The Grinnell Review Spring 2022 by The Grinnell Review

Copyright © 2022 by the Student Publications and Radio Committee (SPARC). The Grinnell Review, Grinnell College’s semi-annual undergraduate arts and literary magazine, is a student-produced journal devoted to the publication of student writing and artwork. Creative work is solicited from the entire student body and reviewed anonymously by the corresponding Writing and Arts Committees. Students are involved in all aspects of production, including selection of works, layout, publicity, and distribution. By providing a forum for the publication of creative work, The Grinnell Review aims to bolster and contribute to the art and creative writing community on campus. Acknowledgments: The work and ideas published in The Grinnell Review belong to the individuals to whom such works and ideas are attributed to and do not necessarily represent or express the opinions of SPARC or any other individuals associated with the publication of this journal. © 2022 Poetry, prose, artwork and design rights return to the artists upon publication. No part of this publication may be duplicated without the permission of SPARC, individual artists or the editors. The typeface for the body text is Palatino Linotype and the typeface for the titles is Didot. Cover art: A Friend! | Steven Saada All editorial and business correspondence should be addressed to: Grinnell College c/o Grinnell Review Grinnell, IA 50112 www.grinnellreview.com

LVII | Spring 2022 Editor-in-Chief

Editors

Kripa Bansal Chelsea Shang

Meghna Adhikari Claire Boyle Ela Chintagunta

Contents Writing Meghna adhikari the edge

healing

Sara Amano I, “Sunflower,” Painted into.

continuous connections 29 Still

Disillusion

Mourning Routine

Claire Boyle in water

Jackson Buhring Diary of a Murderer

Kripa Bansal Grey

Ela Chintagunta Dripping Rain 4

Ky Klassen Forget Me Not

Sarah Licht Burn Out 30 Dream in Which I am Woman 46 When you asked me why ... 54 Anna Lipari Inventory #2 8 Hamilton Street 48 Ferragosto 66 MJ Old Leviathan

Nora Paul talisman

Zainab Thompson The Lightbulb Incident

Kate Tomczik Subject: Ode to Email Half-Chewed Thoughts

62 64

Art Matilda Carne Shell Bowl 45 Ela Chintagunta Dandelion 63 Paul Hansen A Summer’s Day

Zoey Nahmmacher-Baum Summer Green 13 Crossing Over 29 Calico 61 Natalia Ramirez Jiminez Elotes 22 Escorpiones 23 Steven Saada A Friend! Lighthouse Nudibranchs

12 30 44

Chelsea Shang identity-imaging (void)

Aleesha Shi fox among flowers

玫瑰鬼 a tiger

21 47

Zainab Thompson Fungal Jelly Hearts Denying Entry Polite Request Death Decay

25 56 57 68 69

Kate Tomczik Belted Kingfisher

Zachary Walsh ONE 50 TWO 51 Rei Yamada Winter Railroad

35 5

Letter From the Editors Dear Readers, Lewis Carroll perfectly embodied creating this edition of the Review when he said, “Imagination is the only weapon in the war against creativity.” War is one of the worst evils that has been inculcated into humankind and has waged continually in Ukraine and the Middle East, as well as in a different form of conflict with the recent anti-abortion agenda. On campus students continue to routinely wake up, go to class, and confront their work amidst the shaken world around them, trying avidly to not think about the primordial mayhem that runs wild outside the bubble that is Grinnell, Iowa. What is it like, however, to remain observers in a world that seems to be tumbling apart? It’s agony and admiration, caprice and impulse. It’s the creation of Art. We watch it outside of us, we try to escape the pain it brings us, we find resolve in a battlefield that brings together the culmination of our emotions and senses into a creation. The sky thunders, the seas rage, and our souls search for peace within the aesthetic of Art. The Review this year hopes to provide clarity, some forming ground within the chaos and darkness that surrounds us. The strange sense of existential dread that surrounded us this year brought together a surprising number of death, decay and darkness-inspired Art into the Review. As always, we’d like to thank SPARC for their support and funds, Talena at Mittera, and every submitting writer and artist. Without you, the Review would cease to exist. With love, Chelsea ‘23, Claire ‘22, Ela ‘25, Kripa ‘24, and Meghna ‘24 6

“Death was not the opposite of life. It was already here, within my being, it had always been here, and no struggle would permit me to forget that.” —Haruki Murakami, Norwegian Wood

Inventory #2 Anna Lipari

in 2019 the world ends. two days later I go around begging extensions from my

SARS-CoV-2 Delta variant transmissibility. the biggest college football coaching move ever.

professors, who haven’t even noticed the stars all crashing out of the firmament. the thing is

the holiday cookies you’re going to bake on repeat. the world is usually ending, at least

that when you’re falling to your knees on the beige-toned dorm-room tiling it doesn’t matter

a little bit. it’s 2021, one in the morning and you’re draped across my shoulders, drunken

whether the sky is on fire outside your window. whether the ocean is rising by one eighth of an

hands gesticulating out into the sticky pink light then returning to my waist like I’m an

inch every year. it’s 1945 and my great grandmother reads about man’s most awful

anchor, the global temperature is going up by 0.018 degrees Celsius every year and

weapon. under the atom bomb she paints a nursery. it’s 2021. I read analysis of

I can’t stop thinking about potentiality, about the space between your teeth and my collarbone. it

will be four weeks before you kiss me and seven years before the damage to the climate is irreversible. the world is ending and last week I said I really wanted a chocolate milkshake from McDonalds so the next time Alex and Gavin stopped by there they brought me one, without my even asking.

fox among flowers Aleesha Shi | watercolor 9

the edge

Meghna Adhikari because the horizon is too close to be home to me — to be unheld

the sun and its unrelenting quiet, as if she’s mourning me

and bare to the glares of a world unknown to me.

already. isn’t it odd to see the edge of the world?

they think karma is straight forward promise to a paradise

to be consumed by the world, its ungracious emptiness, the unwarning

under the concrete, scraping me raw and restless — lying face down

hollowness of loss, the heartless devouring. I know you loved me

it’s too red at sundown

but only from the edge of despair

it stares me down until I tremble and 10

trip from the edge of a bed that’s too big for two;

in water Claire Boyle

I’m reborn like water that runs from faucet to drain: each little death is the same & you know I can’t kiss you because my heart is kept to muted hues as my blood runs cold again so drown me in your kitchen sink & I’ll stay for dinner with your family & won’t tell you how I’m afraid that you only want me because I’m yours & I drown so easily

talisman Nora Paul

the beat I remember can’t be seen so mark my skin in ink; a stick pulled through mud to name a place if the needle is ready, but there’s a loss for words and this will end (the means to no ends) then make around my wrist a line that circles the grasp that my middle finger and thumb can reach to touch 11

A Friend! | Steven Saada | photograph 12

Leviathan MJ Old

You wanted to swim out to the middle of the pond. Maybe half a mile across, that pond was, with brown water and a shore of sandy mud. All your boycousins could do it, whenever they took the time away from their horseplay in the shallow water. But you were a fat little kid, and your mother told you that if you wanted to swim that distance you’d have to start practicing at the rec center pool at home and work up to it. Of course that wasn’t any good to you now. Your grandparents owned the cabin next to the pond, and the whole family was staying there for the week of the fourth of July. You slept on a cot on the screened-in porch, listening to the cicadas, and one morning you set out to swim. You had decided to try first by yourself because failing in front of everyone else would be worse. The sun had just barely risen, and the world was gray and chilly. You put on your swimsuit in the bathroom and ratty pink flip-flops and let yourself out of the house,

Summer Green Zoey Nahmmacher-Baum | acrylic paint 13

making sure to close the screen door quietly behind you. Grass tickled your ankles as you walked down to the pond, kicking off your shoes on the shore. By the time you were knee-deep you could no longer see your feet through the opaque water. When you made it up to your chest you took a deep breath and dunked your head in, hair slicked to your neck and skull. You walked until your toes barely touched the bottom, and then started to kick your feet. You knew how to swim, and combined the arm movements of a breaststroke with a freestyle kick to propel yourself forward, keeping your eyes above the water. The water was cold against your chest, and you tried not to think about how you didn’t know what was beneath you. You swam and swam. The water was cold, and at one point you thrust your head up to look around. The trees on the sides of the lake looked very far away, all of a sudden, and you thought about turning around, but you didn’t know if you were in the middle yet, so you kept swimming. Your limbs started feeling heavy. Your legs hurt as you tried to force them to kick, and your neck was sore from craning to keep your nose above the water, 14

and so you allowed your face to fall into the dark water. Your arms hurt, too, fingers numb and wrinkled. You’d just rest for a moment, and then you could keep swimming. Suddenly you realized your lungs hurt, and you tried to throw your head back to take a breath, but the surface wasn’t there anymore, and your mouth filled with water. The brush of something solid against your leg made you choke even more. A splayed hand pressing up into your belly. You tried to struggle, but fingers closed tight around your ankle. And then you burst through the surface of the water again. You heard something splash just behind you, and tried to crane your head around to see, but you were moving, something carrying you back to shore. You kicked your legs, not quite knowing what you were trying to get away from. And then you were on your hands and knees on the beach. You turned over just in time to see something pale fading away beneath the surface. Presumably whatever had just scored a broad gouge into the soft mud at the water’s edge. Your family had eaten dinner the previous night

at a restaurant in town, where you’d been crushed into the corner of the booth near the wall, staring at the black-and-white photograph hanging framed above your head while the adults talked. A man in overalls holding a huge, swollen-bellied fish. 54in 125lb had been written in pen at the bottom. “That’s a catfish,” your grandpa had said, leaning forward across the table to address you. The catfish in your Field Guide to Freshwater Fish was much skinnier than the one in the picture, but you supposed your grandpa knew what he was talking about. The strange barbells around the mouth were the same, anyway. “You know they can get ten feet long?” your grandpa said. “No,” you said, shuddering a little at the thought. “Yes. Right up against the dams, where it’s too deep to catch them and all the food builds up.” The point was, as you sat there on the sand looking out at the still pond, that you knew about leviathans.

*** You didn’t come back the next summer, or the next. Band camp, and then there were summer jobs and study-abroad and a million other things. But the summer after you finished undergrad, you didn’t quite know what to do with yourself, and your grandpa offered you a few hundred bucks to fix the cabin up to sell. It was late May when you pulled up the gravel driveway again, driving your grandpa’s old red pickup truck with the bustedout suspension and upholstery that always smelled like tobacco and oil. Your small suitcase shared the front passenger seat with a bag of groceries, peanut butter and milk and cereal. The front porch of the cabin creaked, and the front door stuck in its frame when you turned the key in the lock until you shoved hard with your shoulder. As soon as you stepped inside, though, you knew

“A man in overalls holding a huge, swollen-bellied fish. 54in 125lb had been written in pen at the bottom.”

A Summer’s Day | Paul Hansen | photograph 16

you’d made the right choice of how to spend your summer. The cabin even smelled the same, an odor you couldn’t quite put your finger on but you knew had permeated so many happy memories. And now you wouldn’t have to sleep on a cot. The kitchen cabinets were empty but for a sixpack of Blue Moon beer and a box of plain Chex cereal. Who the hell ate plain Chex? You transferred the Blue Moon to the fridge and started unpacking. By the time you’d managed to wrestle a fitted sheet onto the bed you were sweaty and exhausted, so you dragged a fan into the kitchen, pointed it at the kitchen table, and sat down to eat a bowl of cereal (not plain Chex). Then you left your dishes in the sink, ripped open the cardboard on the pack of Blue Moon, and took one of the bottles with you outside. A dock had been built since the last time you’d been here, and you walked out to the end of it and sat down, swinging your legs off the end. It wasn’t quite sunset, not yet, but the sun was low enough to make the surface of the pond glow white. Sweat ran down your forehead and into your eyes. Fuck, it was hot. The water would be cool,

though, and you strained your feet downwards to see if you could reach. You couldn’t, and scooted forward until just the edge of your butt was on the dock, braced yourself with your hands — not quite, but just one more inch, and — You slid off the dock into the water with a shriek. And then shrieked louder when you realized that there was a freezing pair of arms around you. A powerful tail undulated against your legs, pumping you back into the surface. You blinked the water out of your eyes and found yourself staring into the face of a man. He had odd, dark eyes, a thick body, and catfish-whiskers at the sides of his face. “Holy shit,” you said. “You’re the giant catfish.” Looking down you could see where the skin of a man’s torso transitioned into a fish’s tail. He raised his eyebrows. “Do I look like a catfish?” “Yes?” He laughed. “Fair enough. Do you want a boost back up to the dock?” “Yes, please.” “Alright, get ready to grab.” He dived back down, took hold of your legs, and somehow propelled you upward until your belly smacked down against 17

the smooth boards. You scrambled around again to look back at him. “Thanks,” you said. “Uh, what’s your name?” “I’m Corydoras.” He studied you for a moment. “You humans haven’t been coming by as often.” “Yeah, we used to have our family reunions here, but then Grandma died and Grandpa moved in with Aunt Barb, and it’s been pretty empty. I’m staying for the rest of the summer, though, and then Grandpa’s planning to sell. So there should be more people around soon. Do you, uh, do you prefer when there’s people?” “Makes it less boring.” Corydoras was eyeing your empty beer bottle. You nodded towards it. “Do you want one?” “If you’ve got one to spare.” You pushed yourself to your feet. “And you’ll still be here when I get back with it?” “Scout’s honor.” You hurried back to the cabin, yanked open the

fridge, and let the screen door bang shut behind you on the way back out. True to his word, Corydoras was still floating just beyond the end of the dock. You passed the beer down to him, and he expertly cracked it open, releasing a little hiss of foam, and drank deeply. “Ahhh. That’s the stuff.” You sat down again on the dock. “You stopped me from drowning when I was ten.” “I know.” He took another long drink. “Not much happens around here, so when something does I tend to remember.” “Why do you live here, if it’s so boring?” “Can’t get out.” He fidgeted with the beer-cap in his other hand as he drank, flipping it between his fingers. “I could probably get you out.” Corydoras looked up sharply. “I’ve got a pickup truck and time on my hands. We’re only a few miles from the river, it wouldn’t be too hard.”

“He fidgeted with the beer-cap in his other hand as he drank, flipping it between his fingers.”

“Please,” he said softly. “I’d appreciate it.” “Tomorrow, then. I should probably do it sober.” You leaned backwards until your back hit the cool wood. The sky was deep blue, now, not quite dark enough to show the stars. “How long have you lived here?” “A while.” You’d read once about an eel that had lived a hundred and fifty years in a well. Eels changed their forms when it was time to go back to the sea to breed, and so an eel cut off from the ocean would never reach full sexual maturity. Did it know what it was missing out on? Did it remember the wide place it was born, as it coiled in the darkness and looked up at the distant circle of sky, and feel the ache of a womb that would never grow? *** The next morning, just like you’d done so many years before, you woke up early to go down to the pond. This time, though, you picked up the keys to the truck and drove it carefully over the lawn and down to the shore, compressing the soft earth beneath the tires. Corydoras was waiting for you in the shallow

water, and you could see more of his body than you’d been able to before. The fin at the end of his tail was horizontal, like a whale’s, not vertical like that of a true fish. His skin was greenish brown, paler on his torso and darker on his tail. “Ready?” you said, getting out of the truck but leaving the key in the ignition. Mud and sand caked your boots. He looked around, at the still surface of the water and the old trees leaning over it. “Ready as I’ll ever be.” “How’re we doing this? I think I can carry you if you hold on.” “Works for me.” He put his arms up as you leaned down to grab him. Your hands slipped on his skin, but you managed to hoist him out of the water. “Don’t drop me, now,” he warned, clinging to your neck, tail wrapped around your waist and dampening your jeans. You staggered as quickly as you could over to the open front passenger door of the truck and eased him inside. You’d laid a damp sheet on the seat to keep him comfortable. “Good?” “Yeah.” He touched the sheet. “Very thoughtful of you.” 19

You sprinted around to the driver’s side, got yourself inside, and threw the truck into reverse again. It was too old of a vehicle to beep an objection at Corydoras’s lack of a seatbelt, and you figured if you got into a crash you’d have bigger problems to deal with. The truck bumped down the winding road through the woods away from the cabin, and then through town. Corydoras looked out the window the whole time. “I like the hot cocoa they have there,” you said as you passed a coffee shop. It was so early that the OPEN sign was still dark. “They, uh, they don’t skimp on the whipped cream.” Corydoras nodded. You could hear his breathing growing more ragged. “You good?” “Drying out,” he said, breathlessly, rubbing at his arms. “I’ve got you.” The boat ramp was at the north end of the park, cracked concrete leading down into the Mississippi River, and you pulled as far down it as you dared. There were a couple of men fishing a few hundred yards away, but they hardly looked at you as you got 20

out and went around to take Corydoras in your arms again. He was looking up at you, almost wonderingly. “Thank you,” he said. His cold hands clamped tight on your shoulders again as you lifted him out of the car and carried him down the ramp. You bent to let him down, and he squirmed down into the water without looking back. You stood there for a few minutes, but Corydoras did not resurface. Then you turned around and went back to the truck, closed the passenger door and got into the driver’s seat. You folded up the sheet he’d been sitting on and gave in to the urge to put your face into it. It smelled like him. Like water. The whole truck did. You drove slowly back into town and parked outside the coffee shop. After a few minutes an employee switched on the OPEN sign and let you in. You ordered a hot chocolate and drove back to the park to drink it, sitting on the seawall with your feet dangling out over the water. For a moment your world was full of sweetness and whipped cream, eyes closed as you took a deep drink. And then you heard the splish of a leviathan breaking the surface, and you opened your eyes.

Grey

Kripa Bansal The piano sits in the empty house Dust settling on her sheen of black The stool stands beneath her Waiting for warmth Warmth that would relive the music Keys sound from within The hammer waits for the string Two lovers waiting to re-unite The black and white keys continue their separation My fingers release the distance Slim and long Waltzing on the keys The sound is broken Hammer and string give birth to music Music which fills the empty house Like air capturing space Every note echoes and spins Drifts into oblivion Taking music along…

玫瑰鬼 | Aleesha Shi | relief print 21

Elotes | Natalia Ramirez Jimenez | digital photograph 22

Escorpiones | Natalia Ramirez Jimenez | digital photograph 23

Forget Me Not Ky Klassen

Unban me from your thoughts. Allow me to filter through the cracks, fused together with the adhesive of age. Porous concessions patched, Plucked but never altogether detached. I’ll atone for my invasive approach at a later date. The normative methodology proves pointless for a person so frequently forgotten. I’ll weed out what I overwatered when I was underseeded. Roots intolerably overgrown, My dead intertwined with your alive. Internal autopsical examination aired out my seeping sorrys. Left unresponded: the unopened buds of autotrophic anguish. Please peel me open this time.

Fungal Jelly Hearts | Zainab Thompson | wood, pen, & ink on paper

I, “Sunflower,” Painted into.

Sara Amano

Inspired by Vincent van Gogh’s “Sunflowers.” My green body rests in the elongated pool you place me, a home where I stare at your left cheek, and you, you stare at me. A slight draft in a sunlight room with walls of yellow — Southern France, I overhear you tell a fellow. In gazes of fascination and frustration, I bask in your attention. Then Sun sets. Lights gone. You leave. I desire to live longer. But I grow older, faster than you, so I regret we won’t be together, until the end.

You paint my face so I stare at you, and you, you stare at me. — It’s a new morning, my old body is in the trash beside me. Add foundation and shadow, hair of petals to finish the touch, a newly transformed me dressed by your intricate strokes. Embrace my picturesque frame with eyes full of hope. Then Unfinished work. Graying hair. Slower mind. Unsteady hands, wishing the same wish I had, to never face an end. From high above, I stare at faces not yours. — van Gogh’s amazing, they awe. No connection’s special as ours though. In a cool bland room, no sunshine or yellow, thinking about you makes me mellow. Then Hung alone. Muted emotions. I miss you. But, from fellow sunflowers, you chose me, and I, I thank you. My existence makes us eternal.

healing

Meghna Adhikari

like a bruise imbued through thick skin, your starry sky, violently overcast, whimpers into the ears of its beloved if touch could consume me, I’d lie wide-eyed waiting for midnight. moonlight and blood-lust will still sing honey-sweet and somberly until the east-ward edge is rend from the brutal braces of your slumbering embrace. why wait for forgiveness when dawn will break again, without bleeding? and I’ll still carve sunshine, carefully, into my thighs, numbed to be as blue as you. after all, scars are meant to shine, touch starved, at the end where yellow blares bluntly in the face of mossy abandonment, or whatever it is you call eternity.

continuous connections

Sara Amano

was it by chance or fate, maybe even destiny we met, the lingering heat couldn’t suppress the giddy class or our curiosity, sneaking peaks with seats set, unsure, only a feeling of this bond will be boundless, fast; growing into someone new each passing day pointing out and quarreling to fix our daily mistakes, unable to mend those perfectly in one day; farther apart is the road we take not always partners in crime, plotting against odds together — the summers are coming and going, quickly passing us by, but our summers know no ends, they exist forever with cumulonimbus clouds in the bright blue sky flying above the ocean and tracking across the land, future separates us but by our sides is where we stand

Crossing Over Zoey Nahmmacher-Baum | oil pastel 29

Burn Out Sarah Licht

The universe would decay without movement, cogs clicking, motors spinning to agonizing life. With motion, we never see ourselves clearly, the bruises painting our cheeks a galaxy of colors. I never need to see red-tinged eyes glare through smudged mirrors if I remember that I created my universe, sowed the seeds, nurtured the blossoms. So I will be its razor if my body staggers, if limbs useless as time fall to pieces. I wouldn’t blame the universe if it takes a moment to catch its breath, so maybe my petals will tell me it’s okay to do nothing but be, to close my eyes and feel the world vanish around me. 30

Lighthouse | Steven Saada | silk on canvas

identity-imaging (void) | Chelsea Shang | ink & watercolor pencil

The Lightbulb Incident Zainab Thompson

Dear Olanrewaju Akinjide, We have reviewed the Suspected Additional Presence (SAP) Report titled “lightbulb incident” that you submitted on SAT OCT 29 at 03:42 AM. Your dorm room has been examined for presences other than yourself and your roommate Akhil Singh. Our employees have found evidence of unauthorized spectral activity of Category Designation II: Minor Sentient Entity. We recommend doing an inventory of all objects in your dorm room. Anything you believe to be a likely anchor point for a spirit, especially aged objects such as heirlooms, ashes, talismans, and artifacts, should be collected and brought to the Campus Safety Headquarters. We will temporarily house these items in our secure lockers and follow isolation precautions. Thank you for your part in keeping our campus community safe, Buxby Grimms Campus Safety

Lanre frowns and rubs his eyes, squinting against the brightness of his phone screen as he reads the email again. Its time stamp is 07:24 A.M. He’d submitted the request this morning, and stayed awake for another hour or two after that before passing out. Even running on a couple hours of sleep, he’s still an incredibly light sleeper. How did he miss them coming? “Hey Akhil,” he calls to his roommate. There’s no response, but the steady click-click-clicking of his gamer keyboard momentarily pauses. “Did you go to bed last night, man?” “Nope,” Akhil says, popping the ‘p’. The sound of him sipping from something follows, and then the keyboard clicks resume. Lanre groans. He thought he’d hidden the last of those twice-damned energy drinks in the soil of the potted dryad downstairs. Akhil had either somehow figured out where they were and braved the dryad’s wrath to get them back, or he’d just bought more. Lanre needs to figure out a different strategy for Self-Care Enforcement Time. “You know you should really get some sleep,” Lanre tries, knowing it will fall on deaf ears. “Yep.” Akhil pops the ‘p’ again. Lanre drops it for now.

“Did Campus Safety come by this morning? Sometime between when I went to bed and a half-hour ago?” “Nope.” “Hmm.” Granted, no one has ever actually seen Campus Safety do a lot of the things they say they do. When a student loses control in a dangerous way, the officers will come out and deal with the “Wayward” accordingly in an often-visible way — an ice elemental freezes a portion of Ritter Woods, so Campus Safety cordons off the area until they can get a controlled melting of the ice. A kelpie almost drowns their entire diving class, and the officers bring in a specialist for translation and talking down. A version of the Antichrist unconsciously terrorizes the campus with an army of malicious imps, so students and staff are quarantined until the problem is dealt with. It’s not hard to deny the existence of the Campus Safety crew when things like that are going on. Dealing with Waywards is only a small portion of Campus Safety’s job, though. This? An SAP report addressed with no actual sign of them? That’s where the conspiracies start up. Some students think this is by design of the College. Lanre has never particularly 33

cared either way, but it is a bit unsettling to think that they showed up and did something in their room without him knowing about it. As if to agree with him, the owl-shaped stress ball that lives on Lanre’s bedside table falls off the edge and hits the floor tiles with a soft pap. It rolls along the ground until it bumps into the Orisha mythology textbook that Lanre had dropped when the lightbulb exploded. Movie wants attention. He ignores it in favor of snoozing his upcoming alarm and rolling back over in bed.

doubt word would get back to Dad, and then Lanre would be getting a phone call and a several-hour long rant about not bothering to learn family history earlier. Not that his father is wrong, per se, but Lanre really doesn’t want to hear it right now. He mouses over to yet another unnamed folder on his already disorganized desktop, but a notification appearing in the lower right corner of his screen grabs his attention. Oh. It’s one of those again; the random messages he gets from people he doesn’t know, via a social messaging app he doesn’t use, whose names and messages are written in a squiggly script he doesn’t *** understand. He bought the laptop about a week ago from a graduating upperclassman. He would have A few hours later, when he’s properly awake, Lanre is on his laptop trawling through the pictures he thought the messages were some sort of virus, if not for took on his last trip to Nigeria a few years ago. It hasn’t the fact that he factory reset it after purchasing it and he ever felt right to take pictures of his family’s shrines to had Akhil look it over and do whatever anti-malware precautions he saw fit. his however-many-greats-grandfather, because being Lanre pauses before closing out of the related to one of the Orishas doesn’t give Lanre a free notification. The profile image this time is just a black pass to do whatever he wants in their sacred spaces. square with some red speckles in the upper corner, Still, it would be convenient if he had something. Maybe he could ask his sister to send along some nothing he recognizes. He’ll probably need to take it pictures of the mini shrine in their guest room... but he by IT on Monday to see if they can make sense of the issue. Maybe he should also reach out to the alum who really hates calling for help. If he asks Bisi, there’s no 34

sold it to him to ask if she knows anything? Though, he suspects if she knowingly sold him a virus-ridden laptop without telling him, then she probably wouldn’t be very receptive to questions about it. Akhil sneezes, breaking into Lanre’s rumination. He focuses on his screen again. The notification has disappeared since he hadn’t done anything to act on it. Something bumps into his foot. He looks down to see the familiar stress ball, resting against one of the wheeled spokes of his chair. It would be so easy to just play the game, to kick it and wait for it to get rolled back... but he doesn’t. He gets back to work. *** The evening after Campus Safety sent their response to the SAP report, Lanre finds himself suddenly wide awake in bed. He sits up. Moonlight streams in through the dorm window, illuminating a bright stripe across the haphazard pile of Necro-Ball gear that Akhil has stashed in the corner of his closet. Akhil himself is still click-clicking away at his latest foe in code, making this the third night in a row that he’s skipping on sleep. Lanre can hear the

Winter Railroad | Rei Yamada | digital East Elven metal in his headphones from the other side of the room. Being a descendant of an Orisha, however distantly, makes Lanre at least a little sensitive to environmental irregularities. He’s not quite sure what woke him up, but this doesn’t feel like a reaction to 35

a sudden sound. Something is wrong. He scans the room. There’s Akhil’s bed, with the same pile of clothes interspersed with the same four dirty to-go boxes that have been there all week. Their shared bookshelf looks like it normally does, filled to capacity with books, binders, and random objects the two of them have found over the past few years. Their bookbags are still thrown carelessly onto random spots on the ground, and there’s still that pile of loose papers that Lanre keeps saying he’ll sort through... Lanre’s eyes land on his desk. There. His laptop is moving in slow stops and starts towards the side of his desktop. It’s open, though the screen is dark. If it weren’t for the slight wiggling of its upper portion from the jolts, Lanre wouldn’t even have known it was moving at all. As if sensing his attention on it, the dark screen suddenly illuminates. It’s a bright white, with formless gray shadows rapidly oscillating back and forth in what resembles agitation. Akhil sneezes. The laptop’s path across the desk pauses momentarily. It seems for a moment like Movie has been scared off, but then the small little scoots across the desk start up again. 36

It’s only when it starts edging over the side of the desk that the imminent doom of his relatively new laptop registers in Lanre’s sleepy brain. It’s going to fall! He leaps out of bed, tripping on his blanket in the process and tumbling in a heap to the ground. It must happen loud enough for Akhil to hear over his music, because he takes off his headphones and swivels around in his chair. Lanre dives towards his desk. The move is nowhere near elegant or graceful. He doesn’t even manage to catch the thing. He over-calculates the lunge and lands underneath it instead, smashing his hand into the crate where he keeps his unfinished carvings. The fleshy part of his forearm takes the brunt of the impact as the bottom corner of the laptop strikes it. The rest of the momentum snaps the computer shut. His arm will probably be bruised in the morning, he’s pretty sure he split his knuckles on the crate, and he’s struggling to breath because his belly flop to the ground ejected all the air out of his lungs. Small prices to pay for his laptop to live to see another day. “Movie, man, are you kidding me? Seriously, dude?” Akhil calls out to the room as he rushes to help. “This is why we’re getting rid of you!” He gingerly

moves Lanre’s laptop to a safer spot on the ground and helps Lanre sit up. Breathing is really hard right now, and his chest aches painfully. There’s stillness in the room. Then, a strap on Akhil’s bookbag flops up and down a couple times, as if in apology.

thing to do was knock over something small, usually Lanre’s stress ball. Lanre or Akhil would kick the object, and Movie would roll it back to them. Sometimes Movie got a bit annoying, though, like earlier this week when Lanre had been trying to troubleshoot the new-ish laptop and Movie kept closing it as soon as he turned away. Still, things were fine up until about a few days *** ago, when Movie had started seeming a little bit more The weird stuff had started happening a few days restless. It would knock things over more often, or make after they moved in. Lanre or Akhil chase down things they needed for class. It was usually just little things. A pair of Akhil’s On Tuesday, it slammed Lanre’s laptop shut on his cleats would end up a few inches away from where they fingers while he was working. On Thursday, it broke the were left, or a closet door would close unexpectedly. string mechanism that controlled their window blinds, Once, a couple of weekends after classes started, Lanre and the entire thing came crashing down. accidentally got a little too drunk at a demigod party. It came to a head in the early hours of yesterday Akhil later shared that while Lanre was trying to stumble morning, when Movie blew up the light fixture in their his way to his bed, he was on a direct collision course room while he and Akhil were binging a sitcom. Lanre with a box of little wood blocks he had just ordered for submitted the SAP report then, and afterwards they carving. Before Akhil could yell out a warning, the box spent hours cleaning up the shards and picking them out had quickly been slid to the side and out of the way by of their belongings and out of walls. an unknown force. He felt bad, but they couldn’t afford to wait for it Akhil and Lanre named the presence Movie since to do something even worse. it interacted with them by moving things. Creative it is not, but it’s definitely unambiguous. Movie’s favorite *** 37

Lanre goes back to bed after Akhil helps him take care of his hand. In the morning, they both start looking around their room for potential anchor objects. Their room looks like a herd of centaurs ran through it by the time they’re done. For what it’s worth, Movie seems contrite and tries to help. It shifts things into neat little piles on the ground for them to clean up. If it finds a stray piece of glass from the lightbulb incident, it’ll rattle something nearby until Lanre or Akhil check out the sound. When it’s not doing either of those, it’s sadly rolling the little stress ball around, hoping one of them will roll it back. Lanre turns his back on the stress ball, searching for suitably old objects like those described in the email. Into the large garbage bag in his hand goes his mother’s ring, a wooden mask he keeps on his wall, and the fist-sized tooth he found while he was out on a walk. His mind goes to the small protective carving

he has on a string around his neck. His father would probably have an aneurysm for separating from the talisman lots-of-greats-grandad Obàtálá had supposedly charmed several millennia ago, but what his father doesn’t know won’t hurt him. Besides, it would only be for a few days or so, and Lanre still has more talismans that he himself carved. How bad could it be? He takes the necklace off after a moment of consideration. As soon as he does so, he hears thunder outside and feels a strange buzzing underneath his sternum. It’s an obvious warning, one that he ignores. If his toomany-greats grandfather is upset at him, then... well. He wouldn’t be the first deity family member that Lanre is pissing off. He puts one of his own personal talismans on his bedside table, though, just in case.

Besides, it would only be for a few days or so, and Lanre still has more talismans that he himself carved. How bad could it be?

***

After a few days of nothing, they assume one of their belongings had been the cause of the activity and start emailing back and forth with Campus Safety about further isolating each object to figure out which one is the anchor point. Lanre still doesn’t ever actually lay eyes on any of the officers during the entire process, but at this point he’s used to it. Let them be mysterious. He’s more concerned about passing his astral manipulation exam with all of this going on. Then, something wakes Lanre up in the middle of the night again. What is it this time? ...oh. Akhil is snoring, having apparently passed out at his desk. He’s also floating several feet off the ground. That’s new. The problem with supernatural shenanigans while also being supernatural, especially this semester, is that Lanre can’t always tell the difference between what Movie is doing on purpose and what Akhil is doing on accident. In Lanre’s three years of knowing Akhil Singh, the guy has been pretty tight-lipped about whatever his shtick is. He gives unintentional hints occasionally. Sometimes he’ll get stuck on a coding issue, and the annoyed growl will come out several decibels lower and raspier than his normal voice.

Sometimes he’ll have a nightmare, and just before he wakes up his face will be a little thinner, a little gaunter than it should be. Lanre suspects the sneezes are probably connected to Akhil’s abilities, too, because he doesn’t get sick. Ever. With the all-nighters and sparse eating Akhil has been pulling recently, Lanre’s willing to bet that his friend’s control of whatever-it-is is slipping. Not that Akhil would ever admit it aloud, of course. His weird complex about being perceived as competent gets in the way of that. Oh, well. While Lanre is glad that his friend is finally Self-Caring, even unintentionally, this is probably a situation where he should be woken up. “Akhil! You’re floating!” No response except an extra loud snore. Akhil’s body starts rotating in the air, arms swinging slightly as he is manipulated into a supine position. It’s probably Movie, then. Not ideal, but Lanre isn’t too concerned yet. Still not quite feeling like getting out of bed, Lanre searches for the nearest harmless object. He spots an orange-striped sock on the ground and stretches as much as he can without leaving the warmth of his covers. His knuckles twinge with pain, a small 39

reminder that they haven’t completely recovered from when he smashed them the other day. His fingertips just manage to snag the corner of the sock. He balls it up and reels back to throw it... oh. Akhil has been floated over to the air above his bed and is now being slowly lowered onto his thick blankets. As Lanre watches, Movie tries unsuccessfully to tug one of the blankets out from under Akhil without yanking him out of bed. After an awkward struggle, Movie seems to give up and gently lays the exposed portion of the blanket over what it can reach of Akhil’s legs and stomach. Aww. Now Lanre feels kinda bad about wanting to get rid of their unofficial third roommate, but he’s also confused. What is Movie’s deal? Were all the annoying interruptions and stuff lately just their invisible companion feeling lonely or something? Was the lightbulb thing just Movie having a bad day? Or is something deeper going on? Campus Safety may not have been the best first step to address the issue, but the problem is he and Akhil are completely in over their heads with this. If their RA knew this room was haunted, she would have been required to tell them during the first week of the 40

semester. There would be documentation somewhere if Movie was supposed to be here. At the same time, Lanre can not in good conscious get rid of someone actively contributing to the battle of helping Akhil take care of himself. Lanre shoots a quick email to Campus Safety, making up a lie about their problem being solved and resolving himself to sacrificing one of his submitted belongings as the “haunted object.” Then, he sits back to think about his options. His eyes wander to the Akhil’s Necro-ball equipment, long untouched since his roommate started shutting himself away in here recently. The two of them may not know anything… but a certain one of Akhil’s teammates from down the hall might. *** “Hmm. Have you tried communicating?” Paulo asks the next day, after Lanre is done explaining the Movie situation. “Yup,” Lanre says. “That was one of the first things we did. We tried asking it questions and—” “’It?’” Paulo interrupts. “What?”

Paulo stares at him. Lanre wishes Akhil were here to bear some of the weight of that disappointing look, but unfortunately he’s in class. “I’ve only been a ghost for about a year, but personally? I would be pretty offended if a living person started calling me an ‘it’ just because I’m dead,” Paulo says. Oh. Lanre hadn’t thought of that. Jeez, though, it’s not like he meant any harm by it. “Uh. Sorry, Movie!” he calls to the room regardless. “That’s another thing... ‘Movie’?” “I mean. We don’t know what else to call... them. And they move things around, so Movie made sense.” Paulo closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose, like hearing the explanation gives him a headache. Would it be rude to ask if he can still get headaches? Lanre isn’t sure.

“You didn’t ask?” “Well, they don’t talk! We tried leaving out a pen and paper for a couple weeks, and all we got back was scribbles.” “Yeah, ‘cause picking up physical objects is really hard sometimes! Let alone the amount of control you need to write. Plus, you don’t even know if English is their first language, or if they even know how to write.” “Oh.” Well, now Lanre feels stupid. He’s also remembering why he doesn’t really like talking to Akhil’s Necro-ball friends. “…Should we try a Ouija board, then?” “No, no, that could invite something you don’t want.” Paulo looks around, and his gaze lands on the digital clock on Lanre’s bedside. His eyes widen. “Shiii— Okay, listen. You need to steam a mirror. I gotta go.” “What?” Paulo, distracted, is already standing and shrugging on his bag. “Yeah. I gotta get to my lab early

“Lanre wishes Akhil were here to bear some of the weight of that disappointing look, but unfortunately he’s in class.”

today, otherwise I’d try to help out more, but try this. Turn the heat up in here to the max. Get some boiling water, and steam up a mirror or window or something. Drawing on a mirror is a lot easier for a ghost than picking up a pen.” He doesn’t even bother opening the door, instead just walking through it. After a second, though, he pokes his head back in to add, “Akhil has my phone number. Tell him text me or something if that doesn’t work.” *** Lots of sweating and several reheated bowls of boiling water later, Lanre has a word: laptop. The letters are drawn into the foggy window slowly, painstakingly, as if it took extreme effort to do so. The tail of the second ‘p’ drags and drags until it terminates in an arrow that points downward, at Lanre’s desk. “Laptop?” His laptop? Why? Attempts at getting Movie to elaborate are unsuccessful. Either they’re tired, or they feel like they’ve said enough. At least he knows for certain that Movie can speak English. Through the intersection of the ‘t’ drawn onto the glass, Lanre spots Akhil outside. His roommate is clearly 42

about to enter the building and he’s looking up at their steamy letter-adorned third-floor window in obvious confusion. Lanre waves. And then, just like that, it clicks. The laptop. The weird notifications. They’re probably from Movie, trying to communicate this entire time! Admittedly, this doesn’t quite explain why Movie had pushed the laptop off Lanre’s desk the other day. An attempt to turn it on, perhaps? Paulo made it seem like fine-motor skills with tangible objects can be a challenge for ghosts. Lanre isn’t quite sure how pushing the entire laptop is easier than pressing a button, but he also won’t pretend he understands much about ghosts. He quickly unlocks the computer. He still doubts he’ll be able to read the notifications, but at least he knows who they’re from now. “I can’t believe I’ve been so oblivious, Movie!” he says to the room. “Sorry it took so long to figure out, but I get it now. Do you think you could maybe send your next message in English, though?” Several things happen at once. Some books topple from the bookshelf. Another notification appears on Lanre’s screen. The stress ball tumbles off Lanre’s bedside table and slaps against his shin. Another letter

starts getting drawn into the window, but he doesn’t notice the beginnings of an ‘O’ following a new ‘N’ until after he’s clicked on the message. *** The notifications were not from Movie. *** When Akhil walks in, the thing now inhabiting Lanre’s body whirls at the sound. Lanre feels his own mouth twist into a grin that is too wide. Strange whispers conspire in his mind. His head tilts against his will at a painful angle. The thing in him is pleased – free from the wretched confines of that terrible machine it was sealed in, no longer at risk of that wretched “Movie” thwarting its quest for blood, and now its first meal has practically fallen into its lap. Lanre wishes he could tell Akhil to run. Akhil stares. The bag of energy drinks he just bought slips from his hand. He sneezes so hard that his entire body doubles over. When he straightens again, his eyes are empty, dark pits. ***

Part of Lanre is glad that Campus Safety has been put off the trail of this entire mess and that the two of them are in the privacy of their room. Akhil is most definitely not in control right now, which theoretically makes him a Wayward, but the last thing they need is to have the officers storming in here. On the other hand, Akhil might be about to eat him. ‘On the bright side,’ Lanre thinks as his body is tackled by an Akhil with a skeletal face and fingers that are too long, ‘at least he’s finally eating.’ A pillow is tossed at the side of Akhil’s head. He hisses, his head rolling unnaturally on his neck in the direction the pillow had originated. Another pillow hits him again, this time in the face. Momentarily distracted, Akhil pulls away from Lanre. The Thing cohabiting Lanre’s body with him grabs a pair of scissors from nearby. Lanre can feel its intention to swing at Akhil’s neck. Then, there’s a small thud on Lanre’s chest as something lands on his sternum. The Thing is suddenly and violently expelled from his mouth. Lanre coughs. His movements are his own again. Thunder strikes outside. Akhil whirls on the strange wispy creature now floating in the air, which looks confused and then horrified as it is quickly devoured. 43

Lanre clutches the talisman that Movie had dropped on his chest and scoots back as far away from Akhil as he can get. Luckily, the laptop demon, or whatever the heck it was, seems to be composed of shadows or energy something else nontangible, because it doesn’t leave a mess behind. Lanre can’t look away from the fascinatingly horrifying sight of Akhil nearly unhinging his jaw to stuff it into his mouth. Akhil will later explain that he’s a voror, a special kind of benevolent wraith, and that the only one in actual danger in the room when he lost control was the laptop creature, and that he and Movie had likely both been reacting the to the malevolent presence in the laptop for the past two-ish weeks. For now, though, he straightens and clears his throat. His face now looks like it normally does. “So, um...” He picks up his bag of energy drinks, inspects the cans inside for damage, and then gently sets it off to the side. “About that whole Self-Care Enforcement Time thing... I think I’m gonna take a nap. A long one.” This time, when the stress ball tentatively rolls towards where Lanre is sitting dumbstruck on their messy floor, he gently bumps it back. 44

Nudibranchs | Steven Saada | colored pencil

Shell Bowl | Matilda Carne | ceramics

Dream in Which I am Woman

Sarah Licht

so strange to see myself a body labeled, curves stamped in letters illuminated, stretch mark constellations over flesh taut someone could call this suit tailored, fit for ivory dressed caskets, petals soaked in vinegar, pickled like I can

be preserved doll on shelf ready for fresh linens I am woman here like eggs curve to prevent them from tu mb li ng yet they fall like marbles fallopian in shape here I am everything fragile and hatched, bred in pens, ink spilling tears over feral cheeks am I prettier this way? wet and sticky and stained

red of fertility I awaken and see myself the same as much as we see ourselves beyond the eyes of others eyes prying and peeling, cracking and plucking shell feather dipped and left to dry I am woman here like words crumple in backs of throats like letters stain clothing AA DD flesh stamped taut, stretched

a tiger Aleesha Shi watercolor

like stars across the sky I am woman like a sentence left unfinished maybe I could tell you my ending but you already wrote it. 47

Hamilton Street

Anna Lipari

First of all, the only ghost I ever saw in that house was my own, ugly old sneakers and a bad teenage haircut, haloed from above by blue neon, flinching at the sliding scrape of the stairway-door. Second, I used to stare at the wallpaper on the kitchen ceiling, the way the green vines knit together like dingy smoke-stained anklejoints. That paper is painted over now, but when I visit home I can still smell the ten-year remnant of Patricia Wheeler’s cigarettes. Third she built that house with her husband Bill when the war was finished, after they both got their honorable discharges and settled down. When he was away Bill wrote her letters, told her his love was the fastest cherry-red airplane ever built and she didn’t need to worry too much about him. I don’t know the holes her tapered snakeskin shoes frayed in the hallway carpet, the fingernails she bit down to the quick while he sat up in the nose of a bomber and dropped terror on enemy airfields. I used to pack my lunch at midnight in that vine-strangled kitchen 48

with one eye on my cell-phone, waiting for a text message from my beloved, every fragment of muscle held shatter-tight against my skeleton. And lastly, when the house was young, a swarm of bees made their home out of rotten newspaper stuffed inside the west-facing wall of the living-room and Bill and Patricia would send the kids in with a broom before dinner parties to sweep away their curled-up little corpses, I don’t know if Patricia ever dreamed about prying open the honey-warm boards and crawling inside the walls like an open mouth, about the loving embrace of a thousand tiny legs, but my ghost is still sobbing in that house with her head against the kitchen cabinets, writing frantic bargains: let me gather you in my arms and put my lips to your knife-edge, let me make you safe, and when the atom bomb fell my great grandmother cried with monstrous relief because her husband was on his way

home. 49

ONE | Zachary Walsh | digital photograph 50

TWO | Zachary Walsh | digital photograph 51

Why my room so leave stuff

Sara Amano

neat ,

the

too

often pencils

readings piled up loose leaf’s

on ground ,

mechanical

Still

. ,

and

when the sun is high . Then why is it clean ? I pick up the pi ece s even the smallest scraps , all details I miss earlier in the day, things that I’ve forgotten or will

soon

forget.

memories should be kept in special places, a box for yesterday to give courage for a teary tomorrow, tell stride of feet not to falter , push for another day. But the night clammers inside, below freezing intrudes, December swings by, cleaning the year, signals the end. Goodbyes. What do I have left to sweep?

When you ask me why I stopped responding to your letters, Sarah Licht I stopped responding because your words blurred together in a sea of ink, ships sinking deep within their murky depths. Such treasures I could find below, words of love and loss, weather and stolen hobbies, but I prefer my oceans shallow, easier to step over, to find dry land. Because you never seem to remember the scratches I left in your couch, the ash from burnt cookies I smeared on your oven door. We used to like playing dirty, so now why do you want me to be clean, a porcelain figure your dusty fingers to polish?

Because an envelope is hardly a waste, but with you, I feel the weight of a dying world on my shoulders as I reach for one. And yet, you carefully stuff yours with papers, handwritten manuscripts, pulp bred for you to fill with more of its brethren. Consider it a favor, another tree left alive, for you to slaughter with your sentiments. I stopped responding because my thoughts, so vivid my veins nearly burst, fizzled out as pen took to paper. Anticlimax, the subtitle of all we have left. In memories, you appear so vivid, a face meant to be touched, loved, but your eyes fill me with a grayness, the chill of something missing, something never returned. Because the trees are bursting into summer bloom, and the sky feels more vivid than love, radiance casting its presence over the horizon, and all that awaits me is a world begging for movement, an oath to never slow down, never look back. 55

Disillusion Sara Amano

Screen flickers, a notification for a text. Her head cocks to the side, the sky an orange-red basking the crinkly brown leaves of November, breathing life into them, a cozy light, the perfect sunset to meet her love. She stood, ignoring everything, and took her leave. Brushing unfinished stress aside, a gust provokes leaves to assault her glowing face. A buzz in her hand, a text from her friend, concerned about her love for him because of countless messages left unread. She brushes the worries aside in a lighthearted tone and walks to her lover in November.

Denying Entry Zainab Thompson | ink on paper 56

She strode through the frigid air of November, listening to the satisfying crunch of dried leaves beneath her feet. Her lungs inhale cool air in setting sunlight, a feeling of content not felt in a while, better than the texture of a blanket on a winter morning. Her hair, tinted red from the sunset, is the gentle hue of genuine love.

But sun sets, a dark blue to match her lost love for he had migrated to a warmer place in November, inside not with her. She flees from fall to hide from dreamy red rays of sun. She is reminded by her texts, the only source of glow in her diminishing light, they met only under moonlight, never daylight, because she was the one who was unloved, the third wheel hinted in the pile of texts. Dark blue permeate the once vibrant skies of November, brash winds laugh in her face and tell her to leave, their voices echo her in her heart, a scarlet red. Escaping her embarrassment, a burn so red it illuminates the way to be alone, away from the light that eradicated her once, a time to think and leave. If this was not true or meant to be, then what is love? She knew no answer, only that her November was of a false love written in text. The song November sings is of betrayed love the one true light in dark screens without texts, a knife with blood red. It is time to leave.

Polite Request Zainab Thompson | ink on paper 57

Diary of a Murderer Jackson Buhring

This morning I learned a horrible and terrible truth: I have become a murderer. Pain and sorrow flow and flicker through my mind, for worst of all I had loved the victim like a brother. I suppose it is always those closest to us that we hurt the most. Now, my organs feeling bruised, my heart pounding ever quicker with the ferocity of a guilty man awaiting trial, I am left to wither and wain in my thoughts. To have messed up my life at the ripe age of 10 years old is an unspeakable tragedy. I write this account of my actions in the hope that others may not follow down the same path. Here is the true and honest account of the last day. Please forgive me. *** It began like any other. I woke up and jumped out of bed, the morning sunlight shining on my bare feet against the beachwood floor, and walked to the bathroom. I did my first piss of the day, brushed my 58

teeth, and hobbled down the stairs, making quick notice not to trip over the dog. As I walked into the kitchen I found my mom sitting at the table, reading a magazine, and sipping a black cup of coffee. Her mug read “Partner in Crime,” a reference to the detective tv show, “Nothing Gets Past Morry,” a show my mom and I watched every Friday night at 7. It was my favorite show ever made. Little did I know her favorite mug would foreshadow the events of my day. Quickly, I threw a Pop-Tart in the toaster and gulped down a cup of orange juice. I was a late sleeper and would usually wake up only 10 minutes before the bus, yellow and unforgiving in its pursuit towards school, came hurling down my street. With a minute left, a Pop-Tart in my mouth, and one arm in my jacket, I realized my field trip form for next week’s trip to the baseball game was still sitting on my desk. I jumbled and jammed up the stairs, the pitter patter of my feet waking the dog out of his slumber, and slammed my

door open. Just as I grabbed the form I peered over at my goldfish tank. That’s when I saw it: the horrid, the despicable, and the downright distasteful sight of death. My goldfish had been murdered. I stopped for a moment. “Who could’ve done such a thing?” I wondered. “Who would be cruel enough to kill a ten year old’s goldfish?” Quietly I sat with my thoughts until my brain began to swirl with the truth of the situation. It was me who had committed the act. I had forgotten to feed him. Hmm, I counted on my fingers, one, two, three, for THREE days! Wait no, I had fed him the night before last. Still though, lying motionless in his clear little tank, upside down to the rest of the world, I knew it had been my responsibility to keep him alive. I was to blame. His name was Hank J. Kierkegaard. I had stayed up late one night watching a movie about sharks, Beyond Sharknado 2 — you should really check it out, great film — and, after my initial requests for a pet shark were sadly denied, I quickly agreed a goldfish was just as good. Soon my mom drove me down to the pet store to buy a fish. Walking down the aisles of PetSmart, fluorescent lights shining down across the concrete floors, and an array of barking dogs, purring

cats, lizards doing whatever the fuck they do, and squawking birds, I met my friend. We instantly became companions. Every day I would come home excited to watch him swim around his little tank. At night I would lay awake, telling him about school, friends, and anything else on my mind, though admittedly his conversation skills could’ve used some work. “What now?” I thought. My life and future felt ruined and left in shambles, the joys of the innocence of my past cut off and lost to the wind and dust. I was on the other side, those who had done the deed. Swiftly, I realized I needed to hide all the evidence. I would tell the masses that a bird had flown in and gobbled him up. “Crazy as it may be, it just might work,” I hoped. But just as quickly as my escape plan had been conceived, so did it fall apart. My mom opened the door and exclaimed “You’re still here? The bus left already… Come on, I’ll drive you. But you’re waking up earlier from now on.” Damn, the bus. I had totally forgotten. Unfortunately she noticed the tears still left, refusing to dry on my cheeks. “What’s wrong, it’s really not that big of a deal to wake up a little earlier.” My eyes betrayed me and darted towards the ever still bowl – why, why couldn’t there be any movement, 59

I pleaded that this could be over to no avail – and she looked over at the crime scene. “Aww honey, did your goldfish die? Sad, I really liked that one.” She knew. It was over. I was done. They would take me away that day, never to eat another Pop-Tart again! “Okay, well it’s okay, honey. Sometimes fish just die from age. They don’t really last that long you know. I’ll help you take care of it.” I looked up from my stupor. “Yes,” I thought, “take care of it.” If she was implying she would join me as an accomplice I would gladly take her on! “Really?” I exclaimed. “Yeah, let me grab a bag.” She didn’t seem to have a distaste for gore. Good. Getting rid of the body would need people like that. She returned with a grocery bag and dipped her hand into the bowl, pulling the body out with it. Robotic-like, she stepped over outside the room to the bathroom. I followed. “Here, we’ll flush him down the toilet so his body can go out to the ocean.” “Yes… yes ...” I thought, “it just might fool them all.” Bringing her along was a great idea of mine. She dropped the body into the toilet. “Would 60

you like to do the honors?” She motioned towards the handle to flush. Seeing as I had been culpable, I took it upon myself to do the deed and pressed down on the silver, shiny handle. We said goodbye and thanks for the good times to Hank, swirling around, never to be seen again. Once his tail was gone, my mom patted my shoulder and we went downstairs. It was agreed that I would miss school that day. We ordered pizza, extra pepperoni, and glumly sat in silence eating it. Outside I could hear the leaves rustle and blow by, and with them our chances of being caught. Oddly enough, I wasn’t sure how to feel. I mostly just missed my friend. As I’ve said, I write you this account to explain and humanize the abominable actions that took place. My intention is not to excuse but rather to explain. I do wonder if I will ever be punished for my crimes against fishanity. One thing is for certain though: my partner in crime came in just the nick of time to save the day. I am always thankful I picked the right person for the job. Thanks, Mom.

Dripping Rain Ela Chintagunta

As I listen to the pitter-patter at my window I fall into a deep trance The dark gray skies The streaks of water Racing Trying to reach the bottom. As I ponder this, I consider Which raindrop am I? The slow one painting a pretty picture The fast one Just wanting to finish Rushing as if something were chasing me The raindrops fall as I consider Am I the one who stops to help Do I create my own path Do I block another raindrop What role am I playing?

Calico | Zoey Nahmmacher-Baum needle felting 61

Subject: Ode to Email Kate Tomczik Dear Email, I hope this message finds you well. I cannot go a day without looking at you. Who else could bear news, updates, and information like you do? Your consistency is unparalleled. I have a meeting later that would have been unattended. I don’t have class at 8 am –– it’s cancelled.

O you annoyingly necessary form of communication, binging in class just to get attention. Is your message important or is it trivial? You tempt me with an unlimited amount of coupon spam. Get 50% off your subscription if you act now! (It’s a scam). I spend hours deleting messages only to receive more. I could die and the New York Times would still tell me California is on fire. You are semi-formal –– I can make you casual or dress you up. You are not a text. You are not a letter. No carrier pigeon could ever fly as fast as you travel. Online and on the go, alerting me of interviews, offers, or simply greetings of hello. Passwords may change but your commitment to me always stays the same. I look forward to hearing from you. Yours truly, Obligated User

Dandelion | Ela Chintagunta | photograph 63

Half-Chewed Thoughts Kate Tomczik

Flies nip at my legs. Little do they know I’m as thick as a rug. Speaking of — People should stop making rugs Of our hide. Your cowhide rug doesn’t Keep out flies. Why not grass? A rug Of grass should surely suffice. Perhaps Ryegrass or bluegrass–really any type As long as it’s not fescue. You really Want to know how to make me moan & moo? A nice plot of fescue practically Unchewed. My stomach churns. Wait, Which one? Ouch! A fly managed to bite Through my hide. My tail fights back Whipping it to the side. Where’s the Farmer? I could sure use a good milking. Relieve this pressure so I can stop Stirring. Until then I guess I’ll Meander toward the pond. Ope. I hear the cowbell’s annoying song. Just because I roam doesn’t mean I’m lost.

Mourning Routine Sara Amano

Eyes closed body warm, birds chirp in the chilly morning air the one who stripped the duvet from me is not here. Chilled floor zombie walk, silence trapped in the stale house steady chop of knife against wood is not here. Burned egg dropped spoon, big hand points at 12 the time for morning conversations is not here. Phone rings blood chills, it is about your anniversary white clothes gifted from you are not here. Dressed in black, I pause by the photos on the wall the strength to face the world without you is not here.

Belted Kingfisher Kate Tomczik | charcoal pencil 65

Ferragosto Anna Lipari

August in Alcamo the great aunts and step-uncles all draw up a circle of dusty plastic chairs on the back porch and we play cards and the lazy convective heat of our overlapping exclamations rises sun-dazed above ripening eggplants and tomatoes, chickens scratch a secret ballad under the rusted water drum garlanded with paper-pink petals and patron saints offer sleepy-eyed benediction from under cover of the noon-stilled bead-curtain, August transubstantiates it all to sameness, the round red sun comes up goes down over the hills and we get up raise anchor and lower ourselves over the waves, let them hold us rolling steady, our skin tastes salt and there are always cold sweet figs in the icebox and

August hangs heavy like smoke-haze in the air but we rarely see the fire. maybe we have swallowed too many grapes and melon seeds already, maybe they have taken root in the marrow of our rib-bones and come September vines will spill from our mouths — Botecelli’s witness stares down wild-eyed muted mad from the museum wall — but this is August. a town, shaken to pieces, is encased in white cement. we pile into the truck drive back home and when I lie down in the heat of the dark I float, unmoored, like I’m still in the water.

Death | Zainab Thompson | construction pen and ink on paper, vinyl sticker 68

Decay | Zainab Thompson | pen and ink on paper, vinyl sticker 69

Contributors Meghna adhikari ‘24 is a second-year Sociology Major from Kathmandu, Nepal. Inspired by Nepali literary style, her writing is an indulgent ode to the tenderness of life. Sara Amano ‘22 enjoys experiencing nature, reading a book or playing games. She plans to continue writing after graduating. Claire Boyle ‘22 will miss the Review! Jackson Buhring ’25 is a first-year prospective English and Studio Art double major. He is survived by his three grandchildren, a 2003 Toyota Camry, a multitude of stolen Dhall cups, and his goldfish Edwin. Kripa Bansal ‘24 is a second-year from Bangalore, India majoring in Economics with a concentration in Statistics. She enjoys reading mindlessly and is inspired particularly by feminist retellings of Indian folklore. Matilda Carne ‘24 is a second-year Physics and Art History double major from Wisconsin. She believes grapefruits are the best fruit. Ela Chintagunta ‘25 has been an avid creative writer and photographer for a few years. Although stopping for some time, she has decided to get back into doing both activities as a way to appreciate life and contemplate life’s issues. Paul Hansen ‘23 is a third-year Political Science major. He enjoys capturing the beauty of life’s spontaneity and the intimate moments that pass by unnoticed. 70

Ky Klassen ‘25 is a vegetarian who hates vegetables. She is graduating in 2025 unless lack of Vitamin A catches up to her. Sarah Licht ‘22 is a fourth-year English/Psychology double major, a writer of poems and short stories, and an avid dreamer and gamer. When they aren’t writing, they can be found getting another cup of coffee, watching bad movies, or playing with their cat Lilith. In the future, they hope to publish their own poetry collection and, even more hopefully, several novels. Anna Lipari ‘23 is a Biology major from Oregon. One day they will be subsumed by the fungus. Zoey Nahmmacher-Baum ‘24 is very excited to have declared her Psychology major. She would like people to stop asking her what she plans to do with it. MJ Old ‘23 is a third-year Classics and Biology major from Alexandria, Virginia. They enjoy reading, writing, and thinking about cryptids. Nora Paul ‘22 is a fourth-year Anthropology major from Oak Park, Illinois but has appeared in other places as well. She enjoys missing life experiences because she is writing during them. Natalia Ramirez Jiminez ‘24 is a second-year Biology and Computer Science double-major from Queretaro, Mexico, which is two hours away from Mexico City. Natalia enjoys photojournalism, video production, and watercolor painting, and is passionate about software development and neuroscience. 71

Steven Saada ‘22 is an aspiring swamp hag who sometimes makes art. Chelsea Shang ‘23 is an English major who does not know what the hell an ‘identity’ is. When not angsting about selfhood, they like to draw Giratina and play a lot of RPGs. Takes all pronouns, including yours. Aleesha Shi ‘22 likes to draw, but she should probably go take a nap. Zainab Thompson ‘22 discovered recently that one should be careful about the way they tell children not to eat hand sanitizer. Her favorite idea is being creative, but she instead spends most of her time thinking about drawing fungal skulls or writing creepy tales instead of actually doing either. If found, please return her to the nearest huggable friend. Kate Tomczik ‘22 is a fourth-year Biochemistry and Studio Art major. She enjoys a variety of art mediums including paint (acrylic, oil, and watercolor), charcoal pencil, and sculpture. Zachary Walsh ‘25 is a photographer and student at Grinnell in the year of 2025. Rei Yamada ‘25 is a global nomad who enjoys doodling during class. Her inspiration comes from oversleeping and learning new languages.