Torches n' Pitchforks Spring 2016 Vol. 8 Issue 2

COVER ART BY Naiomy Hilderbrand

Contents AD: AMONG THE DEAD AND DREAMING & WONDERLAND

BY SAMUEL LIGON

STORIES On the Ladder by Hazel Hoffman Swan Song by Trinity Churchill-Dicks

10 12

AD: THE INUGAMI MOCHI BY JESSAMYN SMYTH The Change by Hannah Bennett

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AD: GOSSIP & METAPHYSICS: RUSSIAN MODERNIST POETRY AND PROSE BY KATIE FARRIS, ILYA KAMINSKI AND VALZHYNA MORT Switching Channels by Chelsea Thomas

20

AD: CITIES BY ELIZABETH THORPE, Bullying by Emma Freeman

26

AD: TODD GOT CLOBBERED BY BODY IN THE WINDOW SEAT PRODUCTIONS

POEMS

Graduation by Tamura Hupp I don’t know, homie. by Nancy Poch Untitled Poem by Sara Mead

34 35 37

AD: LEAP: POEMS BY JORDAN HARTT FALLING by Kelsay Hance

40

AD: WINE-DARK MOTHER AND THE TRAPPER’S SON: POEMS BY JIM CHURCHILL-DICKS AD: FIRE GIRL: ESSAYS ON INDIA, AMERICA, AND THE INBETWEEN.

BY SAYANTANI DASGUPTA Is it Still a Joke? by Tiffany King Miracles by Brittney Toppings

48 49

WHERE I AM FROM poems by Ashley Raber Aubrey Evans Joni Philibert Kaden Vasquez William Russell Creed Smith Tiana Shelfer & Lilliana Dupont

50 53 54 55 56 57 59 59

ARTWORK BY:

Morgan Wesphall

STORIES

On the Ladder Hazel Hoffman

The fading hues of the sunset pull in the stars, gently tugging them behind the mountains. The night seems quiet, but the wind is cold as it brushes against my skin. It raises goosebumps on my arms and the hairs on the back of my neck, but I don’t mind. I am warm. The stile stands facing the Three Sisters, it’s rungs a doorway through the fence. The pages of my notebook are cold, the gray pencil markings on them looking faded, as if they may flake off and float away. The blanket of the night is folding in on itself, the stars spreading and bunching in the sky as they are pulled by the invisible hand of the sun.

Headlights on the highway break the beauty of the night. The yellow lights sweep over the road and the grasses beside it like a searchlight that doesn’t quite know what it’s looking for; only that it is always looking. I pick up the pencil from the notebook. The words that spread from the tip arch and dance in the night, the idea of their meaning giving them life.

When the sun sets, the stars unfold. They unfurl across the sky with a flourish, showcasing all of their beauty. They are as wonderful as the cold night my best friend and I carried a telescope out to the field and pointed it to the sky, blindly hoping that we would catch something beautiful. I write the memory on the page, sketching the excitement in our voices when we thought we saw blue fire in a star. Before me, I see the fire again, see the telescope standing pointing into the sky. I watch his face light up as he whispers for me to look. You have to whisper in the night to keep the magic alive.

When I look back up, there is only a faint glow behind the mountains. It is a muffled memory of the majesty that a moment ago graced the peaks. The summits are silhouetted by the glow. Beyond the highway there is a field, and after that there is the freedom of the forest; trees that Spring 2016

stretch to the base of the mountain range and over, on and on over the entire world, never stopping and always reaching higher. In this light the trees are cast in shadow, but the mountains stand firm, painted in strong strokes across the horizon.

As I think, one tear falls from my eye and a shiver runs down my spine. For the first time, I feel cold. I have the freedom before me, the stars above me, and the grass below me, when I know that someone is stuck, unable to look anywhere but where they are. I cry because as my heart soars I know that someone else’s is chained down.

So I whisper in the night. It is a prayer of its own class, a prayer to the collective humankind and not to a God by any name; it is to the person who is looking through the window trying to imagine being through the window. It is a flicker of hope that I blow into the wind with the hope that somewhere someone will catch it and they will cry not for sadness but for the knowledge and belief that there is someone out there who loves them, that there is someone out there who believes in them. The words slip over my lips and into the sky as the glow fades.

When my song is done, I take the notebook in my hands, stand on the ladder, and look up at the stars. They are layered, bright and dull, far and near, big and small. The earth is only a small dot in the middle of all of them, spinning around as 7 million people try to take each day as it comes.

The wind picks up again as I stand there, and another car slices through the night. My favorite place may be atop a lonely ladder, but I am not alone tonight.

torches n’ pitchforks

Swan Song

Trinity Churchill-Dicks The smell of rotten wood and rising dust coats the inside of my nose. I flex my nostrils, and I feel the inside walls crack with dried blood. Sweat and dirt begin to mold together. My knuckles are raw and my voice is tired from endless screaming. My hands are bound, and I am unable to move. I open my eyes and nothing is there. Everything I see is empty.

I try to remember the car taking me to the spot. I remember the top my my scalp bruising from the thrashing of the car and my forearms burning against the rough carpet. With every thrash, I felt the car make a hard turn. I remember every bruise and every turn. Although I am blindfolded, I know where I am. I know that I have been buried alive.

The people that dragged me here, I didn’t recognize. All I can recall is the stench of their breath smelling of cheap alcohol. They were speaking a language that was difficult to understand. The flecks of their spittle from their harsh consonants on my skin. They throw me into the pit and start shoveling dirt thudding onto my body. Hands tied behind my back. With every pound of dirt thudding onto me me one shovel full at a time, I realize there is no way of escape from here.

I withdraw into my mind. I am in 6th grade looking up at the Jazz Choir singing to me in the Middle School cafeteria. Santa Claus is Comin to Town. Music has always been my escape. As the dirt slowly rises over my body, I can barely feel the thud anymore. It’s getting hard to breathe now.

I am 3, and my mother is rocking me to sleep. I can hear her sing my favorite lullaby that she used to always sing to me. “How could anyone ever tell you, you were anything less than beautiful? How could anyone ever tell you you were less than whole?” Once with so much hope. But now, with broken body and broken voice I am welcomed to a ball of light. I can see my mother again, and her embrace brings me a warmth I haven’t felt in years. She then finishes the song faintly into my ear, “How could anyone fail to notice that your loving is a miracle. How deeply I’m connected… how deeply I’m connected to your soul.” With her fingertips tracing my forehead, I am finaly-finaly able to drift to sleep.

Jessamyn Smyth's linked "Dog and Cecily" stories are about the primacy of the relationship with the animal-familiar spirit, its terrible costs and devastating beauties, the absurd and funny awkwardness of the human species, the relentless deepening of love, the bearing witness to unbearable loss.

These beautiful, unusual stories honor a figure from Japanese folklore, the inugami -- a dog god that acts as a protective guardian. Individuals bonded with this familiar spirit are called inugami mochi; they are thought to be lucky and successful, but as a result of their extraordinary bond with the dog god, they are isolated from ordinary people and the lives they lead.

"Jessamyn Smyth's short story "A More Perfect Union" made me laugh and twanged my tear ducts all at the same time as it impressed me with the sheer brilliance of the writing. That's the kind of writer she is. Oh, and she is a lover of dogs and of human beings, separately, and even more, together. And a connoisseur of what women want in life."

-- Alicia Ostriker, author of The Old Woman, the Tulip, and the Dog.

SADDLE ROAD PRESS

The Change

Hannah Bennett One day in the open woods there was a bear traveling on his way to the rivers drop off, so he could catch fish. This bear was very friendly to people and was known to explore all around the mountains and rivers in the area. Jim knew this about the bear, so he figured the hunt would be easy if he could locate it. The man smiled as he got out of his truck, took a deep breath and started his tracking of the bear. Up and down Jim went on the mountain to get back to the set back river that would lead to the drop off.

Bears were known to be abundant here. Excitement coursed through Jim as he knew he was nearing the river.

Looking at the ground around the river Jim could see tracks of wolves, deer and finally bears. Jim decides the best idea would be to follow one set tracks given off by a bear, but he didn’t mind slowing down to take in the scene around him. Over to the left were many trees leading into the woods, to his right there were many rocks leading up into a jagged hill, and in front of him sat the flowing cool river with many patches of moss and flowers. Jim leans down to the river, and looks within the water to see many fish heading down with the flow of the water. This pleases him, because he knows the more fish that are present the more likely he will find a bear that will be a good hunt. Reaching down with his canteen he scoops up some water, brings it to his mouth and drinks the cool water.

Spring 2016

As he continues on his way down the edge of the river he comes to many more tracks. After a mile or so Jim approaches a wider set span of water and realizes he will be walking up on the drop off point soon. Slowly he sets closer to the bank, and walks up around the last blockage for him to see the drop off. Looking all around Jim couldn’t see the bear he was looking for, so he inched closer to the drop off. There on the edge of the bank sat the bear. Jim inches as close to the bear as possible, but as he approached the bear it looks up at him and gets up to back away. As the bear moves Jim raises his gun setting his sights. Breathing in and out deeply he looks through the scope, and just as he does two little cubs run up to the bear he has set his aim on. Dropping his gun down slightly he realizes these cubs belong to this bear, and he can’t bring himself to kill her.

Jim decides to slowly back away from the bears behind some cover, so he can observe them instead of hunting them. Watching the bear he had his sights on for a long time, he smiles as she protects her cubs and encourages them to play in the water. Moving with grace the mother bear moves to the river and plays with the water. With the cubs trailing behind the mother they splash in the water and start running after each other. Jim watches them for a while and then turns around to leave the bears alone, so they can grow with their mother. As he is walking back to his car he is satisfied with himself in the fact that he got to experience the outdoors here, follow the trails to lead him to the bears and lastly let his goal bear go to better the cubs.

torches n’ pitchforks

There has been no anthology in English dedicated to the poetics of the great generation of Russian modernists. For a group of poets so widely admired, relatively little seems known about their philosophy of poetry and their poetic influences, and although there is tremendous aesthetic diversity in this group, they have more in common than many readers assume. Russian poetry was a small world, made even smaller by the arrests, disappearances, pogroms, famines, assassinations, and political conflagration of the revolutionary era, and literary differences were often overcome by a mutual sense of historic cataclysm.

This anthology's structure is like textile, with many common threads intertwining, doubling back, sometimes unraveling--creating a matrix of poetic conversation: Mayakovsky on Khlebnikov, Pasternak on Mayakovsky, Tsvetaeva on Pasternak, Brodsky on Tsvetaeva, Akhmatova on Mandelstam. Shared themes range from expected (the word) to serendipitous (the ocean). Above all these poets are obsessed with proximity--to God, to nature and place, to poetic predecessors, to language (their own and others), and always, forever, to the inexpressible.

Thanks to the Antonia and Vladimer Kulaev Cultural Heritage Fund for support of this book, in honor of artist Elena Karina Canavier.

Featured writers: Anna Akhmatova, Andrei Bely, Joseph Brodsky, Daniil Kharms, Velimir Khlebnikov, Osip Mandelstam, Vladimir Mayakovsky, Boris Pasternak, and Marina Tsvetaeva With versions and translations by: Katya Apekina, Walter Arndt, Clarence Brown, Christopher Colbath, Herbert Eagle, Katie Farris, Jane Gray Harris, Max Hayward, G. M. Hyde, Ilya Kaminsky, Jane Kenyon, Roger and Angela Keys, George L. Kline, Stanley Kunitz, Anna Lawton, Constance Link, Angela Livingstone, Robert Lowell, W. S. Merwin, Valzhyna Mort, Eugene Ostashevsky, George Reavey, Judson Rosengrant, Barry Rubin, Paul Schmidt, Janet Tucker, Jean Valentine, Daniel Weissbort, Margaret Wettlin, Christian Wiman, Matvei Yankelevich

Switching Channels Chelsea Thomas FADE IN: CB: *FATHER ASKS* Have you ever been fishing?

CB: *DAUGHTER REPLIES* No do you really think I’ve been fishing when no one has been here to take me fishing for 13 years? Who’s going to take me, grandma?

CB: *FATHER SIGHS, AND REPLIES* Sorry *pauses with frustration* I’m trying my best here! What do you like to do? We can do anything you want I want to get to know you.

CB: *DAUGHTER REPLIES WITH AN ATTITUDE* Just give me money and let me do whatever I want and, we can be friends.

CB: *FATHER THINKS TO HIMSELF, THEN SMILES BRIGHTLY* Well do you wanna go to dinner or we can stay? I can make something.

CB: *DAUGHTER COCKS AN EYEBROW AND SARCASTICALLY REPLIES* Wow dad I wish you would’ve tried this hard before you just decided leave!!!

Oh and I want takeout, I doubt you can cook.

CB: *FATHER, WITH AN OFFENDED TONE REPLIES* I actually can make a great steak! Maybe I can grill hamburgers…

CB: *INTERRUPTING HIM DAUGHTER REPLIES* Let’s just order a pizza. Oh and order it now I’m going out.

CB: *FATHER ASKS CONFUSED* Going out where? Outside?

CB: *DAUGHTER REPLIES CLEARLY ANNOYED* NOOO DAD I’m going to hang out with some friends.

CB: *FATHER REPLIES DRYLY* Will there be boys?

CB: *DAUGHTER WHO IS STILL ANNOYED REPLIES* Why do you care? I’ve made all my decisions without you here, I don’t need you to step in and change everything.

CB: *FATHER FINALLY BURSTS* You know I’m trying my best!!!! I wanted to stay but 13 years ago when I came home from work I found your mother with another man. I was so insulted I just left, and we divorced. That’s why

I was never around and you hardly ever saw me.

Then when your mother got sick we had to put our differences aside and start figuring something out for your future since she didn’t have much time left.

CB: *DAUGHTER LOOKS UP FROM HER PHONE, CONFUSED, AND HURT* She never told me any of that……

CB: *FATHER REPLIES DRYLY AGAIN* We kept it from you it was for your own good. ***LONG SILENCE*** CB: *DAUGHTER, WHO HAS A TEAR ROLLING DOWN HER CHEEK, REPLIES* So what now?

CB: *A PAUSE, THE FATHER’S VOICE GROWS TENDER* I say we order a pizza.

CB: *DAUGHTER SMILES* Or we can make those hamburgers if you want?

CB: *FATHER LAUGHS* How about my amazing steak?

CB: *DAUGHTER WHO SEEMS GENUINE HAPPY* I’ll make mashed potatoes and gravy!!!

CB: *CHUCKLES FATHER REPLIES*

Ohh I don’t know if I trust your cooking.

CB: *GIGGLING BACK DAUGHTER REPLIES* I bet it’s better than your steak!! *Father laughs* CB: *DAUGHTER ASKS* Hey wanna go fishing tomorrow? I actually want to learn.

CB: *FATHER REPLIES* I would love to.

FADE OUT: THE END

Bullying Emma Freeman

My name is Emma I’m 16 years old and a Freshman I’m outgoing, shy, and a quiet person. I love to draw, create poems and stories, my dream is to be an Artist, Poet, or Author. I got held back in the 4th grade that’s why I’m a year older, see I don’t remember things till after the 4th grade I remember I didn’t have many friends. So I distanced myself when others tried to get close to me, I was diabetic and after lunch I’d have to take half of a small pill. Now I’m hypoglycemic, often of the times when someone picked on me I would use my long nails to dig into the skin on my arm, face, anywhere it was basically self-harm but with my nails and without me knowing it. I’d be so furious I wouldn’t feel the pain because of the adrenaline but when it wore off I’d feel it a few moments later.

I’ve dealt with bullying in the 4th grade before and I’d hate myself at a young age, I still hate myself because the bullying started up again in high school and my self-esteem is already nonexistent but I still fake a smile and force a laugh even though I am hiding my depression because of it.

For me this is like 4th grade all over again and this is why I’m distant I Spring 2016

don’t want to deal with the drama and all that no, I am starting to hate high school because of this. But I’m forcing myself to get through my freshman year and hopefully end the bullying before I do something I’ll regret, I’d rather switch schools than deal with this.

Okay I’ve realized that went deep but that’s true I want to end bullying and help those who face bullying every day, and help them realize that they aren’t alone in this. I’m motivated enough to help end bullying, I don’t mind if they just want someone to talk to I don’t mind just being there for them. I just want to help them realize that they can get through this, and if they are still bullied than I would advise them to talk to an adult with the bully their and figure out why they bullied in the first place and why they became the target.

I don’t like bullying as much as the next guy but what I want to understand is why they do it, do they do it for power? For feeling bigger than the victim? I don’t understand, but I want to understand and I’m trying to figure out why they bully someone. I try and try to put answers to the questions I have and I come up with nothing, it’s like figuring out a math problem and putting in different equations. I started to draw because of bullying and I enjoyed it I can express myself through my art and I often put my feelings into my poems. I don’t forgive my bullies but they probably have a lot going on in their personal life it could be family problems or something else I missed I don’t know.

See I have something healthy keeping my brain from my bullies poisoned words infesting my already dark mind, I don’t need them to remind me I’m nothing and I’m a nobody. I know who I am and what I am I don’t need labels defining me and what I do I. Am. A. Human. Flesh and blood and if you can’t accept me for me be my guest I won’t mind but I will mind you put a stop to your infested words swimming in my head bringing me down lower. My mind doesn’t need to get darker by the words my bully says to me, but my mind gets darker every day even without a bully labelling me. torches n’ pitchforks

I somehow manage to put myself down mentally, and have glassy eyes when I wake up and get to school. I don’t want to get out of my bed because of a combination of bullying and depression, I’m seemingly fine but on the inside I’m paranoid wondering what will happen today this time. In all honesty I hate my bully with a passion, I hate, hate, HATE my bully I’d do anything to make my bully stop making fun of me and picking on me when I didn’t do anything to them.

In 4th grade my worst day was, when I got home only to see my mom with a sorrow filled face, and this was one of those bad days where I was being picked on and I was already about to cry and it felt like my heart shattered like fragile glass. My mom said “Great grandma Emma died Em” with tears rolling down her face, I felt tears run down my own face. I was shocked and heartbroken, my mom comes over and hugs me and we cry in the doorway of her room.

I changed I would distance myself farther from what friends I had, I’d go in a corner and cry silently on the playground. I didn’t eat as much food as I used to and I went into a depressed state, I got a gold necklace that had my name on it which was my great grandmother’s. After the funeral I just didn’t want to go back to school because of the bullies, but I went even though I wasn’t ready to go back I still went. My first friend was my great grandmother she died at the age of 94 years old, I was so young and I thought everyone lived forever but I was far from right.

I go back to school and recess comes too soon for my liking, I was sitting in a corner near the road and I heard footsteps I look up and I see my bully, she starts making fun of me and my looks, what I wore and soon I just blacked out for a few moments. I come to only to see my bully on the ground with scratches on her cheek, bleeding slightly, I look closely at my own nails and saw bits of blood under them and I realized I scratched her cheek. I was sent to the office and my bully was sent to the nurse to take care of the scratch I’d given her, I will not lie when I say I was smiling on Spring 2016

the inside because I got payback on my bully but it wasn’t the best thing because I started to feel the guilt.

I told the principal that she was bullying me and teasing me then explained that I had a short temper, It was good until the next day when one of my friends mentioned how I’ve changed and everything. Then, to this day I still don’t know how, my bully brought up my great grandmother and I broke down right in front of her and basically the whole class, the teacher asked what was wrong and I told him that she brought up a sensitive topic and she got sent to the principal’s office for the rest of the day she stopped bullying me but wouldn’t stop scoffing at me but I didn’t mind.

torches n’ pitchforks

COMING THIS FALL:

Poetry

Graduation Tamura Hupp

When the caps go flying, that’s when it becomes real.

You say goodbye.

Goodbye to teachers, who have helped you so much.

Teachers who have helped you find yourself.

Teachers who made you believe in yourself.

You say goodbye to friends.

You think back to freshman year, and the same friends stand by your side today.

You give your best friend a long hug.

Family brings you flowers and showers you with love and congratulations.

You take a step back to take it all in.

Your four years with all these people.

All the heartbreak and memories, in those hallways.

All the laughter and good times in those classrooms.

This really is the end.

It’s bittersweet.

Now, the real word starts.

Spring 2016

I don’t know, homie.

Nancy Poch

I don’t know, homie.

It was promised that life was going to be perfect.

It seemed so innocent in its scene I thought it was going to be fair that’s not what it turned out to be It had dark secrets and many faults.

Changing me as a person, and the way I thought. It was basically a nightmare with an beautiful disguise.

It screws you over, but that’s okay. no one really mentions that anyway.

It messes us up a little bit.

No mercy I guess you could say.

I viewed you in the same way with your attractive appearance. what could be wrong with you? oh but I was wrong As I grew confident in you, It slowly changed into something brutal. you weren’t good for me, but i kept my grip. torches n’ pitchforks

my insecurities got the worst of me, and I decided it was done.

I released my grip, after realizing you’re just like life itself.

Spring 2016

Untitled Sara Mead How can you be so selfish?

The world doesn’t revolve around you.

Your ideas of simply hellish.

I honestly thought you knew.

You can’t rush your life.

And I refuse to rush mine.

It’s like I’m walking right into your knife.

I should of seen the signs.

Sense when are you planning my future.

I don’t want to cause problems.

But I can’t seem to suture my wounds. All I want to do is blossom.

How can you be so selfish?

torches n’ pitchforks

From the pages of Leap, Jordan Hartt's poems and stories work their way into a reader's subconscious much as water from saturated soil does when seeping through concrete walls to a floor in a basement. His images (vivid and clean) shine like the moons and the salmon and the glittering coins that salt his work. One of his speakers believes: The only thing she's captured perfectly...is the smoke. Jordan Hartt has captured this (and more) within these shining pages. --Tom Aslin "I once seen a man turned into a bear" the story begins, in a time when "the whole earth was rusting in the rain." The inhabitants of this landscape survive by transformation, or they do not survive. In one poem, a woman leans too far from the bridge rail, and becomes a salmon or does she? A man desperate to keep his wife from leaving is an owl tracking a mouse through snow. These are myths and legends created and destroyed, told by elders, by soldiers, by loggers, and lovers that show us the "beauty and terror of being a human." --Jenifer Lawrence Like Ovid's Metamorphoses, Jordan Hartt's Leap is concerned with history, change, and origins. These poems are descriptive ("truck sliding off gravel road"), full of Northwest imagery ("firs sculpted by the raw coastal wind"), and often rooted in colloquial voices. But Hartt extends his contemporary vision most obviously through his use of form. Without punctuation and using white space, Hartt brings his characters' lives into the immediacy of thought. --Jeremy Voigt About the Author Jordan Hartt is a reader, writer, writing teacher, and community & events organizer. Hartt teaches literature and creative writing at Peninsula College and organizes writing workshops, conferences, residencies, readings, and other gatherings designed to bring people together across borders of all kinds.

FALLING Kelsay Hance Falling. We’re all falling. whether it’s in love or through life.

Mixed emotions pulling us apart, the ripping pain we feel inside.

Thinking no one is there for you, feeling alone but having millions of people around.

You’re again falling, this time its for that certain person.

They make you think you’re the world, then they go and change their mind.

All you ever wanted was love, from anyone.

You’re getting used to falling.

You’re parents are gone.

Dad hasn’t showed in years.

Your brother now has to take care of you, but he is on something.

You trusted him.

Now he is falling.

Out of school, he has no job or money.

How is he gonna support you?

Will you go to a foster care?

Spring 2016

Who is gonna help now?

Can you stop this falling?

Maybe you decide to take care of yourself you are 16 now, you can provide for yourself, all you need is a job.

Maybe you should go to a new home, you’ll even have a family.

You believe the falling is your fault, but you know it was theirs.

You blame your parents, they left and caused him to do that.

Your boyfriend left because he can’t handle it, you’re crying and can’t stop The falling continues.

You didn’t get the job, and now the teachers are worrying.

They know you’re on your own, there’s no one around to help you its alright to cry.

Let’s stop falling.

They provided you a home, take it, it also provides a family and love.

That’s what you really want isn’t it? love, family, friends?

You have it now. torches n’ pitchforks

The falling feels good you moved, no one knows your previous life, you start over.

You have a mom, dad, and new brother he’s the same age.

Falling is a pleasure Your new brother is cute.

You start to fall for him, but don’t tell him.

You become his best friend, and pretend you don’t have feelings for him.

Falling just falling, in love with your brother but nothing can happen.

It’s been a year.

One day he kisses you, you kiss him back Now he’s falling What do you guys do?

Continuing would be a bad idea, but you can’t stop.

You both feel the love you’re almost 18.

Spring 2016

You fall out of family, you become emancipated and they won’t forgive you.

They tell you don’t come back, but he follows you, he still loves you.

The falling ends.

You make a family with him, now there’s a baby.

Who ever thought you’d be a mom, you’ll cherish that child forever.

You have the family you always wanted.

torches n’ pitchforks

INTRODUCING Fire Girl: Essays on India, America, and the In-Between.

By Sayantani Dasgupta Two Sylvias Press

The eleven essays in Sayantani Dasgupta’s debut collection examine the contrasts and complexities of India and America through Bollywood; Hindu mythology; South Asian religion, history and politics; gender and feminism; and what it means to grow up in the crowded, cosmopolitan world of New Delhi versus the small, university town of the American West where she now lives and teaches.

Advance Praise for Fire Girl: These are exquisite essays, filled with savory language spiced just right.

Sayantani Dasgupta's generous intelligence and lively curiosity bring alive whole worlds--those of ancient stories and those of daily living, artfully considered. Cultures, languages, religions, landscapes, legacies--this is a writer who contains multitudes. ~ Peggy Shumaker, Author of Just Breathe Normally Sayantani Dasgupta writes with such keen intelligence and vivid clarity that we can’t help be taken in. Lyrical, compassionate, and compelling, these beautiful essays transport us to another world. In Dasgupta’s able hands, it is a world we come to recognize as our own. ~ Kim Barnes, Author of In the Kingdom of Men The oscillations in the essays are sometimes gentle vibrations, other times beating drums, encompassing the tension between the home and the world, the past and the present, the brain and the heart. The stories constantly go away and come back and we undulate with them, rippling between delight, sorrow, rage, wonder. ~ Aurvi Sharma, Winner of the 2015 Gulf Coast Prize in Nonfiction

Is it Still a Joke?

Tiffany King Realizing wondering if maybe there’s hope Maybe falling is better than rising Deciding is a poison a killing on the inside A joke is all it is a joke that cuts deep Damaging leads to self harm, self harm lead to killing words hurt more than u think Worthless used stomped on No one cares just cut deep deeper than before you’re a failure a worthless person Why care no one else will Cry your weak Tell your a snitch ignore gets worse Hoping it will stop but you know it won’t Walking down the long narrow halls knowing what’s gonna happen no one understands your pain no one will ever care look back wishing and hoping you could be little again no one use to care Harassment, lies, jokes, used, worthless is what’s left in the schools no one will notice sitting on your bed BANG……. now is it still a joke?

Spring 2016

Miracles Brittney Toppings Every day there is a child dying that is hoping for a miracle, they think that all they have to talk to or that the only person that will listen to them is there family.

The people they think that are hurting them, is their doctors.

The one word that scares them the most is death.

They should have so much life and love, but instead they have long tiring day that are full of nothing but sleeping and treatments.

Sometimes what the doctors give them stops working so they get put on a new treatment.

They wish on anything for that one special miracle.

At their last stage all you can do is make them comfortable and fill them with love.

But when they die so does the hope of their family.

Not only are the kids scared but so are their parents of death.

The ones that try to save them, are the ones we call doctors.

Rushing in, yelling for a doctor, As it runs out she needs a new treatment.

But it’s too late. She’s too close to death.

She won’t be wishing for that one special miracle, the ones that cry are her family.

As she lays there dying they fill her with nothing but love.

Her mother tells her how much love, she has, and that she won’t be poked by doctors.

But that she will always have her family. torches n’ pitchforks

And now she doesn’t have to do treatments, And that she got her one special miracle, it’s sad it came by death.

As she lays there she begins to look like death, but she still has the same look of love, and now her family wants that one special miracle.

Buts there’s nothing they can do not even the doctors.

There’s nothing that will work not even a new treatment.

They go back into a roomful of family.

The doctors had to tell the bad news to the girl’s family.

The little girl died and to the world it’s just another death, but to the family it’s a death of their little bundle of joy. None of her treatments, worked. The family said that they always will love, her. At the funeral it was a surprise the her doctors, were there it was a miracle.

The girl’s family fell apart, their love died for each other.

The death was to hard for the family, they blamed themselves not the doctors.

All the miracles and treatments she had went through the one thing that she was more scared of happened to her family and now her little brother has to live with no big sister and split parents.

Spring 2016

Where I am From poems by Ashley Raber Aubrey Evans Joni Philibert Kaden Vasquez William Russell Creed Smith Tiana Shelfer & Lilliana Dupont

Ashley Raber I am from the rains that gave me life from the rain that falls on my shoulders I am from my dad caring and loving shelter from California I am from Geneva’s scary cat statues from John terrifying me when I was was younger I am from my chameleon dad From Oklahoma I am from North Carolina from the I loves you I get from the rains I am from Jeremy’s nursing college from the rain that grew strong and bright I am from the life of being a country girl from where the flowers grow proud and strong I am from Geneva’s amazing Granddaughter from the courage from the rains I am from scaring myself in the mirror from being a brat to my parents I am from eating tacos from being created by Mother earth.

THE END

Spring 2016

Aubrey Evans i  from getting raised on the farm From cows and horses and pigs i am from feeding the animals twice a day From riding on the back of an old pickup truck i am from helping my great grandpa. from out in the muddy snowy fields i am from changing irrigation ditches. from strict bedtime rules. i am from eating nice and warm and juicy chicken and joe joe’s from having blazing red and orange fire every Saturday night. i am from dealing with my older and younger siblings. from going to 4-h every year. i am from picking flowers for my grandma. from saying my last goodbye.

I am from missing my grandma every time I do something.

From April 19 2015 at 5:30 am when she took her last breath.

I am from smelling the delicious smell from the farm animals.

From dark nights and bright days.

I am from raising steers and pigs to eat.

From that one special day when you see your family sitting around the fire.

From dark days and rainy nights From riding my horse on a nice and warm and bright day.

I am from kissing my mom good night From walking outside to see your horses and cows in the nice and green field .

I am from cutting the nice and fertilized fields. torches n’ pitchforks

From raking the hay up to get ready to bail it.

From bailing the hay to sticking it in the barn.

From in the coral branding are brand name on are cows and calves.

I am from putting ear tags in the calf ’s ears.

Joni Philibert I am from my mom and dad that I love me so much, From the fingertips of my mom and grandma, From the cheesy smell and texture of pepperoni pizza with ranch drizzled on top I am from the echoing bears and birds hiding deep in the woods, From the splashes of the fish that are swimming and living there life like there suppose to I am from the quiet and peaceful sound of the broken road, From the amazing feeling you get when you hear the words, “you were never a mistake” I am from the noises of the dragons about ready to lift off and have the time of their lives.

From the rush of when you open your first Christmas present on Christmas Eve. From the loud noises of my dog that I love so much playing and having fun with the family and spending time together and looking down to big smiles on their faces I am from God’s hands that saved me from danger and unsafe environment that I once was in.

From the supportive family member that helps me through rough times and guided me to the right door so I can live my life how I want to.

Spring 2016

I am from the terrible memory of the car drifting to the side of the road and my dad having no control over the car.

From the sweet noise of me laying in my bed praying to God that I’m happy that this is all over.

Kaden Vasquez I am from the good state of Oregon.

From the place where the weather will change.

I am from the forest area.

From the beautiful views of Juniper trees.

I am from the place with abundant water.

From where the fish jump in the dark blue water.

I am from where the farm hay grows.

From where horses and cows graze on the fresh cut grass.

I am from Prineville.

From where the hills surround us I am from where there is water near.

From were people fish and swim.

I am from where planes fly.

From the beautiful sky. torches n’ pitchforks

I am from where we raise bulls.

From where we do rodeos.

I am from a beautiful state.

From the state of Oregon.

William Russell I am from Karen, Ashlee, and Cody.

From cheese and ham hot pockets,and BBQ steak.

I am from family activities like T.V. and BBQ’s at my grandpas.

From good songs like Eminem and Tech N9ne.

I am from my favorite book Diary of a Wimpy Kid. From the teachers saying, “stop doing that”.

I am from the best thing that somebody has said to me: “ I will never forget about you”.

From getting called a poser.

I am from doing chores like dishes and vacuuming the house.

From BBQ’s and opening one present on Christmas eve.

Spring 2016

I am from chewing tobacco.

From ranches in California, animals playing, and foul language.

I am from a religious family.

From me wanting to go to the army because of my grandpas inspiration.

I am from getting hit by a car going down a hill, and wasn’t paying attention.

From losing my dogs Chewy, Brody, and Milo.

I am from family pets and skating on nice days.

From living in a place with a nice view of the mountains.

Creed Smith I come from parents Becki and Ron From owning dogs

I come from T-Bone steak cooked well From Hot Pockets burning your mouth

I come from owning more TV’s than needed From friends calling my mom “mom” torches n’ pitchforks

I come from being the youngest sibling From losses of family

I come from being Christian From alcohol and parties

I come from chewing tobacco and cigarettes From protective siblings

I come from bad language From fist fighting

I come from broken bones From gangster rap I come from rock music From being street smart I come from street racing From owning weapons I come from being American

Spring 2016

Tiana Shelfer From waking up to my nephews laughter.

I am from a house full of tears and a horrible split up.

From it turning into tears to laughter and being happy and smiling.

I am from wearing DC and color.

From wearing dark clothes and vans.

I am from loving school.

From forcing myself to get up.

I am from a home of thanksgiving dinners.

From having sweet sixteens.

I am from making everyday the best i can.

From loving life no matter what happens.

Lilliana Dupont I am from a family with parents, Ed and Lisa, From a family of two children.

I am from a family where everything went downhill for us a few years ago when my grandmother died, From growing up a wonderful childhood to struggling every day to just be excited about existence.

I am from a family where pain doesn’t exist, isn’t allowed, From constant yelling every morning to every night.

I am from a family that once was happy, but went dark after my mother’s drinking, From a house of pain and regret. torches n’ pitchforks

I am from a family that makes me wonder if happiness still exists, From a family that might never see the good things again that once brought us happiness.

I am from a strange world that seems happy but is really dark once you dig deep enough, From where people hurt others for pleasure.

I am from a country that seems free but really isn’t, From where people steal and lie just to feed their families.

I am from a state that is on the West Coast, From a state called Oregon that just survived so many fires.

I am from a little town called Prineville, From a little town that has secrets in each family that’s in it.

I am from a family that’s in that little town, From a family of secrets.

Spring 2016