audley’s Secret. I won’t participate in the discourse about how queer is queer enough. I won’t accept the projection of Robert’s love onto George’s sister as anything more than Braddon’s need to make - 44 -
Nathan Marquam
Robert and George’s dedication to one another less overt. Straight people can have anything else that they want. They can take A Picture of Dorian Gray—that little queer book of shame—and make it their own for all I care. I’d sooner do without it than without Robert and George. The last thing Elaine said was to write about her. Maybe it was narcissism, or maybe it was that same aching desire to exist, but it was the best gift she could have given me. I didn’t understand that until I read Lady Audley’s Secret and saw our story written there, our own potential reflected in those pages. At the very end of the book, Braddon says “I hope that no one will take objection to my story because the end of it leaves the good people all happy and at peace.” It’s wonderful to know that nestled safely beneath the layers of heterosexual red-herring happy endings, somewhere in that tangle of intentions and censorship, Robert and George got their happily ever after. Maybe Elaine and I will never be brought back together by the loving hand of fate as Robert and George were. Maybe I will never see or talk to her again, or maybe even if we did, it would never be the same. But seeing Robert and George and knowing what’s possible, what’s always been possible—that makes it easier to keep pulling myself out of the shadows one queer hand at a time.
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Chanya Ruby
Oil on canvas, 20" x 24" - 46 -
The 4th Precept Chanya Ruby
Oil on canvas, 45" x 60" - 47 -
Huntingburg: Summer, 2007 Abigail Hopf
I’m talking about the embers of summer in the shadows of the country, back when you could jump onto the gravel mountain in your backyard and scream king of the world, when no one but the cows saw how wrong you were. Those late August afternoons that slipped by like syrup—skin still sun-kissed, kids still laughing in their bus rows because school hadn’t yet sunk into their bones. It was in the depths of that season that my father would pile planks of wood into the pit, breathing deeply as the heavy heat splintered into sweetcoolsummerrelief. The wood would crack and splinter along with it. We’d sit and watch as he tamed the flames, fire tongues lapping the air and softening into ghosts of smoke, turning from roaring beast to pup licking marshmallows golden brown. Over the hill and down the road, the neighbor kids would call out a chorus of one two that lingered in the fading light four five as we switched on our flashlights eight nine fireflies kissing our skin goodnight nine ten Ghosts in the Moonlight. Sometimes, on those golden fire nights, a cousin would traipse through the corn fields and turn to us gleaming, the coyotes cackling in the dark shadow of the woods behind him. Them’s witches afoot, he’d say. Biding their time. Waiting for the fire to die so they can tip-tip-tiptoe into children’s rooms and tear their worlds apart. But in the ember glow, against the cow's lowing and the cricket's croaking and our parent's humming, his voice sounded like honey. Sinking into our skin with an inky headiness that had us closing our eyes to the diamond sky, dreams calling out for witchcraft, for firelight, for moments that slipped through your fingers like ghosts in the moonlight.
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Rose Colored Laughter Emily Howson Photography
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Artists' Notes Veronica Breach was born in Indianapolis, but spent most of her life elsewhere. In the fall of 2020, she began her studies at Herron as a Drawing and Illustration major. While primarily an oil painter, she has recently begun working in multimedia and digital. She finds inspiration in myth and folklore, as well as in the various artistic periods preoccupied with religion. She published her first nonprofit magazine in 2019, raising over $2,000 for the civil rights organization Lambda Legal. She hopes to continue nonprofit work in the future. You can find more of her work @bitterbriar on Instagram, and contact her at veronicabreach@gmail.com. On "The Undine": "This painting was from a series of works exploring the symbolic aspects of water. Rebirth and rejuvenation are frequently associated with the element, and thus served as the basis of this piece. The title refers to a category of legendary creatures that personify and inhabit the water. While conceptually genderless, they are almost exclusively depicted as feminine in classical art and literature." Hannah Bryson-Price is in her third year at IUPUI and currently majoring in Creative Writing. Much of her poetry focuses around body positivity, family, feminism, and mental health. Aside from writing, she loves curling up with a book in her bed or listening to music. This is her third publication in genesis. On "Nomenclature": "Growing up with a negative image and mindset around her body, Hannah refrained from writing about it. However, after a rollercoaster of self-growth and pushing against her own comfort levels, 'Nomenclature' poured out naturally as Hannah's first body positive poem. She took the idea of a naming system from the names she and other plus size individuals have been called. 'Nomenclature' became a means of seizing the image of 'bounding bigness' and giving it a series new names. Names that would be defined on her terms mirroring the strength she feels her body carries." Nadia Campbell is a fourth year illustration student, creating works - 50 -
that encompass feelings of malaise and isolation. Her main goal is to express what it is like living with depression and anxiety, as well as other mental illnesses. Primarily working digitally, she seeks to create works that are reminiscent of being projected on a CRT Television. On "ipanema rain": "Inspired by the 1987 Japanese song 'Ipanema Rain' by Carlos Toshiki and Omega Tribe. The song itself is lamenting leaving a lover behind, with a general feeling of malaise and loneliness." David Chadburn was born in the Rockies, the oldest of ten. He was the first to leave the house, third to marry and have kids, and last to grow up. He loves the stuff of science/science fiction, art, and writing too much. He created his first inspired drawing at six, awarded drawing at ten, and has since continued his passion for visual art to this day. His love of visual art started with drawing and has included oil painting. On "ROCK CONCERT": "Few places can make a soul sing like Zion’s national park. While a music concert can increase my adrenaline and pack a strong dose of good times, it’s the serenity of one of mother nature's most majestic canyons that elevates David Chadburn's heart in a special way. The original photograph had David's beautiful wife standing in front of the rock in the foreground—you can’t have that type of competition in a landscape, so she had to go." Julieanna Childs is a Law major at IUPUI and plans to attend IU McKinney Law School in 2022. She enjoys reading and writing in her spare time, and is currently working on a historical fiction novel about Ernest Hemingway during his time in Paris. She lives in Carmel, Indiana with her daughter and four rescue dogs. On "La Rosa": "'La Rosa' is a piece that just came to me as I sat down to write one day. I usually stumble through the writing process. Other writers make their methods look so easy, but writing is hard work for me. At times, I struggle to get the words out and wrestle through the editing process. I suspect that there are others like me out there—storytellers who want to get it just right, who take - 51 -
a leap of faith and push their little words out of the mind nest, into wild notebooks hoping they soar to become big, strong stories. Surprisingly, 'La Rosa' just flowed out onto the paper and found its voice with few revisions. I was day-dreaming when I wrote it. (That’s how inspiration loves to find us: vulnerable, caffeinated, and open to the universe.) It’s a love story. It’s a love story that wanted to be told. I’m happy it found its wings." Georgey Elaine is a poet, scriptwriter, and full-time shark lover. She is currently finishing her bachelor’s in Media Arts & Science with a minor in Creative Writing. She hopes to continue sharing stories through word as well as film and audio. When Georgey isn’t holding a pen she enjoys watching videos, playing ukulele, and coming up with even more stories. On "Support Group Share, September 2020": "This piece came about from my own experience in a support group as well as my journey through the process of healing. I love writing and poetry is perhaps my favorite medium to express my personal emotions and journeys. I created this poem to express the difficulties that come with the journey of the healing process as well as the way trauma often sticks with individuals who experience it. This year has been hard for many, but especially hard for those healing from trauma and past abuse. This poem is dedicated to those individuals and to my wonderful support group." Chloe Greenberg is an illustrator and printmaker based in Indianapolis, and she’s currently in the B.F.A. program for Drawing and Illustration at Herron School of Art and Design. She is primarily interested in editorial and children's book illustration and is expected to graduate this Spring. As well as being an artist, Chloe writes and performs music in her free time. She has been heavily influenced by local music and the community with which that provides. She has illustrated and printed merchandise such as T-Shirts, patches, tour flyers, stickers and posters for multiple bands. On "Fingertoes!": "This illustration is one of many pieces for Chloe's senior thesis. It depicts the members of her power pop band named Fingertoes. They play fun, upbeat music, so she wanted to portray that through energetic, colorful imagery." - 52 -
On "Self Portrait": "Chloe Greenberg created this self portrait study to further refine her digital collage style. She believes that self portraits are a great way for her to explore different styles, because she has been consistently doing them since she learned how to draw. With this piece specifically, she wanted to give the viewer a sense of familiarity alongside a sense of surreal whimsy." Ashton Hall is a senior studying psychology and creative writing. They can often be found prowling the aisles of the local library or hiding amongst relics at a downtown museum where they work as a third shift security guard. Writing helps them understand a world that doesn't make much sense. On "Spelunking": "'Spelunking' shines a light on issues that often hide in the shadows—until it's too late. Drawing on psychology, current mental health crises, and personal experience, it's a story about LGBTQ+ youth in America. But it's also a story of hope and connection. Because we're tired of society burying our gays." Amelia Harden is an artist based out of Greenwood, Indiana and is currently attending IUPUI to get her Bachelor of Science degree in Media Arts and Science. She specializes in 3D Graphics and Animation in addition to Game Design and Development. Her artwork has been on display at a small gallery called The Blank Space in Westfield, Indiana. She has also won a contest with one of her paintings for the Old National Bank in 2014. Amelia makes art to share the stories in her mind, while inspiring a story in the viewers mind as well. On "Afternoon in the Greenhouse": "I created this painting to give a warm and cozy feeling to the reader. I used Arteza watercolor tube paint, along with sepia ink pens for the lines." Caroline Hawkins is a studio artist working on getting her Bachelor of Fine Arts degree at the Herron School of Art at IUPUI. She is currently a senior planning to graduate in 2021 with a degree in painting and an art therapy certificate, then continue her education through art therapy at IUPUI. Caroline primarily works with oil paints on canvas, but also enjoys working sculpturally. Her - 53 -
work focuses on health. Some branches of this being memory and some form of struggle that comes with a physical diagnosis. In her work, she shows how genetics can significantly influence both your physical and mental health. She takes inspiration from photographs and stories told by family. She also uses research and imagery from medical scans. Caroline has previously shown her work in an exhibition at the Garfield Park Arts Center in March of 2019. She has been given several awards including, the 21st Century Award, the Paul Zimmerman Memorial Endowment Scholarship, and the Nicholson Scholarship. On "Grandma and Granpa": "My work explores my relationship with my personal medical history. While creating this painting, I looked to my family for inspiration. I used a photograph I had taken as a reference for this peace. This photograph shows the reaction of a scene from another generation, and how these previous generations can have an effect on your life. The abstracted forms within the figures and the solid white background provide a feel of fading or loss of memory. This vast while area helps to create a much larger feel for depth throughout the overall space. All of these things help describe how fragile memories are." Abigail Hopf is a senior at IUPUI. She is majoring in Creative Writing and Biology. She loves hot chocolate, her cat, and buying journals she knows she will never fill. On "Huntingburg: Summer, 2007": "'Huntingburg: Summer, 2007' is a flash lyrical essay modeled after James Agee's 'Knoxville: Summer, 1915.' Using imagery and description, the essay tries to recreate the feel of summer growing up in the country—the golden nights and firelight, the ease and familiarity, and a sense of community and peace that's been hard to find in recent times. The essay also serves as a good reminder of how fleeting individual moments can be, yet how much power they hold in the span of our lives." Emily Howson is an aspiring Photography BFA at Herron School of Art + Design. For her, photography provides an artistic lens through which to highlight social injustice, discuss marginalized narratives, capture candid moments with loved ones, process trauma, and convey a sense of wonder about art's ability to heal. - 54 -
On "Rose Colored Laughter": "Often, we see the media portray Black men as dangerous, angry figures we should fear and avoid. Black masculinity takes on a persona of violence—justifying white society's persecution of the Black community. This collection of digital color photography embraces a truer side of Black masculinity: softness, pain, vulnerability, joy, and authenticity." Savannah Jacob is an illustrator based out of Indianapolis. She holds a BFA in Drawing and Illustration from Herron School of Art and Design. Savannah is a Herron Ambassador, 21st Century Peer Mentor, and the recipient of the DJ Simone Scholarship. She has optimized her time as an undergraduate at Herron by working in the School Wide Shop and developing her understanding of tools and process-based work. On "Party is Over": "Depicts the realization of intoxication." Bailey Kinder is a senior at Herron School of Art and Design. She enjoys portraiture in different mediums such as graphite, charcoal, and color pencil. She strives to capture a certain soul and personality in her works. On "The Face of Love": "Done in Prismacolor pencils and measuring 16 x 20 inches, this portrait is meant to capture the love that I see when I look at my grandmother. While others may interpret her expression in different ways, I will always recognize it as love and admiration." Kaylee Kriese is a third-year English major with a creative writing concentration at IUPUI. She first resolved to become a writer at the age of nine, after deciding to co-write a particularly ungrammatical fantasy trilogy during recess. Since then, she's worked steadily towards that goal as well as improved her grammar immensely. After college, her hopes are to become a novelist with a job in the editing field. For now though, you might find her with her nose in a book and a latte in hand, still under the misguided belief that she can sing Whitney Houston songs. On "Trailer Trash: Track One": "Kaylee Kriese wrote 'Trailer Trash: Track One' when reminiscing on some of her most poignant and - 55 -
fondest childhood memories. She wanted to embody how it felt to be a young dreamer growing up in a low-income environment, though she admits that she is very blessed with the family she has. She hopes that it will give others who can relate a taste of the nostalgia she felt while writing it." Ron Lauderbach, a retired high school English and journalism teacher, has been writing poetry since grade school. He is happiest when he can make others smile and loves to write about things we have in common. He and his wife split their time between San Diego and Provence. On "They're Building a House Next Door": "'They're Building a House Next Door' came to me as I watched some poor bloke get grilled by the boss who was probably just venting because he was behind schedule. The scene reminded me of an experience I had as a young man." Nathan Marquam is a writer, an aspiring rhetorician, and a defier of both genre and gender. When he's not working as a consultant at IUPUI's Writing Center, he's likely watching a horror movie or working on his novel. On "Shame and Queer Desire: A Storied Reading of Lady Audley's Secret": "One of my favorite rhetoricians, Malea Powell, said that 'the only difference between a history, a theory, a poem, and an essay is the one that we have ourselves imposed.' The essay published here, 'Shame and Queer Desire: A Storied Reading of Lady Audley’s Secret,' is my recognition of her words. I went to college for English first because I wanted to be a poet, then because I wanted to be a creative writer, and then I found that even the box of “creative writing” was too small to contain me. My stories, my criticisms, my theories— they run into each other seamlessly. When I approached Mary Elizabeth Braddon’s sensational Victorian novel Lady Audley’s Secret, I approached it as my full self: as a scholar, a queer person with my queer lived experiences, and an aspiring rhetorician. This essay documents the way I read Lady Audley’s Secret, and my refusal to allow my own reading to be rendered inconsequential by anyone else’s. " Haley Moore is a senior Drawing & Illustration major at Herron - 56 -
who spends most of her time immersed in character design, concept art, and hand-drawn animation. She has experience in digital and traditional mediums and has worked with book publications, a game design company, and freelance commissions. After graduation, Haley hopes to work for a movie or game design company so she can continue in her passion for bringing to life expressive and engaging concept work. On "Skater Kids": "This illustration features three skateboarding kids in a face-down with the ruthless neighborhood bully to defend their rightful place at the skate park. This is a digital illustration that is 10" by 24" in size." Chanya Ruby is pursuing a Bachelor of Fine Arts degree at the Herron School of Art and Design, IUPUI. Her major area of concentration is Painting with a minor in Art History. Currently, she is experimenting with different media and trying to find the subject matter of interest. Chanya works in a realistic style utilizing watercolor, acrylic, and oil paints. On "13": "Do you know what the word 'ghost' in Thai is? It’s 'Pee Sua' or to translate literally, 'Ghost Shirt.' I did some research about why the butterfly is named 'ghost shirt,' and discovered that people back then thought this insect is being possessed by ghosts and that’s how they fly. The shirt part is because the butterflies are so colorful and pretty, similar to the shirts we wear. My composition is the representation of the Thai belief systems surrounding ghosts with the butterflies and moths as symbols for the spiritual world. The title for this piece is '13,' if you rotate the numbers clockwise, it looks like a Thai word that translates to 'ghost.'" On "The 4th Precept": "In Thailand, we believe in superstitions and all things supernatural. Often, sayings and superstitions are based on fear and lies to make people either do something or to stop them from doing certain things. Such as, 'if a bird poops on you it’s good luck'. But, isn’t that just to make us feel better about the incident? This painting is the accumulation of those acts. We are surrounded by deceptions and manipulations. The composition of this painting is the result of how we’re being 'deprived' from the truth, and are 'bound' to believe those superstitions because our culture compels us to." - 57 -
Connor Stump is an Indiana based artist with experience in a wide range of media. He has worked as a 3D modeler and animator, a traditional and digital illustrator, and a fine artist. As an illustrator, he works to create carefully crafted images that are both clearly meaningful and visually impactful. In his fine art practice he works in charcoal and graphite to create realism pieces with a high degree of visual integrity. In his realist work he looks to impact the viewer by showing them familiar anatomical forms in a way that their brain accepts as both real and unreal. There is a degree of polish across his range of work, with every element carefully constructed. On "Never Travelled": "This piece was created as an interpretation of the poem 'somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond' by E. E. Cummings. Hand drawn in graphite and colored digitally, the artist's intention is to portray the delicate beauty of the subject of the poem, while also communicating a sense of mystery and melancholy." On "Sorrow the Face of God": "The face of sorrow is the face of God." Laura Tuzzio is a junior pursuing an English degree, focusing on Writing and Literacy. This is her second published piece in genesis. She enjoys practicing her writing across various genres. Her goal is to continue to expand her portfolio and enjoy a future career in writing. On "Its Mother": "The poem was inspired by Lewis Carroll's Jabberwocky. In this adaptation you will see the Jabberwock's mother get her revenge on the young braggadocious hunter."
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genesis publishes a new issue every semester.
To submit: Send in your short fiction, creative nonfiction, poetry, and art to https://iupuigenesis.submittable.com/ for a chance to be published in our spring 2021 issue. The “best of” Fiction, Nonfiction, Poetry, and Art will win a $100 scholarship.
To join staff: First, learn the basics in one of the following: • English W206 Introduction to Creative Writing • English W207 Introduction to Fiction Writing • English W208 Introduction to Poetry Writing
Then, complete your apprenticeship in:
• English W280 Literary Editing and Publishing
All editors are eligible to a one credit internship per semester. For more information, email us at genesis@iupui.edu.
iupuigenesismagazine
iupuigenesis
iupuigenesismagazine
See past issues, submit, and read current editors' blog posts at https://genesis.so.iupui.edu/. - 59 -
We would like to thank the following: IUPUI Office of Student Involvement Liberal Arts Student Council Indiana University School of Liberal Arts IUPUI English Department Printing Partners & friends of genesis - 60 -