Signatures 37 by Isabella Madeira

Signatures

Washcloth Creativity is a warm, worn washcloth, An unassuming rag that is always there to provide a helping hand, Lather in some soapy thoughts in hopes of scrubbing away the dirty failures, Hoping the treasured silverware of your life gets to the point of being used without the taste of the past, Unfortunately, some stains may never go away, Collections of green grime from times you were unable to wash the dishes, The times that you couldn’t even find the sink, When you did make it there the steadfast washcloth was already ready, To do what it can until you get a dishwasher.

Washcloth ♦ Rich Kennedy

Issue 37

Sponsors

Design Editor

Office of the Provost College of Liberal Arts College of Art and Design

Isabella Madeira

Award Donors

Sarina Alexander Francesca Delaney Rachel DeTone Meiqi Jiang Rich Kennedy Rebecca Klahold Victoria Lau Caitlin Tak-Nguyen Sneha Yalgi

College of Art and Design University Writing Program Special Thanks to

Rochester Institute of Technology President David Munson Provost Ellen Granberg Dean Todd Jokl Dean Anna W. Stenport Professor Lorrie Frear

Design Team

Literary Editor

Claire Abby Bratton Literary Team

Faculty Advisors

Ren vanMeenen Nancy Bernardo Publication Notes

Panther Graphics April 2022 700 copies Basteleur & Garamond Adobe InDesign Rochester Institute of Technology Rochester, NY

Katarina Boss London Emmerich Becky Henrikson Rich Kennedy

A Letter from the Editors Traditionally, this is the part of the magazine where we wax eloquent about our theme: what it means, why it was chosen, and how it reflects the trials and tribulations of the RIT student body. But last fall, the editors decided that we didn’t want to go into this year with a theme. We let the submissions drive the tone and direction of this edition, with the intention of pulling a theme forth from the content we received. Months later, we found ourselves sitting in a sea of submissions and searching for some semblance of meaning in the chaos. Fortunately that’s something we’ve all had a lot of practice with over the past few years, as “normal” life has been subverted and uprooted again and again. Each person who helped create this volume of Signatures offered their own ideas for a theme. Perhaps this collection tells a story all about connection and disconnection: digital, interpersonal, cultural. Especially in the pandemic era, there’s something to be said for art that explores the tenuous connections we’re learning to rebuild across virtual and in-person formats. There are also stories here of an apocalypse: disaster, loss, and the hope found among ruins. Stories about the natural and unnatural: woods to lose yourself in, whether literal or figurative. Stories about stories: about communication and the world recreated through art. Or maybe, these pieces speak to the idea of identity and self-discovery: our names, homes, faces, relationships, and how we create ourselves from these facets. Maybe in reading this magazine, you are creating yourself, too. Consider this volume of Signatures a choose-your-own adventure. Find what meaning you will from these pages, whether it’s a cohesive narrative born from the alliance of art and literature or a disjointed series of fleeting sensations. Whatever you leave with at the end, we hope that you enjoy your journey through these pages. We know that we have. Sincerely, Claire Abby Bratton & Isabella Madeira

Artists Cicada Wings Come on Back to Me (Virtual Reality) Strawberries Shifting Desserts Journey (series) Heavenly Hue LOST Pose-Pandemic Beauty in the Chaos July Augustine Achlys Untitled Raccoon Vibrant Afterlife kiss you till we bleed (series) Cosmic Fishing No. 1 Lagging Solo Shadows, Saxophone Shadows, Bass Shadows (series) Hard to be simple Laundry Room Illuminating the Subject The Bride Early Fall Bonny Enchanted Pond Unraveling Strangers Portrait

Dorothy Marquet Isabelle Anderson Katarina Boss Neil Williamson Kelly Jin* Lee Nicoloro Selena Eyob Mason Igawa Michael D. McNaught Natalie Doback Neil Williamson Zander Engelke Emma Mankowski Tong Mo Mikayla Bader Marissa Hayes Dandong Ouyang Kelly Jin* Marcia Liu Ryan Reyes

Cover, 09

Mikayla Bader Marcia Liu Katarina Boss Jackson Baker Gabriella Fatigati Nel Pittman Zander Engelke Cenzi Quantock Maddie Aloi Neil Williamson

10 13 14 17 18–20 22 27 28 29 30 32 34 36–37 38 41 42–43 45 48 51

55 57 58 60 62 63 67 69 73

Each year, two students are honored by awards for their submission to Signatures, generously funded by the UWP and CAD. Winners are determined by the student staff of Signatures Art & Literary Magazine. *The College of Art and Design (CAD) 2022 Award for the Best Art Submission: Kelly Jin, creator of Desserts and Cosmic

Authors Washcloth Telemetry How many stamps do I need to send a care package into deep space? (Asking for a friend.) home birthname Looking Like a Snack Excerpt from Transcript of #749’s Testimony, Ceno 6, 5209 My Beautiful Hair To an old friend which I met in the forest Lost and found Platonic Soulmates Storm Spotter Some Things to Know About Me The Blacksmith’s Daughter (booklet) OurObOrOs 283361 992924 The Duality of Intellect A nuclear bomb went off three blocks from my apartment A Trip To See Dad Picturesque Magic Rocks Verticitatem subj: weekly report: Sandcastles The Forest A Monster Scars A Pair of Jeans

Rich Kennedy Madeleine Baum*

Inside cover

Claire Abby Bratton lynn nguyen Adrian Deslongchamps Jason Riedy

Nox Noe Diamond Shajazz Ursula Patrick Flynn Jennifer Hill Kenzie Rae Vanacore Rachel DeTone Francesca Delaney Francesca Delaney Katarina Boss London Emmerich Erika Mitchell Erika Mitchell Jaden Schuster

18–20

John Bateman Ryan Cooper RM Parker Madeleine Baum* Lee Nicoloro Ness Agnihotri Kaiy Muhammad Becky Henrikson Aaron Becker Wallace Wallace Prionti Nasir

46–47

12–13 14–15 16

23 24–25 26 31 33 35 35 39 40 42 43 44

49 50 52 54 56 59 61 64–68 70–71 72

*The University Writing Program (UWP) 2022 Award for the Best Literary Submission: Madeleine Baum, author of Telemetry and Magic Rocks Honorable Mention: Nox Noe, author of Transcript of #749’s Testimony, Ceno 6, 5209

Telemetry

i remember holding in my palm a hummingbird paralyzed, as soon as it took contact with me, allowed us both entry through a door a passage of time in which noncessation ceased a proclamation made by the air sucked in around us; and off it flew

Telemetry ♦ Madeleine Baum

Cicada Wings ♦ Dorothy Marquet

Come on Back to Me (Virtual Reality) ♦ Isabelle Anderson

How many stamps do I need to send a care package into deep space? (Asking for a friend.) I want to greet you the way planets do when they pass by in their orbits, the way moons postmark their regards. Let my electromagnetic radiation read off to you the life I’ve lived while you were on the other side of the sun. I know you seek the recognition of astronomers to verify your existence because you can’t feel your own gravity, but let my orbital dynamics be proof enough— trust me, I’ve run the math, and you have shaped this course. I want to write to you via formal white paper report. (Short is sweet, but I am only ever one of those things.) You can file it with the rest of our correspondence and from this body of evidence build a case for extraterrestrial life, because all my words are saying that you’re not alone out there. I want to call you up even though up is relative, devoid of meaning; the void’s convening on your address, but when things get a little too close to 0K I’ll be here to see if tidal heating works over Skype and remind you there are benefits to imperfect orbits. We both rotate on our own axes, but you should know that I’ve always found your friendship to be revolutionary. I want to say hello like we compose the solar system so I text you hey, nerd and wait for your satellites to find me.

How many stamps...? ♦ Claire Abby Bratton

home A nick from the blade eats at a small corner of my fingertip, the orange essence stinging my skin. The teardrop of blood swells like a shiny hue of ruby Swirling, then Staying, then Stopping, Before I run it quickly under cold water biting my lip to stop my eyes from Running.

Running, like my tiny legs up the stairs, away from perpetual darkness that hid the Vietnamese demons, (like that snake that swallows small children Or the virgin ghosts that haunt strangers) that grows and emerges as my imagination wanders. Running, so that the thought will dissipate when I crash under the warm covers, until I’m safe in the room with three other beating hearts instead of Just my own.

home ♦ lynn nguyen

As hands reach over me for the plate of fruit slices My clumsy hands tried to neatly cut, we stare at the changing screen of fast driving motorbikes and green growing rice fields, my parents rambling about how different Their life would have been if they had stayed. Perhaps it could be sweeter, like the orange but maybe it could have been more sour like the grape. But I watch the screen and think How much warmer could that different life be? The heavy blankets were already enough.

Strawberries ♦ Katarina Boss

birthname When I was born, God gently untold me the truth. yes, i know what’s been said: god gave us wheat so we could make bread and grapes so that we could make wine. still, though, could he stand this thing i am turning myself into? the freckles darkening my shoulderblades, each the size of a golden fingertip — are they the absence of a once-gifted light?

Shifting ♦ Neil Williamson

there must’ve been so much more magic in the world back then that abram and sarai were so sure it was you calling them to change their names and not their own hearts beating harsh with false positives. the bible was never clear (oh, if i had a nickel) how abraham and sarah felt about their new names. i wonder if they scorned their old ones, and if i ought to scorn mine. which would be more appropriate: an effigy, or an empty casket funeral? or skirting my hands down the lapels of a well-loved coat as i hang it up for the very last time? Is it possible? Could I love me both? once i watched my brother spin a quarter on a restaurant table, heads-tails-heads-tails-heads-tails. an image amorphous, wavering but certain between two axes, connected by a single ridged (rigid?) spine. that’s what it means, isn’t it? two parallel lines, certainly, but running alongside each other for so long that they ought to be friends; neighbors waving at each other in the windows, sharing knowing glances from opposite ends of a long dinner table; two dancers, moving in tandem in the mirror spinning and spinning and spinning — Focus, you’re seeing double. There’s only one person waltzing across the ballroom floor. I don’t pretend to know what color God’s eyes would be But I know his fingertips weren’t golden when he made me, Not black nor white. They were gray, I know it; When God made me, His hands were dripping with gray paint.

birthname ♦ Adrian Deslongchamps

Looking Like a Snack 16

My lips pucker up and you melt within my mouth stay sour gummy bear

Looking Like a Snack ♦ Jason Riedy

Desserts ♦ Kelly Jin

Excerpt from Transcript of #749’s Testimony, Ceno 6, 5209 Nox Noe Recorder: Personal account of #749, age 24, female, held on charges of capital terrorism and conspiracy against government. Please start at the beginning #749. #749: Well in the beginning I was born on Meso 3, 5186 in– Recorder: Beginning of the pertinent information please, #749. #749: Who says my birth isn’t pertinent information? What if I did what I did because I’m a fire sign? We’re known to be very volatile, you know. Recorder: Start with when and how you met the terrorist cell please, #749. Bear in mind that delaying your testimony will only delay your dinner.

#749: Fine, if you wanna play dirty. 5204 was the year I graduated high school. I considered going on to college but with the raids still going on it just seemed kinda pointless. Instead, I took a job at my friend’s club in underground Sussex. The patrons were bastards, scumbags and streetrats that were usually too busy fighting each other to give a damn about the actual purpose of the club, but the pay wasn’t complete shit and housing was practically included the way staff bunked in one of the club’s sublevels. The job came with the bonus of being hunted by the police but I didn’t really care about that. I was just running tables at the start– Recorder: So, at that point The Hadean was already a terrorist front? #749: I don’t know. Ask Ajax if you want a comprehensive history of The Hadean; I just worked there. [#749 props feet on table, noise is unusually loud] Recorder: [Recorder sighs] #823 is notably uncooperative and refuses to reveal any information pertaining to The Hadean. What did you know to be the purpose of the club? #749: Yeah, that sounds like Ajax. It was just another underground club that provided an escape from the hell you government types created. It kept people up to date on the newest laws and how to subvert them. Recorder: And you would not consider that terroristic behavior?

#749: No, I would consider that normal civilian behavior. Recorder: And how did you meet #823 in the first place? #749: I don’t know, it was at some house party. I was drunk off my ass and nearly puked on his bike. He was pissed; we cussed each other out for a few minutes and then went to some overnight diner and noshed. Recorder: Is noshed an innuendo? #749: What the fuck? No. It means we gorged ourselves like pigs on some waffles and tried not to puke. Again. Jesus, do you government types even eat? Recorder: I see. Were you aware of #823’s political alignment? #749: Well, considering his whole streetpunk aesthetic and fuck the cops bumper sticker I guessed he wasn’t exactly lapping out of the prime minister’s asshole but it’s not like I asked him for a laundry list of all his crimes. Recorder: [Recorder coughs] Noted. Please continue your account. #749: Where was I before you interrupted me? Right, well like I said I was just a table runner at the start. Hadean’s staff was pretty alright. Well, Nash was a prick but what do you expect from North Londoners? For the most part they were a pretty cool group who were always willing to lend a hand. They let me bunk with them in the second sublevel, like I mentioned before, which was pretty neat. Anything to avoid Sussex’s rent. But, yeah, I was mostly just ferrying drinks and orders at the start. Then Nova disappeared– which by the way did you have anything to do with that? Recorder: I am not at liberty to discuss unrelated ongoing cases at this time. #749: Yeah, that’s what I thought. [#749 drops head onto back of chair, dull thunk is heard] Anyways, Ajax moved me to the bar after Nova disappeared. And let me just say: tips are fucking wonderful at the bar. Blow a kiss here, throw a wink there, and boom! You’ve just earned yourself a hundred cene tip. God, trashed people are the fucking best.

Recorder: [Recorder sighs] Please continue, #749. *** #749: You don’t seem like you completely buy into the government’s crap. Why are you working for them then? Recorder: I do not have the authority to judge the morals of the government. #749: If you don’t then who will? [#749 stands] Tell you what: think it over and come find me when you have an answer. Recorder: I have not cleared you to leave yet, #749. Sit down. #749: Yeah, about that... [commotion can be heard from outside] Recorder: Command, this is interrogation room delta. There are sounds of a struggle outside. What is your status?

#749: Did you really think we’d let you capture us all? I’ll give you a hint, we weren’t just here for the thrilling conversation. As they say, if you can’t slay the dragon then you better castrate it. Recorder: Command? [Door opens] #823: Sorry to interrupt. Recorder: You can’t be in here. #749: Ajax! Right on time. Well, it’s been a pleasure Mr. government official. I look forward to hearing your answer. Until then ta ta! Recorder: Stop– [Bang] End of Transcript

Journey (series, prev pages) ♦ Lee Nicoloro

Excerpt from Transcript of #749’s Testimony, Ceno 6, 5209 (prev pages) ♦ Nox Noe

Heavenly Hue ♦ Selena Eyob

My Beautiful Hair Another day the air brush against my brown skin My toeless heels pressed firm into the dirt Here I stand at the same place for ages Fragile spine bent forward over troubled water My hair is colorful in the fall Each strand tells a story Plucked like petals from a rose One is for remembering the Indigenous People One is for remembering African Enslaved People One is for remembering what love feels like Today a small child hugged me I felt their tiny arms barely wrap around my thick frame Tomorrow September will visit That same child will experience school for the first time Last week a man was nervous about a big decision under my care When his significant other showed up, the lump in his throat subsided. The day after that, an old woman’s final wishes were to be close by me. I have beautiful hair. Another day the air brush against my brown skin My toeless heels pressed firm into the dirt Here I stand at the same place for ages Fragile spine bent forward over troubled water My hair is colorful in the fall Each strand tells a story Plucked like petals from a rose When December arrives My aging body dies Here I lean over frozen water Although I may not be here Only for a short while My hair will tell stories Waiting til’ Spring When the sun reaches my buds again My strands tell a story of a time When Tomorrow visits and Today arrives The wind will swell My hair becomes a crown I have beautiful hair.

My Beautiful Hair ♦ Diamond Shajazz Ursula

To an old friend which I met in the forest The forest is a collection of trees always you told me the forest collects memories like a samplish child— forgive me, I revise as ink is less than forgiving bleeds deeply and sets before thoughts collect—

The forest is a collection of trees and tree-things. A tree is a collection of trees, rooted and common. Forgive me that time distracts. I am wise and I am older now expecting memory to serve, finding it keeps fruit at arm’s length and drips wet drops of salience. So sapped am I even while branches grow chaotic serving no one in particular, the handholds I knew were probably grown for some other victim to the folly that a tree were a ladder to some higher knowledge.

(The forest is a collection of trees and tree-things. A tree is a collection of trees, rooted and common.) Dense foliage blocks out the Sun. Rays are clever un-purposed, directional, breaking in through into the cover but you before I knew that— walked through the forest like a bird flies through the forest like creatures of all classifications, sorts, and types live and then die in the forest. I met you in such a place. – A.T.

To an old friend which I met in the forest ♦ Patrick Flynn

Lost and found I misplaced my love for you I looked for it in all the places I last remember seeing it I check next to the alarm clock that never seemed to ring after our nights together I move the letters I wrote to never be read Look for it in the spaces of the texts you should have sent It is not sitting there under my confidential confessions I cannot see it in the words you never said I open the closet that accumulates everything that I lose I search through the boxes and the bags, Dig through the Halloween decorations and the old math tests and the broken flip flops I do not find it I go to the pocket of my jeans where I carried it for months I go to my washer and my dryer Check the lint trap in case it fell out in the laundry Still I do not find what I am looking for

I am defeated I lost my love I do not know where I put it I misplaced my love for you I let my roommate borrow it like it is my saucepan I hand it down to my sister like it is a dress that I outgrew I share it with my best friend like a piece of hot gossip I give it to my dad on Christmas, and on Father’s Day, and on 363 other days I lend it to my mom like it is a book I think she should read When she is done I do not ask for it back I misplaced it in all the places where love has been misplaced in me I carried it with me for months Let it become a part of me Very rarely did it ever leave my pocket How did I not notice it dropping from my hand when I was playing with my little cousin? How did I let it get lost in his pile of legos? I don’t think I will ask for it back Even if it is possible to find somewhere in his bins and bins of plastic bricks He could use it to build a skyscraper It could be the last piece on the top of his pyramid The keystone to his Arch of Titus You were not using it anyway

Lost and found ♦ Jennifer Hill

LOST ♦ Mason Igawa

Pose-Pandemic ♦ Michael D. McNaught

Beauty in the Chaos (opposite page) ♦ Natalie Doback

July ♦ Neil Williamson

Platonic Soulmates ♦ Kenzie Rae Vanacore

Sometimes I’m afraid that maybe you think we were better friends than lovers– and that maybe you regret saying you were in love because you thought it was the only way to define the word us. But I knew I was spelling it differently and loved you with a love that was more than love, and that was dangerous.

I think I confused the word love with love because when I was little, I thought Peter Pan would come to my window and sweep me away and take me to neverland– but it never happened because I was reading the wrong ending.

Platonic Soulmates

I have found that soul mates can be both, or either, erotic and platonic and neither are more or less.

Maybe I looked for r-o-m-a-n-c-e because I thought it guaranteed happiness growth self-improvement perfect pleasure but when you left me I felt the earth drain out of my body.

I used to think our souls were made with the same material but maybe the material was too much alike and nothing stuck right.

Augustine ♦ Zander Engelke

Storm Spotter ♦ Rachel DeTone

BOY I saw that storm through my spyglass When it was still just a speck. You told me I was crazy, that I needed to try harder To ignore The breeze picking up speed

Now that you can finally see the storm you’re taking all the credit meanwhile, it’s already on our harbor

But I saw it And I reacted

True. Maybe it’s an issue that I saw it because I am always on the lookout,

Storm Spotter

“Look harder, look harder” At the waves crashing into us. Then a look of betrayal: “Why didn’t you warn me?”

That was nice, too But the swirls started an itch in my mind, Seeming more and more Like the tumultuous waves in my periphery

Averted, I found interest in the boards beneath my shoes, Poetic in their interlacing patterns Parts of past life swirling into one another Swirling until it became whole, United

“Look harder, look harder!” You said. And I sometimes make chasing storms my hobby So instead, for you I did

And I did. Diverted, I looked for a better view. Landing on the waves’ crests, blinding sparkles I admit, my sight was much prettier that way But the vision hazed As the heavy clouds moved in

Achlys ♦ Emma Mankowski

Some Things to Know, About Me ♦ Francesca Delaney

Here are some new things you should know I’m reading again like a kid I’m trying new music, a little bit at a time I love movies, but it’s hard to find good ones I want to draw and create more And every day I’m trying to reconnect with what I love Spend time writing and thinking and entertaining I pass smiles with strangers I hope to know And chase that feeling of living they keep telling me about In every laugh and knowing glance And it starts to feel like those stories they write Sound like those lyrics and pounding drums Every main character moment In a perfectly drawn scene

I don’t read I don’t listen to new music I say I love movies but I haven’t seen a new one in a long time I say I love to draw but I never really draw And I hate the way the drums feel in my chest it feels so intrusive But I want to know what it feels like to live In the way people surf on crowds And feel the wind through a midnight drive Or the way the calm feels when you are just with one other person Like the way it is in books I don’t read In songs I have yet to discover The films that I skipped over In the portrait of your face that I will lovingly paint

About Me

Here are some things to know about me

Some Things to Know

Raccoon ♦ Mikayla Bader

Untitled (prev spread) ♦ Tong Mo

THE BLACKSMITH’S DAUGHTER

The Blacksmith’s Daughter ♦ Katarina Boss

THE BLACKSMITH’S DAUGHTER

The Blacksmith’s Daughter ♦ Katarina Boss

he world only begins at sunrise,

as it always does. I sit below a

ratty tarp supported by some rotten beams, dusty light freckling through the holes of the sheet. Despite these little illusions, of dancing sunlight and swaying grass, there’s nothing to be felt. Craning for a look at the expanse of pixelated sky, my gaze is compelled otherwise and I instead see red. My hand brushes my knee idly, before returning to a blurry mess posing as a series of purls and knits. I have no name besides the title of “The Blacksmith’s Daughter.” Whether my father or mother is beyond me. I simply sell the wares. My yarn stretches on for eternity as I pull the wool across the needle and my finger. I intend to cut myself free from this plain market. No matter how many rows I stitch, my work never grows. My needle reflects light, but not my face, nor any proof of my existence beyond my hitbox. Give me some metal, I’ll forge my own means. A hero approaches. This protagonist runs into posts and gets stuck on turns, jumping into squats while the townspeople and shopkeepers eye with mild amusement. Designed with plain clothes and traits, we are a small and unimportant marketplace. Colorful elixirs, potions, and scrolls shimmer at our dirtied stalls. Or gleaming armor, in my own stand. Against my volition, my face lifts towards the tall hero, adorned in a bizarre assortment of armor. A chest plate from the Eternal Flame quest, a helmet from the Dragons of a Scale special, and so forth. I open my mouth as though a puppet with pulled strings, and the default exchange begins:

“Brave warrior, I–” Suddenly, I am pushed onto my stool again to resume knitting. My hands mechanically move the needles as the hero enters my stall and begins bashing every pot and vase. A row of knits. Terracotta shards shatter and fade into the ground. A row of purls. The player stands over the pair of leather gloves, and then leaves the item and returns to me. It’s business as usual. I stand again as the player approaches, my speech macheted and reduced to fragments of a conversation until it too fades like the shards of clay on my shop’s floor. “Brave warrior– Your coura– Please accept– Today’s sp–” My hands tighten around the long needles, the hatred that fills my gut and rises to my throat distracts me from the peculiarity that I still have my knitting materials. They usually fade when I stand. “An enchan– The helmet of dw– Ah you’re interes– The sword of–” I cannot stand the humiliation any longer, feeling as though I’ll burst if cut off once more. They turn away and “Farewell, my champion,” leaves my mouth as designed, but I feel the strangest sort of compulsion. Or rather, the lack of one holding me back. In a single step, my first step out from this torn tarp and into the light, I find my hand still secured about my needle. But my needle secured in the warrior’s back, piercing his chainmail with distorted pulses. He’s unable to see what has stunned him before shattering and disappearing from the ground. It seems like the world had begun at sunrise, for the last time.

…

Everything erupted moments later. The elixir shopkeep experimentally threw new words into his given dialogue, and before long experimentally threw a glass bottle over a player’s head. I start with a walk and work my way up to a clunky sprint through the town, my boots’ heels striking the cobblestone as I get to see the market from a view other than my own wretched stall. It is terrifying. It is exhilarating. I watch a courtesan beat a bard with his own lute and laugh for the first time. She looks up to me with a clumsy smile and winks, I return her smile before continuing my exploration of the square. The sun is blinding and I can feel the heat that presses down on me, my knitting needles warm against my palm and finger pads, the blood has since disappeared. I hold them up to the light, there is still no reflection of me. I run along.

…

Once away from where the town bustles with characters, I discover an expanse of lush green that sways in a wind that I can feel pulling at me for the first time. There is a circle of stones for a fire that has been put out long ago, and a neighboring crate with higher resolution than the likes of the wood in the ashy campfire. I suck in a breath, then pick it up and smash it onto the ground. Nothing comes of it. The excitement in destroying the item was short-lived, but intoxicating. In the breeze, I can make out gentle and serene music drifting through the fields. So when I approach a nearby crate and the music lurches into something dark, I freeze and watch the grass as it squirms away from an approaching shadow.

I wrap my fingers into the handle of the crate cautiously before spinning and smashing it to splinters against the head of whatever was behind me. They stagger over, sputtering. Two raw potatoes fall from the crate. “OW?” they eloquently introduce themself. I brandish my needle. “Whoa, whoa, wait I’m sorry!” the player says, holding up their hands. They’re dressed in a long beat-up white tunic, their chest, forearms, and legs suited in silver armor, a plague mask and hood obscuring their face. After some awkward moments, I realize they’re waiting for me to speak. I clear my throat. “Brave warrior–” I begin and immediately stop, shaking my head self-consciously. I try to remember other terms I hear from the players at the market, practicing a new greeting under my breath. “Bastard!” I exclaim proudly. The beaked player jerks back in surprise, and then just as quickly becomes still. “Sorry?” “Bastard!” I look at them expectantly. They stare back. Then after a moment: “...Bastard?” Satisfied, I lower my needle and pick up the potatoes. It feels denser than I imagined. I offer half the loot to what I think might be the first friend I’ve made, and they accept the offering gingerly. The potato sits cradled in both hands, but the beak faces me. “If you don’t mind my asking,” the player says in a much calmer voice, then suddenly freezes. A moment passes before their message comes out, sped up yet in the same confused and reserved tone. “Myinternetiskindabad, can you please tell me what’s happening?”

…

Though the player had a “poor connection,” I was able to gather that they were a cleric and had been for quite some time. They seemed to withhold their name under the assumption I withheld mine, but the text over my head reading “The Blacksmith’s Daughter” truly was the only title I’d known. After all, who would call my name? Out of fairness, I offered to call them by the name that floated above them. “Please don’t call me that.” Their beaked head dropped into their hands. “For what reason, Lunchablezz97?” “Because I made this account in elementary school and can’t change the username,” Lunchablezz97 answered bashfully. I thought about this while watching the potato warm over the flickering tongues of the campfire’s flames, remembering the courtesan from the market and the general violence across the entire map. “Should you have been playing this as a child?” “Definitely no-o-o-ot.” They laugh with a stutter, their words and laughter compressed and expanded like an accordion. Their image becomes fragments and then reform after a moment, and they ask “Hello?” “Hello?” I echo. “Okay, thanks,” they say, and before I can inquire further the player asks, “So if you’re an NPC, how are you…” They gesture to all of me. I wait for them to finish, assuming the connection is breaking up, but they remain fully rendered. “Hello?” they ask again curiously, and I echo it back. “Oh, it’s not lagging. Just, what happened?” 97 asks.

“I’m not sure,” I answer honestly. “Every day has been the same routines and exchanges, and now we can interact with the game as players.” The player nods and collects the food from the campfire and back to me. “You accepted that I’m not a player quickly,” I note. “Why are you here?” “I’ve actually encountered you before at the market a few times, I recognized your character,” they say. I nod, even though I don’t remember this cleric, I can imagine having forgotten them with the swarms of customers throughout the day. “I managed to get on before the devs shut down the login. The news about the rogue NPCs was definitely worth checking out. So I want to stick around.” They pick up the potato and it disappears when they hold it near their face. “Besides, it’s nice talking to you when you’re not whacking a box over my head.” I smile at this and listen to the new track for the nearing dawn. I had always retired into nothing by this hour, I’ve never had a conversation this late. I’ve never had a conversation at all really, despite thousands of interactions. “You should’ve seen the last guy,” I say plainly, hoping they’re amused under that bird mask. I bring the potato near my face, but nothing happens. 97 raises a hand to their chin. “Maybe your health is too high? How full is your heart?” “I don’t have one.” “That’s a terrifying answer, thanks. Here, try this.” They unequip their cloak and pass it over to me. When I pick it up it drops onto my shoulder and over my head.

“Huh, I guess you can put on gear. Take th-i-i-i-s,” they sputter through the poor connection, a better pair of boots, gloves, a chestplate, and a few miscellaneous rings and amulets. “Hello? Okay cool, you look good!” I still have no idea what I look like, but there’s a question more pressing than that. “Why do you keep saying that?” “Oh,” 97 brings their hand to the back of their head. “Sorry about that, it’s just when my connection drops I want to make sure you’re there.” “Hello.” I say experimentally. I nod. “I’ll be Hello.” “Hello?” “Yes. Now, I want to go on a quest, will you help me?” 97 doesn’t fight me on the name, they simply store my food in their inventory and follow me. “What’s the mission?” “Oh, I’m going to kill the developers.”

… There are monsters now in the night, so we travel quietly and hide behind boulders and trees. “What do you mean you want to kill the devs?” 97 hisses. “No,” I correct softly. “I mean that I’m going to kill them.” We’re headed towards the heart of the map, the City. I trust at least some of the creators are observing the bug at the busiest location for NPCs, and I intend to defeat them there. 97 cuts in front of me. “What are you talking about?” “You said the devs already shut the login down, right? It’s only a matter of time before they reboot whatever they need to reduce the NPCs back

to puppets. If I can kill them, I can save all of us,” I explain. 97 erupts into blocks before me and reassembles again. “Hello? I’m really sorry, but I don’t think that’ll work.” I wait expectantly, impatiently. “The creators don’t need a playable character to de-bug or reboot. There’s a better chance we wouldn’t even make it to the City in time. It’s not a boss battle or some raid. I’m sorry.” I’m clutching the needles again, but it’s not like before. The grief and pressure I feel all throughout my skin isn’t an explosion of rage outwards, instead, I feel small as though everything within me could collapse in on itself. “So why did you give me all this gear? It won’t last, what are you doing here?” I demand. 97 fidgets with their accessories in thought, gauntlet strings and a black ring adorning their middle finger, before tilting their head back to see the stars. I followed their gaze, I hadn’t realized how breathtaking the graphics were in the endless sky. Beneath their beak, I can see dimples and a small smile. “It’s time well spent, don’t you think?” It’s the first time I get to choose. And I choose to believe them.

OurObOrOs

Ouroboros are snakes that eat their own tails, so Utterly large that they are forced to consume themselves Repeatedly just to simply exist. This cycle repeats On loop until the end of time, or until the serpent is Brought down by a mighty god Of thunder and lightning. But the snake Refuses to let the cycle die, so it Obliterates the god as well, a kill for a kill Symbolizing the endless cycle of death and rebirth. Serpents like these appear across the world On every continent in a great many cultures Revealing that the cycle of life and death is an Omnipresent thing, brought forth through reincarnation Baked into the fibers of our beings. Ouroboros may just be snakes from myths, but they Represent something far greater than themselves, far more Universal. Life existing on a scale so massive that One can only exist by cannibalizing oneself.

OurObOrOs ♦ London Emmerich

Vibrant Afterlife ♦ Marissa Hayes

283361 deep as the abyss of the sea, sombre yet ataraxic indefinite apprehension, though intelligent, devout, and limitless. decorticate the façade to cognize dysthymia.

kiss you till we bleed ♦ Dandong Ouyang

992924 ardor, amativeness, endearment; vexation, animosity, blare. ichor entwines beings. without genesis, without revelation.

283361, 992924 ♦ Erika Mitchell

The Duality of Intellect A scholar am I, energetic and sly with a heart like that of a snake Imagine the mischief that I have been blessed with too grounded for morals to take root in my soul, it’s hollow as all the leaves rotting in Winter Dare I minimize the startling size of my exhilarating cunning? Never! The blanketing sadness that rivals my madness has only increased my dread. This knowledge I clutch is presented as such an illuminating gift, but instead its ravenous clutch is squeezing too much of my sanity from my control The price of my intellect has gone unchecked Is it worth the cost of my soul?

The Duality of Intellect ♦ Jaden Schuster

Cosmic ♦ Kelly Jin

A nuclear bomb went off three blocks from my apartment

Fortunately, or perhaps not I’ve yet to see, I also experienced an acute dilation of time At the moment of the blast I had enough time to count every atom between me and the blast Somewhere around 2.57 x 103542 atoms was all that separated me from something hot enough to turn steel into vapour Nuclear bombs fascinate me, they work by chain reaction that only can occur Once the body of material has reached the proper conditions along the axis of density and mass 3.48 x 102421 Okay okay, I get it jeez I’ve not got much time left you don’t have to tell me twice Luckily I’m close enough to the blast that I will experience instant vaporization, Well as long as the dilation of time wears off bewfore then Long slow vaporization sounds like a terrible way to go, as every water molecule in your body Rushes to escape its cozy nesting place within your mushy form The atmosphere in your lungs catches fire before you know what’s happening 4.39 x 101910 Alright fair enough At this point the heat has begun to reach me, I went blind from the flash what feels like years ago So I’ve had nothing to indicate what was coming for me, but now it feels warm Like a fire on a cold night, like friends huddled around a space heater in a cabin With hundreds of little snowflakes clinging to the window trying to steal what warmth they can In their short cold existence Warm like the way your mother holds you when you’re a kid 5.21 x 10856 Oh man, I was supposed to call mom today This won’t be good for her, she named me after her father, who I’ve never met I think he died in a nuclear blast as well, I don’t remember the story exactly 6.19 x 10489 Honestly the power of coincidence is rather potent, I met the same person twice on the subway Almost by a year and a half, we were going to a hockey game, parked next to each other in the parking garage and took the subway to the arena at the same time. 7.03 x 1027

At this point the radiation has washed over me, firing every neuron in my brain Unraveling the dust from which I was made, to the atoms of which it was made To quarks from which they were made, to the energy from which everything is made At that moment I am everyone and I am no one. I am every thank you uttered from a stranger’s mouth as I hold the door, I am every car horn pounded on as someone gets cut off in traffic, I am the size of the universe, my consciousness expanded to the size of god, I am a single grain of sand, in a vast desert, propelled on a cosmic spec of dust through the infinite I am the void, hungry for heat, swallowing everything I can fit inside me I am every pulse in every neuron as people think of me I am nothing but a micrometer difference in the wall behind me when the blast went off Like flash photography captured on cement.

A nuclear bomb... ♦ John Bateman

Fishing No.1 ♦ Marcia Liu

A Trip To See Dad When we go to see dad, we bring rocks. He liked To bring rocks when he saw his dad. It was tradition He always said, had to be done. Yet I forget Every time. So I picked up rocks from the side of the road. I doubt He will care; rocks can’t be tracked. Weather’s never good When we arrive. But he’s never mad when we are here. Waiting Under the old oak tree. We place the rocks On the large stone he calls home. We talk About life. I tell him how much I miss him. I tell him I remembered the rocks.

A Trip to See Dad ♦ Ryan Cooper

Picturesque

It’s raining Bear with me, Sit by the window and watch the rain As the drops race, rolling smoothly down the glass pane. It’s just for a while, okay? I need you To stay beside me. This way we don’t have to be alone. There’s not much light left outside the window, but it’s still truly Picturesque. You’re wishing that you brought your camera, and I Am a ghost, wishing I had brought a coat. I only want to comfort you, but I barely Exist. Even simply apologizing Is far too tiring right now. Take the picture for me, would you? I know that you forgot your camera But I never want to let go of this moment, I just need one photo, to prove That you were here with me. I miss you when you’re not here. I miss the rain when it leaves as well, Even though in the cold, in the rain I would just dissolve, return, in drops and in streams, back to the earth. If I were to leave this place alone, we might never meet again. No, don’t go. You don’t have to apologize. I’m the one who should be sorry, Let’s just go together sometime, I can’t go alone, but we can still Comfort each other through the storm. We don’t have to admit defeat just because It’s raining.

Picturesque ♦ RM Parker

Lagging ♦ Ryan Reyes

Magic Rocks Many stones in my palm Tracks of hands storing light Stacks of rain from the right Sent a narrow path down night

Crackle grasp as a song Simple trade to the mind Taste the fruit then the rind Flutters softly from behind Take the root and the key Feel it form just as wide Subtle twist to the side Feel the embers all collide Singing wrist and the sea Saucer flung down the line Taking place as a shrine Stories always intertwine

Magic Rocks ♦ Madeleine Baum

Solo Shadows, Saxophone Shadows, Bass Shadows (series) ♦ Mikayla Bader

Verticitatem In classic times there was no sense of us Though known, we far afield were always kept Imprisoned by the likes of Cunaeus Were you; and I, in ferric observation wept

Then—hark!—the day of vindication came That we were one, if not in kind then force Our rules of likes and opposites the same How from each other were we e’er divorced? From charge you lend me life, and I to you Together, always, growing more replete Our endless light, that which I held most true I fain to say was naught but pure conceit For now you cause affront to Nature’s law You tear in twain our bonds and hence withdraw

Verticitatem ♦ Lee Nicoloro

Hard to be simple ♦ Marcia Liu

subj: weekly report:

processing quotas met with overtime. team is grateful for job security q: brine causing sores and irritation. please advise? our arms well-preserved like the units we handle sallowing like old age yet tight-wound like youth what our skin used to feel like, we can’t remember under the scar tissue and indented marks is nothing that can be polished to, only bone when we die, will our children cure us like this? q: splitting holding up the line. please advise? their blood drains into our hands. their pores are our pores. I feel I have grown closer in spirit in flesh in thought to those I handle than those I live with q: little to no elasticity. please advise? we tie them to their pegs and they fall to shreds. reeking liquid through my fingers blends with what seeps out of my burns chopped and screwed and punch-carded stretched over tile floors with a million tiny leashes pre-dried in salt-lined sweatshop closets q: very low efficiency on returns. please advise? skins patterned rot with characteristic scars of industry work perforated like easy-tear paper bits of thread congealed with fat still dangling from some of the holes after branding cut out and tossed away, what they lived as, very little left. re: thank you for inquiry. average yield from each unit unit return - upbringing cost = net profit 20-30%. all metrics normal. it is such a privilege to be bringing this field of art into the present!

subj: weekly report: ♦ Ness Agnihotri

Laundry Room ♦ Katarina Boss

Illuminating the Subject ♦ Jackson Baker

Sandcastles Granules of memory crumble sifting through his wrinkled hands The kingdom that he built from nothing Scours his body As the sand rushes home A trickle of sand once fell from the sky Infinite until it wasn’t The world inverted itself that day Returned to the unknowing That created and will claim us all The bright light glares omniscient Focused through glass Onto a man with no cover And no future He struggles to stay on the surface Even as the levels drop Toward the shifting gates to oblivion That he prayed for As the old man disappears, I reach out to return the hourglass to the shelf The tea is done steeping

Sandcastles ♦ Kaiy Muhammad

The Bride ♦ Gabriella Fatigati

The Forest Three chimes from a bundle of bones, punched through with knives, ring through the air. Hangs from the branches of fang trees, Of what used to be thick-trunked, brown, and leafy, Swinging swiftly to the windy atmosphere. Each ring pulsates through the air, concentric circles, louder then quieter, dripping of a black substance that glistens in the pale moonlight. Each tree has a white surface, and crimson veins, delight, running down slowly, but surely, corrupting the green grounds below. The amazing greens withers away, so powerful it does so Releasing a dark, smokey flame Through the once-lit sky.

The Forest ♦ Becky Henrikson

Early Fall ♦ Nel Pittman

Bonny ♦ Zander Engelke

A Monster Aaron Becker A small collection of documents regarding occurrences in my area these past few months. Some have been abridged into what I feel are their most distilled, affecting forms. Others are whole cloth fabrication, created in an attempt to contextualize and make sense of what happened. Contents: 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6.

FW: RE: Weekly: Copperwood bee_monster Draft (2) what_it_might’ve_been_like Size of Us All Excerpts the_unsound_in_my_web

.msg .txt .docx .docx .docx .txt

1. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------- FW: RE: Weekly: Copperwood.msg ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I don’t know why I bother. It’s not like we’re going to change course because one person “felt uncomfortable” with it. There’s too much momentum for any of us to actually do anything about anything. Still good for lunch? -------------------------------------From: Kelsey Farber <...> Sent: Tuesday, Apr 6, 2021 8:55 AM To: Multiple Recipients <...> Subject: RE: Weekly: Copperwood Hi again, all. I’m still uncomfortable signing off on anything claiming this was a false alarm/that the case should be closed. As a department, we’re ostensibly the last line of defense for people in exactly this sort of situation. I don’t see how it makes a difference that the problem we encountered wasn’t the problem we anticipated. On top of that, I seriously think we’re not putting enough stock in certain elements of C. & L.’s report. It seems to me like it directly contradicts the narrative we’re establishing. If I’m missing anything, or you think you’ve got any additional information that could recontextualize the situation for me, feel free to schedule a meeting or to just stop by. I’m happy to discuss further! It’s just, as it stands, I can’t in good conscience add my name to that document. - Kels ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

2. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------- bee_monster.txt ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ I cannot care for the bees because I cannot care for myself. /The monster is distant./ They’re covered head to toe in mites. /It wants me,/ They have no queen. /But it moves so slowly./ Today, it snowed, and I know they weren’t ready for it. /I could stand motionless for years,/ The flowers were in full bloom. /And I do./ I can’t care for them. /And suddenly, the monster encompasses and devours me./

And now, they can’t care for themselves, either. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 3. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Draft (2).docx -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Consider: - A raccoon. Its perfect little face and hands. Its thick coat, its curious nature. The way it’s sprawled out dead with flies lapping moisture from its eyes. The way that, a quarter mile down the way, there’s a patch of greyish grit, stamped level with the road. Consider how these two were once alike. - A fox. It lies motionless for months, crumpled against the wall of the on-ramp. Hold its color in your mind: otherworldly orange, turning brown, now the grey of decades-old dust. Remember its disappearance, those three days of nonstop rain. Where did it go? There’s a monster out there, they weren’t meant to die.

and

it’s

killing

these

creatures

ways

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

4. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------- what_it_might’ve_been_like.docx --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ The air is cool. The ground is like little springs below my feet. This must be how everyone felt before these shitty developments went up everywhere. One tiny patch of trees just doesn’t cut it. And, it fucks up the ecosystems. That’s probably why this thing’s out here in the first place -- amber waves of driedout lawns making them cross streets out of desperation. Must be easy to pick them off if all you need to do is wait by the road. j°â7z¾ä>9ßzóýâmçæ² That’s it. Exactly the sort of sound it’d make. Êxò3>ÃøÐX]È#9Ï®ôbaª MHE²¥y Coming from... That way. Yeah. bî£G£ÖªRGÀJÉDPÓQ$OºgšôiþRï8ñþçð2á

Those poor little things. Can’t believe it took this long for one of us to go out and just get it over with. There’s only so much you can write about something before you’re actually just running from it. Not that he’s a bad guy or a coward or anything. But he did know. What he said made so much sense. And he’d had that for what, months? And he didn’t do anything about it. óÕ²Êel³í *clunk* bña#EÎÚ^ŒƑE§nlö½#VTŸžœõüsïø³q Monstrous, indeed. But not worth writing about so much. Not worth getting in such a fuss ab— OËFÚÆÔRØK. Jesus. Couldn’t be a much scarier sound for a skittish little deer to hear before its back gets broken, now could there? *click* Hmm? qðîlyqêèæ×gknôu *chunk* ! ÛŒÃ6ÑC¶ÓŸÇYVI¥Á´9Ä1Ö|ŽÏL|S»Ç¹£Ú0V~XØ-D¦LLWÞÏÇÙÒ÷ŒÅ”Å¹TÅÑO×?Ü µÌÇE†F-È> *clank* ŸZ8ÖŠXAËÞYÎÁ¢Å&XZÇÉÙ+ÄEJÓ8MRÅZ$ÞÓWµÓH5ÔŸKI ÞDWÙKQ¿±ÆKÍKµÜS®IØE1®ÞD™0¶ÏEXŒNÔ>Ñ5ÆRÒ¥AØ2 *crunch* ÉNØŒMÈCŽ ÌGÔÌX4ÒƑETÒA±¾U7ÔÕO¹B6±µDHS®SËMI#ÐBP²¤ÊÐØT4KÅQTÞ%NÃTYMVRÔ£ÓÃ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

5. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Size of Us All Excerpts.docx -----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ “...and now, you should yourself conceive of the monster, just as it conceived of you: The monster is a boundless array of interconnected gears, joined by shafts and belts and slithering worms. It gnashes its teeth as it turns and churns, rushing here and lagging there and crushing lives without a moment spared. From where does it derive energy? To where does it transfer it? The questions are unanswerable. From the inside, there is only...” “...a twofold sense. Think of something you can hold in your hands, say, a windup toy. It has a key to wind it with and some mechanism through which it expels the wound energy. These are its spatial boundaries. Its temporal boundaries are more abstract: Each of its components, in some sense or another, came into existence at specific times, and at others they will cease to be. At different moments within that window of time, the toy itself begins and ends. I describe this to illustrate how the monster is not. It either has no such boundaries, or else they are unknowable. We as humans, or at least I, as a human, take solace in knowing something’s beginnings and ends. I crave those places where an object or idea can be touched, those times when I first learn of it and when I can finally let it go. The monster is...” “...something inside, something primal, that tells me this must be a lie or a half-truth; it must either be moving towards its own goal, or else it is serving a purpose to which such movement is ancillary. Is it indeed a wind-up box? Did someone give it a tremendous push ages ago so that, later, all its endless power might be released? Will that release be beautiful, or terrible? Will I bear witness to it? I don’t know. I don’t know. What scares me is that I don’t know.” ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Enchanted Pond ♦ Cenzi Quantock

6. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------- the_unsound_in_my_web.txt --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ The first time the fox came, I was scared. I heard by the unsound in my web her footsteps and I was overcome with fear and for several terrible instants I knew naught else. With time, though, I left my fear of the fox behind me. Now, I rejoice in her visits, for I know she means me no harm, and much has been revealed to me through them. Let me tell you what the fox told me when first she visited: “The other animals say you are wise. If you’re so wise, explain to me: Why do the men cower in their homes? What has changed? Neither I nor the others have noticed anything.” I too had noticed no change. The house in which I reside had lain empty for weeks, and the only news I received was that brought to me by the wandering harvestmen. So, I proposed to the fox an exchange of sorts: “Fox, you walk silently and hide yourself with great ease. Please, eavesdrop on these humans who shudder inside their homes. Return to me as often as you wish and relate to me their comings and their goings and their utterances therebetween. I will spin the currents into my web, and by its flowing unpattern I will divine all I can of their situation and of ours.” The fox looked at me with her cupreous eyes and said nothing for a long moment. Then, she nodded, snuffed, and slunk off into the night. So was our partnership and friendship begun.

/// Tonight, one-and-one-third full moons after her first visit, the fox never came. I waited and waited for her soft-stepping gait, for that pale flash of gold in the colorless wastes. I waited for what she might tell me, as I myself hunger for the knowledge nearly as much as the web does. But when she never came, when her graceful form was unmistakably absent throughout the whole harsh night, it did not surprise me. I do not mean to imply I was not mournful; simply, I had previously felt the tides of the web as hunch just as now, I feel them as fact. The fox is dead. Her head bears a great bloodied rift, and her coat of molten bronze now graces only a gravelly roadway with its elegance. The web tells me this, and so much more. It stretches my comprehension back, far back, to when the monster the humans speak of first slouched towards their ancient minds to be borne. It also pushes me forward, past many, many more full moons than I will ever know, to when the monster is no more. It is not a joyous occasion. All is bleak desolation, for how can the body stand without its skeleton? How can a being go on living without its very beating heart? ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A Monster ♦ Aaron Becker

Unraveling (opposite page) ♦ Maddie Aloi

Scars Content warning: explicit self-harm As I put my shaving razor away and step out of the shower I am reminded of all the times I let my impulses get the best of me That my story is literally written across my skin I run my hands down the keloid mountains and rolling craters of my geography They say: there was a battle here once Between head and heart and hands Like a charred tree is the remnants of a storm And my skin is singed with reds and purples and whites A history I can’t ignore

There was the time I lifted the open scissors to trace a thin line on my left forearm As I sat awake in the low glow of the ihome on my bedside table Although there was no bloodshed spilled on my soil yet The endorphins invaded my brain Declared a war on my world to get the feeling back again There was the time I sat in the school restroom Occupying the last bathroom stall My weapon in my hand as three girls advanced in I can’t quite remember what they said but their gossip pierces through my armor Before I blink there are 4 gaping canyons on my right thigh Rivers of red quell up And I am bleeding out, defeated This is the first time that I should’ve reached out for medical attention but didn’t Foreign aid has never been my strong suit There was the time I sliced my left thigh open so bad I woke up with a limp the next day My hills still crying into the makeshift bandages I taped over them I slide so neatly into the job of surgeon A welcome distraction to what was happening at the front lines Focusing on not how to stop the battle but how to clean up the aftermath Because the commander in my head said that when you live in musket fire you deserve to be burned

When my words stuck in my throat I had to make my body the battlefield my mind was living in There was the time I pleaded with my mother to drive me to the ER After I frantically furrowed into my stomach Trying to prove I was “bad enough” Finally broken enough to ask for reinforcements I reached out for help Learned how to rebuild my infrastructure after so much devastation Learned to let flowers grow in the palms of my hands Plant gardens instead of gravestones Let there be bouquets instead of bayonets There is no rebirth without a little blood My hills and canals might be man made but they still serve a purpose Reminding me that I am beautiful and strong That I will not let history repeat itself Instead, I write a new story Open my terrain for exploration And the next forest fire I will pull out marshmallows and graham crackers and tell myself I am okay That every Phoenix needs ash to rise up out of Every trail across my body giving me fresh air Because it has taken millennia for me to love this body To dig my roots deep into my soil To leave regret and hatred behind As I put my shaving razor away and step out of the shower I leave it hanging there Without a second glance

Scars ♦ Wallace Wallace

A Pair of Jeans The love language of one of my closest friends is attention. Imagine that I describe to him a problem. He listens to my verbose speech carefully, spends what seems like an unusually prolonged amount of time reflecting on it, and eventually breaks into a monologue that (mostly) slices through my fog. It is hard to explain what is different about this compared to other conversations because the most palpable differences exist between moment and moment. Even if there is no resolution to be reached, the attention that underpins the conversation stands in sharp contrast to advice generated against our mental databases of common knowledge. And when he can choose between pace and pause, he chooses the latter. I’m partly fascinated by attention because my own is awful. I flit between thought to thought, a moth thirsty for light.

I imagine attention as treasure, love as a pair of jeans, myself as a withering leaf, the person before me desperately trying to make conversation as a head morphing into a lightbulb and by the end of this sentence I will have found some metaphors and lost the treasure. But the metaphor, I’d like to think, is also a form of prolonged consideration. In an age of brevity, is it not a privilege to be described through something roundabout? (In an age of brevity, in an age of economic language, in an age of meeting minutes in an age of unpunctuated texts IAAO acronyms even repetition is form of a slow consideration.) I imagine the metaphor as a taxi. The one about love as a pair of jeans, for example, starts in the middle of nowhere, as if no thought underlies it. But if I begin to explain it, I think you will feel like you are going somewhere. At the end of the metaphor you will feel like you have arrived at some meaning, forced or otherwise. When I think of you as a head morphing into a lightbulb, I am trying to make meaning out of you in more ways than one in the age of brevity. I’m trying to think of you longer. Like I was saying, the love language of one of my closest friends is attention.

A Pair of Jeans ♦ Prionti Nasir

Strangers Portrait ♦ Neil Williamson