The Exit 30 Issue
Table of Contents
“Asphyx/Passive Smoking” by Andrew Tinaz ...... 3
Workmen by Colin Blakeslee ...... 4
Sunbeam Bound by Robin Glass ...... 5
What It Means To Be Sensible by Cole Erickson ...... 6
Prayer by Mav Smith ...... 7
Pieces by Nathaniel Frempong ...... 7
The Last Moon by Selin Deniz Akdogan ...... 8
Ignorance Is Bliss / To Be a Sunflower by Maple Griffin ...... 9
The Graveyard by Maple Griffin ...... 10
Icon by Sophia Tsioulcas-Sherman ..... 11
Sickphillic by Nathaniel Frempong ......11
The Cursed Street on the Winter Solstice by Selin Deniz Akdogan ...... 12-13
Breathe Easy by Belle Mckissick Staley ...... 14
I’ll Make My Own Fun by Belle Mckissick Staley ...... 15
Everything, Anything by Regan Harvey ...... 16
Editorial Staff
Edtor-In-Chief
Cate Goodin
Caroline Ewing
Junior Editor-In-Chief .... Cole Erickson
Secretary ...... Clara Oyanguren
Media ........... Clare Ireland
Workshops ... David Anderson Montes
Events .......... Kathryn Helms
Fiction Editors
Ezra Minard
Mario Perez de Leon
Claire Ireland
David Anerson Montes
Poetry Editors
Katlyn Saldarini
Maple Griffin
Anne Mason Roberts
Kella Jahn
Mary Troy
David Anderson Montes
Claire Louise Poston
Robin Glass
Sophia Tsioulcas-Sherman
Layout Editors
Avani Damidi (lead)
Cole Erickson
Emma Huff
David Anderson Montes
Julia Carey
Ezra Minard
Mario Perez de Leon
Workmen
Colin Blakeslee
I
The dirt was shoveled into parallel rows about two feet high, and bayou-water immediately began to rise into the fresh ditches. The pressurized clay cracked open and spat from the fissures filthy primordial water; pebbles and clods of dirt were awash in the effluence like broken teeth swimming in vomit.
The workmen stood wiping their faces with their fluorescent yellow reflective vests. A crust of brown had settled on their boots and their sweat-sodden flannels. Cars were rushing by on both sides of the road divider on which they stood. The car-wind licked the sweat off their bodies and scattered the stinking soil. What little grass remained untouched looked sickly and poisoned, or poisonous. A pale
on the divider and gazed up at the freshly planted oak, which had not yet begun to die, its soft brown branches reaching up into the sky. I sat in the pleasant shade. I did not stare at the workman with heatstroke.
“What the fuck are you looking at?” the sheriff asked me.
II
Goodbye, lampposts. Goodbye, mailboxes. Goodbye, street signs. I am going somewhere.
I will not see you for a little while.
I will see nothing but darkness as I crawl into this graffiti-lined drainage tunnel, and then emerge into the water-stained half-shell holding tank with a stiff shellac of green-black grime and mildew coating the concrete floor. But if I can stand the phosphine stench of the guano (for I
Houston Sheriff in pallid khaki and a white ten-gallon hat stood directing traffic with two bright orange flags.
A Bluetooth speaker was playing Top 100 Pop Hits. A movable crane began lowering a tall thin oak into the fresh ditch. The workmen rushed to right the oak; they rushed to the base of the tree and shoveled dirt onto the roots, tucking the soil under the root ball, disconnecting the cables which kept the trunk clamped to the mast of the crane. It stood on its own. The workmen stood wiping their hands.
In the new shadow cast by the oak, one of the workmen had taken off his shirt and was lying face-down on the sickly grass. I hadn’t seen him at first. There was a peeling sunburn on his back. One of the other workmen dumped a bottle of Ozarka on him, with no effect, and then tossed the plastic bottle at the fallen man’s head.
I waited for the sheriff to stop the traffic with his orange flags so I could cross the eight-lane asphalt road. I stopped
with corrosion, metal-on-metal. I will test the grand staircase for dryrot as I slowly walk, balancing my weight from the ball of one foot to the other, to get to the long and mossy hallways which meet at ghostly four-way stops. I will hear small animals chittering inside the walls. I will find a bird’s nest in the remnants of an old lamp. I will pull my shirt over my nose to block out the foul scent of a water-swollen mattress.
And I will stumble on a man with a handsaw and a sack, covered in pink insulation dust, pulling a silvery-brown pipe out of the wall. I will stare. He will give me a rotten-toothed smile and a thumbs-up, and point to himself, and say, “workman.”
III
I’m standing on a third-story ledge in Chinatown while my girlfriend plays the claw
have failed before) I will carefully navigate down the slope of the spillway and find myself in an overgrown hotel courtyard, an untouched paradise of the damned.
A high school lover showed me around the place some years ago, when I had not yet chosen what I wanted to do for work. The hotel was an old bayou scion, a masterwork of oil opulence. It still stands, rotting, because it is too close to the water and the roads are too thin and winding. Demolition crews can’t access it, or so the story goes. They have elected to let nature do the work.
When she discovered the hotel, it was untouched and unmarked; now it is marred with graffiti and torn to shreds by looters and scrappers. It has been recorded and documented and that was its destruction. It has been sullied and posted as a shortform video.
Thinking of nothing, I will walk across the kudzu-choked courtyard and pull myself over the rusting chain-link fence. I will force open the broken revolving door and listen as it screams
machines in a little white and pink arcade behind me. The machines chitter and cry out; the noise of the place is deafening. I don’t trust my vision on the floor of the arcade: vacuum tubes lighting up, pinballs pinging, slot machines spinning, e-mahjong tiles shuffling, stuffed animals spinning on a ceiling-mounted conveyor belt.
Chinatown is arranged in front of me as a singular neon-splattered labyrinth: an endless array of three-story strip malls lined with metal balconies and spiral stairs up and down, bright
blue and red signs, lime green billboards advertising Cathay Bank, white searchlights, black curtains, a rotating yellow star atop a seafood buffet, and the looming gray void of the central concrete parking garage, where a homeless woman was killed a year before.
At the end of the balcony there is a man in a baby blue dress shirt and navy blue pants. A 10mm automatic Glock hangs from the side of his sagging belt. He does not have a badge.
“I’m a member of the Community Defense Force,” he tells me; the CDF is a neighborhood institution designed to preserve the safety of Chinatown’s citizenry. “We all have open carry permits, but mostly we specialize in citizen’s arrests, in case anyone tries to cause trouble here.”
I watch his eyes slowly roll across the labyrinth, tracing the people’s paths until he loses them in the crowd. The palm of his hand rests on the butt of his gun.
“Usually I don’t have to do anything. I’m a deterrent,” he says.
“You’ve seen those surveillance camera videos, an old Chinese woman is alone on the street and gets beaten down because no one is watching over her. Well, I’m watching. My presence is enough to keep law and order.”
A man in a yellow reflective vest is working on a billboard of a winking woman across the labyrinth.
“What do they pay you for this work?” I ask him.
“Pay me? They don’t pay me.” He starts to laugh. Probably my girlfriend has moved to the slot machines by now. “Get out of here. Move along.”
IV
By the sheriff’s definition, the hotel scrapper was a criminal, not a workman. Reader, do you reject the scrapper’s self-definition? The militiaman in Chinatown would define himself as a sheriff. Will you reject his self-definition too? And what of the heatstricken man lying flat on the ground? If a workman falls on the job and cannot work, what is the value of the work which he does not do? How will you define him?
I would answer these questions myself, but I cannot; to tell you the truth, reader, I have not worked a day in my life.
What It Means to be Sensible
Cole Erickson
First, let me tell you my name because that’s the only time things will get weird. I’ll tell it to you up front because there is nothing else interesting about myself; nothing you could benefit from or enjoy by knowing me. Everything about me begins and ends with my name. I am an “almost hero” (or an almost protagonist)—whatever twelfth grade English term you’d like to use to describe someone who was destined for the lead role, but relegated to a life of boredom, bleakness, and barrenness. That’s me.
I am surrounded by abundance, though. The cornfields of my hometown, What Cheer, always seem to be fresh and green, flecked with listless cattle that dreamily roam the distant knolls. They seem so weightless to me and my life. I’ve never ridden in a plane before, but I know that if I get the opportunity, I’d be able to pick out our yard in an instant. It’s the only bald spot in What Cheer. The grass here is yellow and dry and it’s like my home has had all its juice and fervor wrung-out.
I was leaning against the kitchen sink this past Saturday, memorizing the look of our yellow grass, when Mommy emerged from her bedroom. I knew she was off to work because I could hear her high heels clopping across the muffling pink carpet. I focused on the vinny bushes that edge our property line. If I strained my eyes like I was doing, I could make out the wooden post and the dusty bird house that sits atop it, buried and lonely amongst the bushes.
This bird did flown, this bird is gone.
“Baby, I’m off,” she said, and I turned away from the bright window and located her in the kitchen’s gloom. “You’ll remember my package at the mailbox, won’t you baby?”
“Yeps,” I said, prancing over to hug her. “I’ll be right there when the mailman arrives.”
“Good, girl,” she said. Then she was off.
As I leaned against the mailbox, the sun came down and kissed my bland toenails. I’ll ask mommy to paint them red, I thought. Then I heard the growl of the mail truck as it crunched along the gravel street. But when it got here, I realized it wasn’t the mail truck.
“Hey there, little lady,” the driver said, amusedly. “Whatchya doing by the side of the road?”
I didn’t like the way she called me “little lady.” Only movie cowboys and macho men were supposed to talk that way; not random women in cars. My stomach felt like sour cream. Then she said: “oh, I’m sorry baby. I didn’t mean to upset you—just thought I’d offer you a ride if you needed one.”
The wind stirred in the green trees and all else was still. Thelma and Lousie is my favorite movie and Joyce Carol Oates’s Where Are You Going, Where Have You Been is my favorite short story. In my mind, they stood on the opposite ends of a string. And then I let them carry me away, my shoulders’ angel and demon, until I flew like a bird that’s long gone.
“What’s your name anyways,” said the driver.
I waited a moment. Then I told her and she gave me a weird look: “It’s Sensible.”
Prayer
Mav Smith
Pieces Nathaniel Frempong
As the sun gently rose and filled the world with falling, flaming rays of life, I let slip my vase. And it plummeted like Gaea’s hands were pulling it downward. And it split and cracked and shattered leaving pieces upon pieces.
And at first I let it sit there, long enough for birds chirping to shift to cars honking.
I stared at the vase’s hollowness and noticed my reflection. I told myself the mess could wait. But I can’t let night fall dare I walk the tightrope of accountability and comfort.
I began taping piece by piece, and if a shard cut me I bandaged my hand. Each tear-shaped maroon drop meant a step closer to a whole vase. And though pieces still jutted here and there, the vase came together: delicate tape holding firm glass.
And now night has fallen. And I’ve no tape left. And no pieces lay strewn. And the vase is holding together.
But my vase is still broken. And now I have scars…
Hear My Prayer,
She was all talked out when she learned the power of her voice. And all knew.
She uttered her prayers and trusted that they be heard. And all knew.
When others know your prayers, they cannot reach heaven, because others tear them down.
She searched for the joyous dew drops of morning to fall upon her.
And all knew.
She never closed her eyes or bowed her head, looking up as though she would meet the face of God.
And all knew.
When others see you pray, they cannot reach heaven, because others tear them down.
Should she have ever been willing to pray again, they would be neither heard nor seen.
Let there be peace.
The Last Moon
Selin Deniz Akdogan
The fingers reached a final attempt, The spider, over the trees, weaved its web, I am the predator, and it is me who fears, To whom is this immuring debt? An agony within, how I am starving! I would rather die in this agony than, To live with blood dripping from my jaw. My chest crushes in a melody, All around is alive mournfully, I sense the cries of others, of my mother, To my execrable cowardice, a scolding, Yet I stand my obscure ground, Paths of hell through my cheeks burning.
Wandering aimlessly through, Howling the empty breaths, Not yet mastering the life I exist, before I cease – was it wasted? I opened my eyes yesterday, Learned to think this morning –It is not even dusk and I am leaving. It was a blink, how I loved breathing. I am terrified, I am lachrymose, Abandon all hope written on the throes, And I want to sleep on the warm snow, One lonely wolf, as mighty and as fleeting; I am starving, but I haven’t killed.
I stand trembling, against the last moon, I wish someone said I was right, Someone offered me a solace cocoon. But the sun fled, the web is bleak, It is only me and the woods, And the woods rarely speak.
Ignorance is Bliss
Maple Griffin
Once the door is open, there is no going back. You have to step through, and see your new path. Cold metal on skin as the knob is turned. A long creak as the hinges burn. Deep breaths, and heart racing. There’s no turning back the clock, there’s no erasing what’s written on the other side. Sometimes, the new room you walk into bathes your face with light. And sometimes, It casts shadows over your eyes. There’s no way to tell, which begs the question: open the door, and learn what you would’ve missed Or leave it closed, and hope ignorance is bliss.
To be a Sunflower
Maple Griffin
The little black seed glistens
As I hold it up in the last rays Of golden sunlight. My bare feet sink deeper into The moist soil with each step I take, All my weight pushing down On the seeder in front of me. With each turn of the wheel, More black seeds drop into The brown earth below. Sometimes I wish I could sink Into the clumps of dirt
As the seeds do, getting Covered in a blanket of Warm, damp soil to rest Until they sprout to grow towards The sky, amber petals unfurling Into a breathtaking sun.
I plant, weed, harvest, and sell These delicate heads, secretly Wishing I could be like a flower: Spending my days following the Sun and receiving kisses
From bees and butterflies. Growing to bring joy, Blooming in my own time.
The Graveyard Mapel Griffen
The first thing to go wrong was the naïve self-confidence that swelled inside the little girl. The second was curiosity. It was a humid summer afternoon, with few clouds in the sky and a slight chill in the breeze. Perfect for going exploring, until you get lost. The small girl was no older than eight, with long, brambly brown hair and fingernails lined with dirt. Her bare feet skipped over the cool grass and then stepped lightly through the dry golden grass as it got taller around her. Usually, she never went farther than the golden grass—it scratched against her arms and legs and made them itch with a sort of discomfort that never seemed to go away. But as she neared the tall weeds today, she spotted something unusual.
The fluttering of something amidst the trees caught her eye, and while she wasn’t quite sure what it was, it entranced her. Hesitantly stepping into the golden grass, she weaved through the weeds as they grew taller and taller around her. Dried pieces that had broken off and fallen to the ground poked into her foot with every other step she took, but she didn’t seem to notice. As she neared the tree line, the figure withdrew deeper into the wooded abyss. Glancing over her shoulder, she saw the bright blue sky and a small sparrow gliding in the opposite direction, towards her house. Her hand gently reached to rest on the rough bark of one of the trees, and turning back to face the unknown, she took a step into the sea of trees. She would often wish she had acted like the sparrow.
The pine needles and plant debris underfoot shifted as she took small steps into the forest. It smelled of damp logs and decay. Only a few rays of sunshine made it past the canopy of leaves above, creating a hazy darkness as the air grew cooler. The cold embrace around her made her want to turn back, until she caught a glimpse of the figure through the trees once again. Just a fleeting flitter, but it was enough to push her further into the woods. Shriveled leaves glided down to join the remnants of past autumns. The underbrush was a graveyard littered with past lives. As she walked over it, the leaves crunched and crumbled, sending unease up her legs and through her body. No matter how light she attempted to make her steps, the uncomfortable sound prevailed and made her hair stand on edge. She was so far now she realized she couldn’t see the forest edge she had entered—the trees around her all looked identical no matter which way she turned. When she stopped spinning, the figure in front of her made her stumble over a branch resting behind her, and the bones of the graveyard underbrush poked into her palms as she fell. In front of her floated a figure cloaked in black, swaying back and forth. Over its head was an animal skull that seemed to sneer as it reached its arms out to her. Just before darkness enshrouded her, she heard a light thud as the small Sparrow dropped from the sky.
Icon Sophia Tsioulcas-Sherman
Jesus is in the hallway upstairs when I get home from school. We lock eyes for a moment, as I walk by. And then I swing my door shut behind me.
I get on with my homework. He stares straight ahead, unseeing. His mother is there, too–her eyes are kinder, traces of crinkles around their edges
You can see some of the brushstrokes in the gold that surrounds their bodies Each nanometer of space painstakingly filled up with light
Sometimes, when I don’t know what to do with myself I go into the hallway and stand in front of them, my feet rooted in the hardwood, my fingers clasped behind my back
I stand there and find the places I can see the lines of the paint.
Here, to the left.
Here, up and down.
This is the closest I will ever be to my grandfather’s hands.
Sickphilic Nathaniel Frempong
Ill, such a heavenly tone. Same sweet sound within— I’ll love you forever.
Right before it ceases your breath, marveling the skies, painting the world, with Death’s imagination.
At Pestilence’s doorstep, ringing apocalypse, you search for elixir: His suffocating embrace.
Edict of addict, Holding tight, Obsessed with feeling, Unneeded comfort.
The Cursed Street on the Winter Solstice
Selin Deniz Akdogan
The street between the old city school and the church is cursed. Every year on winter solstice, this old street fills with ghosts of people who were buried in the graveyard of the church. As the darkness descends on the longest night of the year, ghosts mingle into the living to enjoy a peaceful night out. Some of these souls smile cheerfully at a chance to experience the mortal world for a night, while the others emit a heavy gloom from recalling the lost pleasures or the torturous memories of life. These spirits are completely indistinguishable from the living people, thus, if you decide to take a stroll on the winter solstice to the cursed street, you can never know if the person you pass by is alive or dead.
A little girl, around six or seven years old, was pacing around in the church. Her curly dark blonde hair was draped over her little black coat. Her parents were talking to the pastor and she was very bored. Then, through the wide open door of the church, she saw a man sitting at a bench across the street. As the yellow street lights were brightening his face from below, she could recognize the sadness etched onto his features. She felt an unpleasant feeling, which could perhaps be called pity by adults, grasping her little heart. She left the church, crossed the narrow street through the clacking of her red patent leather shoes on the cobblestone, and sat next to the man on the bench.
“Hello, mister. I am Lillie Ilyovna.”
Gerald slowly raised his eyes to the little girl. Lillie could see the wrinkles around his tired eyes but he looked like he hadn’t smiled in centuries. He wore old clothes and seemed as if he didn’t belong to this world. Even the way he was sitting on the bench made him appear to be an uninvited and hence ostracized guest.
“Hello Lillie,” he replied with a deep yet weak voice, “where are your parents?”
“They are in there,” she said, pointing at the church.
“Go on to them, then,” he said, nodding his head in its direction. “You shouldn’t wander off alone.”
“They have been talking to Father Thomas for hours! I tried to listen but they talk about boring things!” Lillie huffed with trouble and complained. “Besides, you look lonely, mister. I thought you might need a friend.”
“I don’t need a friend, Lillie. I am okay by myself.” The man replied doggedly.
“But you look sad.”
The night was chilly, and he was shivering from the inside. Gerald looked at the little girl with an irritated expression. He simply wanted to drown in his self-pity in silence and peace.
that did not fit quite as well with her polite nature.
“You shouldn’t talk to strangers, did your parents not teach you?” he asked, hoping it would make her leave. To his dismay, it didn’t, for Lillie ignored him. If he wasn’t in his current emotional condition, he would laugh at her attitude, would even give her praise for this unintentionally adult act
“What are your favorite flowers, mister?”
“I don’t like flowers,” he replied curtly.
Lillie placed her small hand over her chest and gasped like he said a horribly bad word, the kind her parents repeatedly warned her never to dare utter.
“You don’t like flowers? But, mister, they are lovely! Why don’t you like them?” A troubled sigh and a shrug were all he offered.
“I wish someone would give me flowers. My dad gives my mom flowers and it makes her so happy,” she said dreamily.
“You are young. When you grow up, you will find someone you like. Just like your mom and dad. Then, that person will give you flowers.”
Much to his own surprise, he broke the moment of silence, “What are your favorite flowers, Lillie?” he asked.
Lillie started thinking about flowers with enthusiasm. Her legs were swinging back and forth excitedly. Gerald could vividly see the gears of her mind turning to form her sentences with deep concentration.
“I like lilies, and daisies, and poppies. But my favorite is hyacinths!” she gesticulated.
“You seem to know lots of flowers,” he remarked, his voice soft.
Gerald was happy to meet Lillie on his last night. The somber air of deathful thoughts dissipated for a while with her cheerfulness. He could barely hear the threatening growl of the cruel river rushing nearby.
A dog barked loudly at the end of the street, which made Lillie look around cautiously. Gerald noticed.
“Are you scared of dogs?” he asked.
“I am not scared of anything!” she said defensively.
“It is okay to be scared, Lillie. I am scared of spiders, did you know?”
Lillie giggled and clamped her hand over her mouth; she felt bad for laughing at him and hoped she didn’t hurt his feelings. Gerald, however, giggled too, which was enough to encourage Lillie, who giggled once again and freely, and said, “Spiders are very friendly, you don’t need to be scared! They don’t bite, they are very small, and you are huge!”
“You are very brave Lillie, I am jealous.”
Lillie frowned as she thought Gerald might feel embarrassed by his fear of spiders. So she decided to make a great sacrifice of her honor to console him.
“I am also scared of something mister,” she admitted, looking at her shoes. With a quiet and somber voice, she resumed. “I
am scared of loud noises and fire.”
As she uttered these words, her eyes glazed as if she went somewhere else and for a short second, Gerald saw true dread on her face. However, her face became gleeful again before he knew it.
“What is your job?” Lillie asked.
“I am not working at the moment, but I used to be a professor.” Gerald replied. Lillie nodded understandingly.
“What do you want to be when you grow up, Lillie?”
She perked up and started thinking. Gerald realized how much Lillie liked chattering away about herself and things she liked.
“I want to be an animal doctor or a florist! I want to heal animals and pet them, but I want to make pretty flower boo-quets, too. My mom said I could be both! Once, I found a bird with a hurt wing in front of our house. I wanted to bring it to my room and heal it, but my parents didn’t let me. They said I couldn’t heal it yet, and that I needed to study a lot when I grow up to learn how to heal it! I was very sad, but they were right. I want to grow up quickly so I can heal all the animals!”
He couldn’t help but smile warmly at her joy. Life didn’t treat him with kindness, making him grow trees of rage and despair in his heart, and he lost all his trust in good. Yet, at that moment, which was filled with Lillie’s passionate rambling, he wished all and only the good things to find her in the future.
Lillie and Gerald talked about everything for a long time. The crowds of people lessened and the night trailed closer to day. Lillie suddenly perked up and looked at the church’s door.
“I should go back, mister. My parents would be worried.”
He nodded as he realized the long hours spent talking.
“Yes, they must be very worried. Go quickly Lillie.” he said smiling with deep warmth. He knew she was going to become the gentlest, kindest person when she grew up. Unlike himself, she was going to be loved greatly. She was going to have a long, happy life and when she grew old, she was going to have only joyful memories. He knew she deserved nothing less. He watched Lillie skip to the church’s door. He found that all his anguish disappeared and he wished to stay in this world for a little longer. He got up from the bench and started walking away from the rushing river, down the street.
After he walked a few steps, he looked back to see if Lillie entered the church. Instead, his eyes fell to the church garden and he felt his blood freeze. With hurried steps, he approached the garden and leaned on the short wooden fence. He mumbled under his breath, reading the words on the tombstone.
Here Lies Lillie Ilyovna 30 October 1938 - 2 February 1945
He looked up in horror and saw Lillie through the church window. There wasn’t anyone else in the church; not her parents, not the pastor, not a person. Lillie was standing in the dimly-lit colossal church, terribly small and all alone. Her expression held an ethereal lustre and a joyful smile, while she was waving him farewell eagerly. Her eyes were sparkling a youthful bright as his teared up with a crushing comprehension. Then, into the thin air and as if her existence was merely a product of a hollow delirium, Lillie vanished as the first rays of the rising sun filled the building.
After that night, he lived his life for two people, to the fullest. Lillie’s grave was never left without flowers.
“Breathe Easy” Belle Mckissick Staley
“I’ll Make My Own Fun” Belle Mckissick Staley
Everything, Anything
Regan Harvey
It’s the first thing I remember
The feel of the sharp, tan grass of the meadow by my house
The sun rolling over the orange, fading sky
Scars of airplane tracks left in the haze
Through the golden shine of the California hills
I have a buckeye in my hand and the world at my feet
I see, I hear, I feel it
Everything, everything.
I look back to the days when the air felt warmer
And the smell of honeysuckle carried through the breeze
When history was carried in the speckled eyes of deer
And the etchings of redwood trees
When life felt like a blank page with nothing to scribble out
And nothing to erase
And nothing to forget
I wonder if my life was left in California
In a world that can only be simple when you’re six and unafraid.
I try to recall the wholeness
And the childhood wisdom I’ve forgotten
As I’ve made the world more complicated than it is
Looked too far beyond the answers in the fig tree, the buckeyes, and the meadow
To forget now what I’ve seen
I felt back then that the soul of the world existed in nuts and fruits
The shadows through branches on the soft summer ground
In six year old hands
In ladybugs on leaves
And petals you could eat.
The creek keeps flowing, and water does not fight against the current
Fruit does not fight against its ripening
And buckeyes do not fight to resist the fall
We rise with the new morning
And the earth has spun so many times that I feel dizzy standing on it
I eat fruit now, a bit less sweet
The breeze a touch too cool
But beautiful all the same.
I place my feet in the tan, sharp ground
And tilt my head to the fading, orange sky
Asking to know, to remember, to understand
Anything, anything.
AFTERGLO
Dear Readers,
We’re back! Returning from months abroad and a month in the Northeast cold– we’re happy to run around Davidson’s campus again. Was Chambers always this big? And happy to return to Libertas in these new Editor-in-Chief positions. Cate was in Florence, Italy while Caroline was in London, England. Both avid film photographers, we decided to include a glimpse into our absence through our favorite photographs from our temporary homes.
On another note, you might have noticed that this issue is unthemed. Our first issue of this semester, in lieu of theme, is an homage to Exit 30. Last year we absorbed Davidson’s third literary magazine or, as we like to describe it, Exit 30 has migrated over to us. Like a phoenix from the ashes, like a shed of feathers, or an egg hatching, we’re excited for this new era: full of new friends and new ideas.
Peace and Prosperity,
Caroline and Cate
A past and pertinent Libertas poem, referenced here as an ode to our beloved library.
And on the next page, free art!
