Windhover 2019

WINDHOVER VOL. LIII A Collection

M I S S I O N Statement Windhover, NC State’s literary and arts magazine, strives to serve the creative community of NC State through its annual publication that includes art, film, music, poetry and prose. Our main goals are to provide a welcoming environment for progressive and out-of-the-box thought processes and to encourage all artists to submit work that reflects the core of their creativity. With this free publication, we hope to bring together NC State students, faculty, staff and alumni for a celebration of the arts.

A L E T T E R F R O M the Editor Wow! What an exciting year it has been for Windhover and everyone involved! From introducing video submissions for the first time, to launching a new feature section -- there has not been a single moment boredom. As a staff we made it our mission to give even more perspectives of the creative community a voice through this publication, and I feel as through we have succeeded.

Of course, none of this success would have been possible if it weren’t for the talented group of individuals I am lucky to work with, and call my friends.

I am so thankful for Ashley Darrisaw, Lucy Marcum, Aubrey Izurieta, Layla Peykamian, Sarah Foltz, Holly Levett and Maura Estes -- they are what I like to call, my “Windhomies.” Along with them, I’d like to thank our extremely supportive adviser Martha Collins, all of our dedicated volunteers, and Kenny Sheperd with Theo Davis Printing.

But at the end of the day, the most important people to have contributed to this magazine are the artists. Getting to review all the different submissions has been a pleasure and a privilege; the joy all the art evoked within me is exactly why I do this. Memorializing these professionally crafted words, images, songs and videos for years to come is a beautiful concept that I hope inspires the NCSU community to appreciate creativity as much as it inspires me.

W I N D H O V E R Staff + Committees EDITOR - IN - CHIEF

MANAGING EDITOR

Xenna Smith Communication Media

Aubrey Izurieta Communication Media

DESIGN EDITOR

LITERARY EDITOR

Ashley Darrisaw Graphic Design

Lucy Marcum English with a Concentration in Creative Writing

VISUAL EDITOR

AUDIO + VIDEO EDITOR

Layla Peykamian Exploratory Studies

Maura Estes Communication Media

DESIGNER

WEB EDITOR Menaka Kumar

LITERARY COMMITTEE Joshua Aelick Willow Arthur Fate Malek Divi Sharma Lauren Keena Sarah Foltz Graphic Design

DESIGNER

Blanca LÓpez de Juan Abad

VISUAL COMMITTEE Jay Chen Emily Watts

AUDIO/VIDEO

COMMITTEE

Malley Nelson

PUBLICATION ADVISER Martha Collins Holly Levett Civil Engineering, History, & Geology

OUR CONTRIBUTORS Prose 10

VIPER’S KISS

12

SAUGTUCK, MI

14

GOD(B)LESS AMERICA

15

Z U G U N R U H E Claire Spina

19

P E N N Y G I R L S Holly Brantley

Casey Johnson Rachael Davis Emma Carter

Visual 31

E N T E R Caleb Drum

32

C A S T E D Y E L L O W Caleb Drum

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S E E Y O U A G A I N Clara May

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P I G G L E W I G G L E _ 0 1 Benjamin Webber

35

R O S E Kayla Watson

36

U N T I T L E D Téa Blumer

38

T H E I D E A O F J E A N D ’ A I R E Steven Nohren

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THERAPEUTIC THERMALS

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REDWOODS

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TN140

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M O R N I N G F L O W E R S Kindyll Killian

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K A T H Y R N Giulio Rose Giannini

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MEANINGLESS

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SUNRISE OR SUNSET?

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I N T E R S E C T I O N : B L U E F O A M Brogan Williams

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INTERSECTION: WOOD AND STRING

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L O S T I N T H E F U N K Loren Strong

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S U B M E R G E D Bianca Clark

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U N T I T L E D Minh Pham

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C O N F L I C T O F I N T E R E S T Ameer M Hassan

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H A N D W O V E N T A P E S T R I E S Tess Wiegmann

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C H I L L O U T Minh Pham

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T H E P A P E R P R O J E C T : G R O W T H Brogan Williams

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I M N O T C R Y I N G , Y O U R E C R Y I N G Connor Regan

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N O G H T L I G H T Abigail Malach

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GRID1

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T H R O U G H T H E L O O K I N G G L A S S Caleb Drum

Kayla Watson

Kindyll Killian

Menaka Kumar

Jack Hoff Brogan Williams Brogan Williams

Harrison Kratzer

Audio + Video 61

SELECTED VIDEO

63

SELECTED AUDIO

Poetry 66

S O N G O F P R A I S E Allison Schulz

67

P H I L O M E L A Casey Johnson

67

H E L E N Casey Johnson

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G R E E N P A R K , L O N D O N Griffin James

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THIS PRODIGAL DAUGHTER D O E S N ’ T R E T U R N Nikita Chintalapudi

70

VICTORIA SPONGE

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T H E P E R S E I D S Andrew Lockwood

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C U T T O Jade Dickinson

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CARDIAC ARRESTFUL

Robert Prince

74

SPLIT AND SWOLLEN

Travis Green

75

S H O W A N D T E L L Caleb Bartholomew

76

M A N ≠ M O R T A L Patricia Ndombe

77

P O I S O N T H E W A L L S Tymber Felts

78

M Y L O V E R ’ S E Y E S Jade Dickinson

79

Julia Lowe

THIS APARTMENT IS A UNICORN SLAUGHTERHOUSE

Shannon Pitone

80

B A D B I T C H G O N E D.E.F.

82

CASTRATED ANGELS

84

GARDEN OF E

85

MY FRIENDS DON’T SLEEP

85

I FOUND LOVE IN:

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THEN

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NEW TESTAMENT

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AN ODE TO MONGO OF SHREK 2

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F E A R Ken Nakazawa

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O D E T O L I G H T H I M S E L F Karah Hamel

Robert Prince

Shannon Pitone Breia Houston

Jon Copes

Briana Miller Bryan Cambra Griffin James

92

MANDIRA

93

HONEYED HONEY-POLLEN-PROLIS

Nikita Chintalapudi

KISSED DREAMS

Kimberly Rogers

94

PATIENT SURVERY QUESTION 2

Leo Kerner

95

SELF-PORTRAIT IN MEDIA RES

Caleb Bartholomew

Windhover

“One of the basic human requirements is the need to dwell, and one of the central human acts is the act of inhabiting, of connecting ourselves, however temporarily, with a place on the planet which belongs to us, and to which we belong. This is not, especially in the tumultuous present, an easy act (as is attested by the uninhabited and uninhabitable no-places in cities everywhere), and it requires help: we need allies in inhabitation.”

- Charles Moore forward from “In Praise of Shadows”

by Junichiro Tanizaki

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PROSE

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VIPER’S KISS Casey Johnson

T

hey always told me I was beautiful. I was used to such comments from strangers. Just like my mother, I would say.

I smiled. He complimented my teeth. So white, he said, so healthy. He moved on to my lips; he asked if I had been kissed

before, and I said I hadn’t.

He told me I did not belong here, that the desert winds would age my skin

prematurely. I belonged somewhere far away from my parents. Somewhere in an exotic place whose name I can’t pronounce with a husband I hadn’t met yet.

I had thought nothing when they said they would take me to the bazaar in the back of their wagon. Distracted by their tales of luxury, I did not notice until we were outside the city and the sun was starting to set and bathe the sand dunes in soft orange.

They adorned my hands with bracelets of rope and stuck me in the back of the caravan behind the crates of spices, jeweled gold ornaments, and silk.

There I slept among the other stolen goods in the chilly night air, all of us to be delivered to a man we had not seen yet. We shared the same dread all beautiful things had. That night, I prayed to the moon, prayed to stop feeling this way or feeling anything at all. That night, I started to gnaw on the strands of rope and pretended they were the lips of a man I had not met.

On the second day through the dryland, the farthest I had ever been away from home, there was a commotion outside. I felt the wagon come to a sudden stop. Voices shouted in a foreign tongue.

I bit my way through the last of the rope restraining me. One of my teeth ached like it would come loose eventually. I climbed over a box of beautiful jewelry and outside into the bright sunlight.

I found myself standing on a mountain path, surrounded by clay and red

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dirt as the noon sun warmed the air. The path ahead careened past a bend.

I saw horses standing idle, a cart toppled over, two wheels displaced, and a crowd gathered around to inspect it. I stole away, slipping behind a boulder and crouching knees to chest, content to stay there until they left.

But they did not leave, and the foreboding in my chest only grew as time passed. Whether it was in my head or not, their voices steadily grew louder, as if in approach. Between their voices, the one in my head telling me to run, and the crescendoing beat of my heart, I did not hear my bane approach, sidewinding on the loose dirt. But I saw it, painted red like the dirt. It heard me without ears and saw me through eyes that did not blink or care for the beauty coveted by everyone else. I extended my hand to it on instinct. Deliberate in its approach, it did not feint after lolling out a forked tongue.

The kiss was but a peck, quick and innocent. I could not contain my squeal.

I drew the attention of my captors. They looked to each other. Whether it was because they were unsure or because they wanted to avoid my gaze, I was not certain. I laid on the ground face up, the dirt in my hair. Though the wind was hot, my arm grew as cold as the water in the oasis. A snake stood between us, hissing like cicadas in the summer. They stepped back, retreating to the road.

The sound of wooden wheels on uneven ground followed them.

I no longer felt my arm as I laid curled in on myself. I watched my first and last kiss slither away into the shadow under a rock.

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S AU G AT U CK , M I Rachael Davis

Saugatuck, Michigan isn’t a place where people want to live; Saugatuck, Michigan is a place where privileged parents bring their privileged children to for vacation. A hidden gem, they say. Those who still live there hide behind their aprons and sunglasses, dreading the day they see someone they used to know from their high school; if they saw them, they would surely know all the goals they set and all the dreams they sprouted were unsuccessful. They dreaded the day.

In Saugatuck, Michigan, the air is gray. The sun is always out and shining, but the air is always gray. The children go to the park and jump around in the woodchips; some fall and slam their fragile hands against the scattered dirt.

They cry, but their grandfathers pick them up and tell them everything is going to be alright. The children go to the park and complain of the callouses on their hands and the soreness of their arms from hanging on the monkey bars for too long. Their grandfathers just laugh at them, take their hands, and walk them back to their lake houses.

The beach houses are three stories high; they stab at the earth and hover over the rowdy lake. The children never go to the lake, instead they stay inside and play tag or hide and seek or make believe with their cousins they only get to see three times a year. Although the children never go to the lake, sand somehow sneaks into the car, into the house, into the shoes, and into the beds, making them toss and turn all night, itching until they decide to just sleep on the floor.

In the mornings, mothers take their children to a coffee shop. Theirgood friend from high school owns the place; the good friend stays behind the counter and gives the children an easy smile, she stares at their bright colored clothing and wipes her floury hands on her black smock. Mothers give their children water; the clueless children are amazed: the water only cost 5 cents!

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Was everything in this town this cheap?

The good friend gives the mothers free muffins, however. Don’t worry, it’s on me, she said. The mothers smile and wish their good friend good fortune.

They take the hands of their children and walk back to their expensive lake houses, pack their expensive vans with their expensive belongings, and travel back to their expensive homes in the suburbs of different states.

The good friend stays behind the counter all day. Wipes her floury hands on her black smock, walks home after she closes shop, sits on her couch with a beer she got from a nearby gas station; somewhere the distance families would never step foot in, unless for an emergency bathroom break. She listens to her husband talk about different cities and states they could move to. But she knows they could never. They are stuck here. Sitting in the midst of the gray air.

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GOD(B)LESS AMERICA Emma Carter i. this town don’t grow on you. she grows inside you, in your soft belly, an old oak with too many roots tangled up in your guts. this town’s got secrets as old as Sin. ii. remember the wire fence, my neighbor’s swimmin’ pool, how in violet midnights we used to sprint shiverin’ through my yard, reekin’ of chlorine—we ain’t never been Godly perfect. summers we played ball and smeared ourselves through the rust-red dust till we paraded home in victory lookin’ like astronauts fresh from mars. we were all bloody scabs and band-aids, swollen lips and loose teeth, the bruises on our skin shaped like God’s fingers. we spat all over the grimy pavement. we stabbed green apples with buck knives. we went huntin’ for the wickedest ghosts after dark just to brag that we saw ’em and came back alive. iii. our old daddies got hearts like crowbars and our sweet mamas got cavities. everybody over the age of forty’s got a box of deer bones and a story about the time they met the Devil himself and survived. they got frayed coats and torn jeans and hands that are calloused like their parents’ hands. they got silver hair and tobacco-caked lungs and mouths that don’t like to sing no more. their sorry hymns bled into the croaking of frogs in the cotton blur of the thick night sky. remember, we wondered who was fixin’ survival. iv.

Hell’s real, cries the pastor with his hands full of snakes. Hell’s real, cries the pastor, and we’ve built it right here. Christ stopped in dixie, the pastor cries, but He didn’t actually come in. now, the pastor’s glassy eyes whisper, now we can’t leave. v. we never saw any ghosts, not in the junkyard, not in the woods, no matter how hard we shouted at Jesus to push a few our way. so, maybe we were the wicked ones. maybe we were the hauntin’, all sharp teeth and rot-black ribs. mama says this here, this empty porch swing, this sepia—this is God’s country, but i think they stopped inviting Him a long time ago.

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Claire Spina

T

hree weeks and six days before the summer ends, something razor-edged and venomous starts clawing at Emmett’s insides. It’s taken longer than he expected. In the kind of place where things move too fast and somehow not at all, in suburban restlessness itself, the thing always rears its head sooner or later. At school, he can bury it under tests and papers and applications for internships he never ends up

getting. Here, he fights it alone.

Go, it whispers, settling somewhere behind his lungs, and suddenly everything in him pushes to drive, to drive, to drive, even when he doesn’t know where he’s going. He slams his laptop shut on the fifth draft of his resume, fifth futile attempt to reconstruct himself as someone good enough to get out even though he knows it’s far too late, and grabs his keys. It’ll be three more hours until his father gets home, and the empty house threatens to swallow him down into the silence that arrived two years ago when his mother moved out. The quiet opens him up for echoes, for the way “jobless,” “hopeless,” “friendless,” and “futureless” ricochet around his brain and hit their targets every time. They tell him it doesn’t matter how hard he tries in school, or how thoroughly he lies about being spreadsheet-proficient. He’s stuck. No matter how hard he tries, he’s not going to be able to escape himself.

But that can’t stop him from trying.

He starts the car and pulls out of the driveway with no idea where he’s going other than away, looping around the cul-de-sac once, then twice, before finally turning out onto the main road.

Faster, the thing says, and he accelerates, shoves his foot down and watches as the needle spins up to ten, twenty, thirty miles above the speed limit. He watches as the car nearly catches air over a hill, and finally he slams on the brakes as the silhouette of a car rears up in the road before him. He’s laughing, breathless and nearly manic with the proximity to death, and if the driver of the other car recognizes him, he can’t make himself care. He just keeps driving,

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following them out until he takes a turn into another neighborhood and realizes where he’s trying to go.

In this neighborhood there’s a house with a red door, and a perfectly manicured lawn, and Raphael Garcia, the only good thing about being home. His better judgment left behind, ground into the asphalt under his tires, Emmett drives by the house once, makes a loop, and does it again. The familiarity of Raphael’s voice never quite slips away, stored up from late-night phone calls over the course of the year, but the sight and feel and taste of him always threaten to disappear until the next stolen moment. If there weren’t two cars in the driveway, he’d stop, steal a couple more moments. It might be enough to make the thing with claws go still. But two cars in the driveway means Raphael’s parents are home, and even the pressure building in his chest can’t override that warning sign.

If he comes to the door, they won’t let him in. They think he’s “a negative influence,” or at least that’s how Raphael phrases it. Emmett has met Raphael’s father. He suspects the original phrasing had about six letters and started with “f.” He keeps driving. It’s always too easy to tell when Raphael’s been fighting with his parents, showing itself in the vacancy behind his eyes and a silence too deep and too wide, and Emmett can’t find it in himself to be the cause of that again.

He stops his car on the side of the road two miles away, past the place where the houses end and the trees take over.

Keep driving, the thing says, lodged just behind his heartbeat, seductive as a siren’s call. Just go. Your mother left, why not you?

“I can’t,” he says out loud. “I can’t, I won’t, I won’t.” His voice escalates into hysteria, and his breath comes too fast and he’s a second away from screaming or crying or both. All the desperation he’s spent his life trying to contain sinks its talons into his throat and tears its way out and he just yells, wordless and awful, and then again and again until finally he’s crying but he can almost breathe again. He feels emptier now, and there’s a distance between him and the world that he can’t quite bridge. He steps out of the car, faintly registering the way the crunch of his shoes on gravel yields to the whisper of pine needles.

He leaves the car unlocked, replacing the keys in his pocket and pulling out his phone. As he walks, he calls the only number saved in his favorites, prioritized far over his father or his roommates or anyone else.

“Hey, Emmett.”

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Emmett doesn’t say anything for a moment, just lingering in the sound of Raphael’s voice, hushed as it is to keep his parents from hearing.

“Emmett? You there?”

He finally dredges words up from the place deep inside him they’ve retreated to. “Raph, if I asked you to run away with me, would you come?”

He’s met only with silence for a moment, and if he was anything but empty he’d feel bad for throwing Raphael into the deep end, leaving him to search for context in something that Emmett himself can’t contextualize.

Finally, Raphael says, “Are you asking?”

“I don’t know. Maybe. Would you come?”

“Are you okay?” The concern in Raphael’s voice is almost tangible.

Emmett rests his head against a tree. “I’m fine. Just… wondering.”

“Where are you? Do you need me to come pick you up?”

“Nah. I don’t want to get you in trouble.”

“Emmett, you sound... weird. Are you sure you’re okay?”

“I’m fine.” An odd sort of almost-laugh forces its way out.

“I’m fine, I’m fine, I’m completely losing my mind but I’ll be okay.”

“Nothing about that sounds fine.” There’s the sound of rustling, then the clinking of car keys. “Tell me where you are.”

“I’ll be okay. I just... I need time. But can you talk to me?”

“About what?” The note of concern is still in Raphael’s voice, never really left.

“Talk about anything. Talk about your day. I just want to hear your voice.”

Raphael wavers for a second before he starts talking, describing some confrontation at his job that day, something about how he’d gotten yelled at for not letting some lady’s children destroy the store. He talks, and Emmett keeps walking, far past the point he’d always thought the forest stopped. Time slips farther out of his grasp and the trees close in around him until he forgets to remember where he entered the tree line, until he loses track of his footsteps and the only thing left is Raphael’s voice in his ear and then that vanishes too in a crackle of static.

Emmett drops his phone to the side and lays down in the pine needles. A flock of starlings takes flight far above his head, and he watches until they’re long out of sight.

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PENNY GIRLS Holly Brantley

T

he first person I ever hated was Elizabeth Tarantino.

To be honest, it’s kind of selfish to imply that it was just me that hated her because, in reality, it was half of Hope’s Lane that hated her. The worst part was that the other half of Hope’s Lane loved her. She was the classic “rags to riches” story and I guess somewhere between those three words she forgot the first one. I still can’t go into Peterson’s Country Store without hearing her

stupid, smug, fake little voice crooning above the radio: “And here come my Penny Girls!”

Dealing with Elizabeth Tarantino never bothered my sister Aurora, who was the most levelheaded out of the three of us, or my sister Lola, who was always the happiest. Don’t get me wrong, they hated Elizabeth Tarantino too, but they never showed it, not like I did anyway. I didn’t mean to hate her. In fact, I tried my hardest not to, but Momma always said that even if my lips weren’t moving, you could hear me talk just based on the look on my face.

Aurora smiled and nodded at Elizabeth Tarantino, cutting me a look before leading Lola and I down the candy aisle. “You’re doing it again, Emmy.”

“Doing what?”

“Your face. You look like you sat on a corn cob.”

Lola giggled, but quieted down when I pinched the inside of her hand.

“I hate her,” I answered, jerking my head toward the counter. “She thinks-” “Don’t matter what she thinks,” Aurora interrupted. “Relax your face. You’ll get wrinkles.”I rolled my eyes at Aurora, but she just shrugged and took off to the makeup aisle. She’d started saving up her candy money for makeup a few years back and I was more than old enough to start doing the same, but Aurora and Momma always let me use theirs when I really needed it, so I figured there

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he first person I ever hated was Elizabeth Tarantino.

To be honest, it’s kind of selfish to imply that it was just me that hated her because, in reality, it was half of Hope’s Lane that hated her. The worst part was that the other half of Hope’s Lane loved her. She was the classic “rags to riches” story and I guess somewhere between those three words she forgot the first one. I still can’t go into Peterson’s Country Store without hearing her stupid, smug, fake little voice crooning above the radio: “And here come my Penny Girls!”

Dealing with Elizabeth Tarantino never bothered my sister Aurora, who was the most levelheaded out of the three of us, or my sister Lola, who was always the happiest. Don’t get me wrong, they hated Elizabeth Tarantino too, but they never showed it, not like I did anyway. I didn’t mean to hate her. In fact, I tried my hardest not to, but Momma always said that even if my lips weren’t moving, you could hear me talk just based on the look on my face.

Aurora smiled and nodded at Elizabeth Tarantino, cutting me a look before leading Lola and I down the candy aisle. “You’re doing it again, Emmy.”

“Doing what?”

“Your face. You look like you sat on a corn cob.”

Lola giggled, but quieted down when I pinched the inside of her hand.

“I hate her,” I answered, jerking my head toward the counter. “She thinks-” “Don’t matter what she thinks,” Aurora interrupted. “Relax your face. You’ll get wrinkles.”I rolled my eyes at Aurora, but she just shrugged and took off to the makeup aisle. She’d started saving up her candy money for makeup a few years back and I was more than old enough to start doing the same, but Aurora and Momma always let me use theirs when I really needed it, so I figured there was no practical point. Lola glanced at me, her perpetual grin widening as she inspected the bags of peppermint sticks.

“Aurora’s just mad that someone’s calling for you before her.”

My look turned toward Lola. “Nobody’s calling for me.”

Lola shrugged, arming herself with two bags of peppermint sticks and a couple of squares of butterscotch. “You asked.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“You wanted to.”

I grabbed a chocolate bar off the shelf and pulled her along. “Come on. Your teeth are going to rot out if you eat all that.”

“I’m not going to eat all of it now. I want to build my stash.”

“You’re going to get ants in the house.”

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“It’s in a jar. Plus, that way on the weeks Daddy can’t work, I’ll have some for backup.”

“You’ve really thought this through.”

Lola stopped and looked me dead in the eyes. “I don’t play around with candy.”

“Are you two ready?” Aurora whipped back around the corner, one hand on her hip. She raised an eyebrow at me. “We need to start supper soon and it’s your turn to kill the chicken.”

I squirmed. “Can’t-” “No. You need to learn to do it yourself. You’re too old to skirt around it any longer and if you even think about asking Daddy to have me do it, I’ll tell him exactly how much you really loved that carrot cake he made the other night.

Being his favorite has its disadvantages too, you know.”

I pointed to the counter. “Fine, but you’re talking today.”

“You need to get over-” “I’m only going to get over one thing at a time, Aurora. Drop it.”

Aurora gave me one last look before turning and heading toward the counter, motioning for Lola and I to follow. Lola looked up at me and giggled, our hands swinging to the beat of Nat King Cole’s smooth voice. Peterson’s has been around since before my parents were born, but it’s tried to keep up. There was this big fan over by the checkout desk and you could get nearly anything there but shoes. In a lot of ways, Peterson’s had a lot of old and new beauty to it. In fact, there was only one thing in Peterson’s that wasn’t beautiful and that was Elizabeth Tarantino.

Because God has a sense of humor, Elizabeth Tarantino is also more or less my cousin. I say more or less because we don’t share the same blood. Her family was so poor that her momma and daddy started selling their kids off.

My Aunt Rose and Uncle Sherman always wanted a little girl, so they bought Elizabeth for two cartons of eggs, a quart of milk, and five loaves of bread.

Then, Elizabeth became Elizabeth Tarantino, the most stuck-up, spoiled, conceited little b“And how are my Penny Girls today?”

I hated her.

“Fine,” Aurora answered as we placed our candy and four pennies on the

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counter. “How are you, Elizabeth?”

Elizabeth Tarantino beamed, her perfectly straight and perfectly white teeth glistening against the sunlight streaming in from the window. “Well, I’m just lovely.” She held up her magazine. “Just trying to pick out a new Easter dress. Mother said I could get a store-bought one this year.”

That’s another thing that burned me up. She called her momma mother.

Lola propped her elbows on the counter. “Momma’s making our Easter dresses. They’re real pretty and they have love stitched into them.” She peered at the magazine and then looked up at Elizabeth Tarantino. “I don’t see no love in those dresses.”

Elizabeth Tarantino shot my sweet baby sister a condescending look that made me want to grab her stupid magazine and hit her with it like you would a dog that peed on the floor. “Love’s an abstract concept, Lola. There really isn’t any love in your dresses, they just symbolize your mother’s love.”

Lola shrugged. “I don’t really know what abstract means, so I don’t really care.”

I snorted.

Elizabeth Tarantino’s attention snapped to me and she raised an eyebrow, the sickeningly sweet smile spreading back across her lips. “I’m sure you’ll still look lovely though, Lola,” she replied, her eyes set on mine. “Anyway, we can talk about it more over dinner tonight, can’t we? Mother wanted me to check on inventory before the mid-afternoon rush.”

We ate with Daddy’s family on Sunday nights, but the special hell that was eating with Elizabeth Tarantino, Aunt Rose, and Uncle Sherman was reserved for Thursday nights. Momma always cooked the chicken, Aunt Rose always brought a cake, and we always had it at our house. I’d say I normally caused a scene, but even the devil was too afraid to show up.

“Of course,” Aurora answered, taking our bag. “Thanks, Elizabeth.”

“It was my pleasure,” Elizabeth Tarantino said, smirking at me. “I’ll see y’all tonight!”

I glared back at her and only turned around when Aurora pulled on my dress and Lola grabbed my hand.

“I’ve never seen anyone hug a chicken to death.”

I clutched Pertelote to my chest and stood up stood up off of the wooden

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fence. “You’re not funny.”

Jamie Arlo grinned at me. “You wanted to smile.” He motioned for me to follow. “Come on.”

“You don’t have to do this,” I reminded him, dutifully following his steps.

“I’ll go get another chicken and you can kill that one instead.”

“I don’t mind.”

“But I don’t want you to get in trouble.”

“I’m not going to get into trouble because nobody’s going to tell.” Jamie unhooked the gate to the Arlo’s chicken pen. “It’s foolproof.”

I frowned, giving Pertelote one last squeeze before letting her run off to join the Arlo’s other chickens. “Your daddy’s going to look out here one day and notice that all his chickens have been replaced with our scraggly ones.”

“Daddy’s not going to find out. And anyway, the chickens fatten up pretty quick.”

“But what if he does?”

Jamie turned to me, his hand tentatively reaching out. “Emmy-” “Don’t Emmy me.” I crossed my arms, looking at the ground. “He’s going to beat you, Jamie.”

Jamie Arlo was a miracle. The only people I’ve ever hated more than Elizabeth Tarantino were Roger and Frances Arlo. Jamie hated them too, but it took him a while to admit it. I always thought he should’ve hated them right off the bat, but he was too sweet.

With two boys already, the Arlo’s desperately wanted a girl and it’d be an understatement to say that they were disappointed when Jamie was born a “he” rather than a “she.” To be completely fair, Mr. Arlo never cared about any of his kids, but it’s not fair to say that Mrs. Arlo was the “caring” parent either.

Momma said that they left Jamie in his bassinet for the first year of his life and didn’t even name him for the first six months of that. Jamie was so small and stayed that way for so long that all the other women in the neighborhood, my Momma included, decided to start coming over and feeding Jamie his bottle because they realized Mrs. Arlo was just letting him starve. They had to feed Jamie with a medicine dropper because he didn’t know how to suckle.

While Mrs. Arlo was bad enough, it was Mr. Arlo who I hated the most. Mr. Arlo beat all of his children for ridiculous reasons; even Henry, who couldn’t help the way he was, but for a long time Jamie was his favorite whipping boy.

I’ll never forget the time I was about ten and saw Mr. Arlo spanking Jamie at

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church for sneezing during the service. I started crying because I was afraid he’d kill Jamie and once Mr. Arlo noticed me crying, he threatened to spank me, too. Daddy told Mr. Arlo that if he touched me, he’d make sure that he wouldn’t ever be able to do anything else again. I had thought, or maybe hoped, at the time that was the worst beating Jamie ever got, but later on, I’d saw the scars and knew it wasn’t. I hated Mr. Arlo and he didn’t particularly like me either.

“He knows I’m stronger than him now. He’s smart.” Jamie looked toward the chicken pen and then turned back toward me. “I’m going to grab the chicken now. You better go.”

I gave him one last questioning look before going around the corner. When I heard the squawking, I buried my chin into my chest and closed my eyes. I could hear Jamie talking to the chicken, calming her down and using that soft voice he always used with Lola or the other little girls and little boys that idolized him. He’d always talk to the chickens, right down to the last minute when he swung the axe. Killing them bothered him almost as much as it bothered me; the look he’d have in his eyes afterwards was the same one he’d get when the older boys at school would pick on the younger ones. He came around the corner a few minutes later, a burlap sack slung over his shoulder and a somber look on his face.

I hugged myself, my eyes set on his. “You did it quick, right?”

Jamie nodded, handing over the bag. “She didn’t feel a thing.”

I hesitated for a second before taking the bag and just ended up setting it at my feet. Even though they never let on, I think Momma and Daddy knew what I was doing when it was my turn to kill the chicken because they never once came looking for me, no matter how long it took. Aurora was the only one it ever really bothered. Daddy once told me she was just so set on being practical that she forgot that some people weren’t the same way.

“Elizabeth Tarantino, Aunt Rose, and Uncle Sherman are coming over to eat,” I said, even though he already knew.

“That sounds like fun.”

“I hate her.”

“Why do you care so much about what she thinks?”

I uncrossed my arms and shrugged. “Because she knows what she’s doing.

She knows it hurts.”

Jamie didn’t say anything at first, which has always been one of my favorite

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things about him. After a minute though, by the time I’d gotten shy again and looked down, I felt one of his hands hesitantly taking up to one of mine.

“If it’s any condolence, I think you’re worth a lot more than a penny.”

Even though I felt my face getting hot, I smiled. “Jamie-” He winked at me. “At least a nickel, anyway.”

I laughed that time and even though I’d already loved Jamie Arlo a long time before that day, I think it was the first time I ever really appreciated him. *** The thing about growing up poor in Hope’s Lane was that you never really realized it until you were a lot older. I mean, I always knew my family didn’t have a lot of money, but nobody had a lot of money. Other than the Tarantino’s, everyone else was just living in various degrees of poverty. I think part of the reason I never realized I was so poor until I was older was because I had a happy childhood. I never went to bed hungry, I always had clothes, and my parents never raised a hand against my sisters or I. Aurora, Lola, and I would spend hours in our backyard playing house or exploring the woods or sometimes just reading under our big oak tree. Momma and Daddy never confined us either.

All the men in town used to tease Daddy or tell him how sorry they were that he just had girls, but that’d just make him mad. Once when I asked him if he had wished one of us were a boy, but Daddy told me that us girls were much more than just a gift from God-- we were a reward.

There were a lot of reasons I never forgot that day, but one of the biggest ones was because I’ll never forget Aurora’s face when she saw Jamie Arlo and I walking up the dirt path, hand in hand, with that freshly cleaned dead chicken in a burlap sack slung over his shoulder. Ironically, in addition to being the most practical, Aurora was also the most easily rattled. I could practically see the smoke coming out of her ears as she threw down the corn she was shucking for dinner and stood up, her hands on her hips and a scowl spread across her face.

“Emmeline Kindness Wilkes, you better-” “I just helped, Aurora,” Jamie interrupted, giving her a knowing look. “Calm down.”

“And even if he didn’t,” I said, embarrassed to have my full name called out even if it was just by my overbearing older sister. “It’s none of your concern,

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Aurora Love Wilkes.”

Aurora sucked her cheeks in and sat down, glaring at us. “Go take that inside to Momma. She’s just finishing up the biscuits.”

“Perfect timing, isn’t it?” Momma said, appearing the doorway. She smiled and put her hand on Aurora’s shoulder, giving it a small squeeze before turning to Jamie. “As always, it’s nice to see you, Jamie.”

Jamie grinned. “Thank you, Mrs. Wilkes. You too.”

“Jamie!” Lola was never less than two steps behind Momma, so I was surprised it had taken her this long to realize he was here. She ran straight out the door, jumped down the steps, threw her arms around his waist, and hugged him like she hadn’t seen him in days. “I didn’t know you were coming over!”

Jamie laughed, handing me the bag and picking up Lola to swing her around so she’d laugh too. “I’m just visiting.”

I smiled and went up the stairs to hand Momma the bag, even though I knew it meant the time I had until the Dinner from Hell was getting shorter and shorter. “We might need to wash it one more time.”

Momma gave me an approving nod. “Couldn’t hurt.”

“Why don’t you stay for dinner?” Lola continued, her skinny arms wrapped tight around Jamie’s neck. “Auntie Rose and Uncle Sherman and Elizabeth are all coming. It’ll be like a party!”

Momma froze. She always made the perfect amount of food; we always ate our fill, but we never had leftovers. Aunt Rose and Uncle Sherman always brought a cake and, despite the fact that Momma and Daddy tried to refuse it, always slipped them some money for the meal when they didn’t think anyone was paying attention. Still, nine people was a lot to feed.

“I don’t know, Lola,” Jamie said quickly, putting her down and tossing her hair. “Maybe another time.”

Momma cleared her throat. “We’d be more than happy to have you for dinner, if you’d like, Jamie.”

He looked at me and I hesitated, turning instead to look at Momma. It was only when I saw her wink at me and smile did I turn back around and give a small, sharp nod.

“If you’re sure you have enough room at the table,” Jamie answered. “I don’t want to overstay my welcome.”

Momma shook her head. “You’re always welcome.”

“Jamie can help me get the chairs out for dinner while Emmy checks my

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homework,” Lola announced, grabbing him by the hand and leading him into the house. “Then I want to show him what I’m making Emmy for her birthday.”

She turned to me. “He’s going to love it almost as much as you will.”

Aurora raised an eyebrow at her. “Lola-” “It’s alright,” Jamie said, grinning. He shot me a look as he walked by. “I need some ideas anyway.”

“Well, you can’t take mine,” Lola replied, not skipping a beat. “Come on.”

When Lola and Jamie were out of earshot, both Momma and Aurora turned to me. Although sometimes as different as you could get, Momma and Aurora always bonded over the fact that they were both nosier than they’d ever realize.

That could sometimes be a problem too because I was private. I didn’t even like admitting some things to myself, let alone others.

“I need to check her homework,” I said. “Is there anything else I can do to help?”

“Just help Aurora finish with that corn if she needs it,” Momma answered.

She grinned. “And practice smiling even when you don’t want to. Rose’s been begging me to let her take you on a day trip with her and Elizabeth to try and cheer you up.”

Aurora finally smiled. “I think that’s a great idea.”

I made a face. “I think I’d rather eat dinner with them every night.”

“At least try to pretend like you’re enjoying yourself,” Momma said, stroking a curl back off of my face. “You’ve got such a pretty smile. Show it off.”

Aurora spoke before Momma could get one foot inside. “Momma?”

Momma turned to Aurora, who’d put down the corn and stood up, wiping her hands on her apron. “If nobody likes eating with Aunt Rose and Uncle Sherman and Elizabeth, then why do we do it every week?”

Momma didn’t say anything for a minute. She crossed her arms and wrinkled her eyebrows like she did when she was thinking really hard.

“We’re family,” she finally answered. “Whether we like it or not, we’re family and we’ve got to make the best of it.” She paused. “That and your aunt can make a mean chocolate cake.”

All three of us smiled. *** “Aunt Patience, I think I speak for everyone at this table when I say that

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this is the best chicken you’ve ever made. It’s exquisite.”

I snorted and, when I did, Jamie choked on his water. Aurora kicked me under the table, but Momma and Daddy just pretended like it never happened.

They might not ever admit it, but they thought Elizabeth Tarantino was just as full of crap as I did.

“I’m glad you like it,” Momma replied, a smile tugging on the corner of her lips. “I can’t take all the credit, though. Emmy and Jamie did an excellent job picking out and cleaning the little rascal.”

Elizabeth Tarantino turned to me, her nasty little grin spreading across her face. “I’m glad you’re finally getting over your little fear, Emmy, not that I could say anything. I could never kill anything running around in my yard. I guess I’m just not cut out for farm life.”

“Oh, it’s not too bad,” Lola remarked, not looking up as she placed a dollop of strawberry preserves in her biscuit. “You get to be outside and you have fresh food and you get to play with all the leftover or broken equipment and stuff and sometimes if you do a really good job with the corn, you can save the husks and make dolls with them.”

Elizabeth Tarantino gave my baby sister such a patronizing look that it made me want to stand up, grab her by the ponytail, and throw her out of the house. But, as always, I didn’t.

“That’s adorable, Lola,” Elizabeth Tarantino gushed. “I’m so glad you have an imagination vast enough for that.”

Momma and Aunt Rose changed the subject after that and, really, I don’t even remember what they changed it to. All I know was that I was so mad I wasn’t even eating anymore, just sitting there staring at my plate and praying to God I would spontaneously combust just so I wouldn’t have to ever look at Elizabeth Tarantino again.

“I saw your daddy today, Jamie,” Uncle Sherman remarked, taking yet another helping of corn. “He came to the store. He told me Daniel was planning on enlisting this coming up fall.”

Jamie nodded. “Yes, sir. He is.”

Uncle Sherman sat up straighter. “I was a marine myself. It’s a fine honor to serve your country. Do you have any plans on enlisting?”

“No, sir.”

Elizabeth Tarantino let out one of her high-pitched laughs. “Jamie’s not cut out for military life.” She shot Jamie one of her nauseating smiles. “Though, he

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“Why not?” Lola asked, her eyebrows scrunched together. “If he’s not smart, then he needs someone who is smart to help him out.”

“Well, Lola, I would say the first problem is that no man wants to be bossed around by his wife,” Elizabeth Tarantino shot me one last look, “and the other problem is that women who focus more on their learning tend to not focus as much on their appearance and men don’t like that.”

Aunt Rose cleared her throat. “Elizabeth-” I looked at Lola, gripping the seat of my chair so hard I felt splinters crawling up my fingernails. “What Elizabeth’s saying, Lola, is that intelligence isn’t for everyone and I think she’s provided an excellent example of its absence.”

Aurora kicked me under the table, harder this time, and Jamie didn’t even try to hide his smile. When I looked to Daddy, his lips weren’t smiling, but his eyes were. Momma didn’t say anything and I think that spoke for her.

Elizabeth Tarantino narrowed her eyes at me, but she didn’t say another word to Jamie, Lola, or me the rest of the meal. I was shaking after I said it and even though I knew I had just won a battle and not the war, I was still proud. *** continued on Windhover’s website windhover.ncsu.edu

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VISUAL

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Enter

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Caleb Drum

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See You Again Clara May Casted Yellow Caleb Drum

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Rose Benjamin Webber

Kayla Watson

pigglewiggle_01

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Untitled

Téa Blumer

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The Idea of Jean d’Aire

Steven Nohren

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Therapeutic Thermals

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Kayla Watson

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Redwoods

Kindyll Killian

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TN140

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Menaka Kumar

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Morning Flowers

Kindyll Killian

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Kathryn

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Giulio Rose Giannini

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meaningless Sunrise or Sunset?

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Jack Hoff

Brogan Williams

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Intersection: Blue Foam

Brogan Williams

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Intersection : Wood and String

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Brogan Williams

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Lost in the Funk

Loren Strong

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Submerged

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Bianca Clark

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untitled

Minh Pham

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Conflict of Interest

Ameer M Hassan

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Handwoven Tapestries

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Tess Wiegmann

Chill Out

Minh Pham

The Paper Project: Growth

Brogan Williams

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Im not crying, youre crying

Connor Regan

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noghtlight

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Abigail Malach

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grid1

Harrison Kratzer

Through the Looking Glass

Caleb Drum

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AUDIO MITCHELL BURLESON “can’t hurt yourself sliding into a cloud” ZACK COKAS “Lead the Pack” TRAMZ RAMSEY “Shifting Conscious” SIERRA LAPLANTE “Liquid Sunshine”

www.windhover.bandcamp.com

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VIDEO C PHILLIPS No Love Lost MAT T GOSSET T Surfin’ Test HARRISON KRATZER raconte moi histoire MINH PHAM Beat the Press

www.vimeo.com/windhovervideo

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POETRY

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SONG OF PRAISE Allison Schulz When I stand at the top of a mountain I see a symphony: The first movement is of green Leaves blanketing the earth to the horizon, Reaching up to the sky and cascading over each other, (And of grass dancing at my feet In time with the soft breeze) And it gives You praise.

The second movement bursts forth from the first As birds breach the cover of trees soaring between clouds and diving into the green sea, Singing ballads longing for life, In harmony with each other While the bees follow their lead, The hum of their busyness a percussive beat, And it gives You praise.

High up here, the three movements resound On top of one another, playing joyfully together All at once, yet silent to those Who don’t remember to look and listen For the signature of the Composer Whose name echoes through every note of life As it gives You praise.

But each individual piece Is instrumental to the whole, And the song is incomplete without every leaf and wispy cloud. and bumbling bee.

I breathe in The air sweet with the perfume of wildflowers; As the wind rustles through the trees in applause

In the upward expanse of the sky The third movement drifts playfully by; Cumulus and cirrus paint a picture on a backdrop of blue, Forming shadow puppets on the earth.

The mottled image from above is wholly unique And beautiful in the abstract, And it gives You praise.

We give You praise.

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PHILOMELA Casey Johnson Scarlet blood pours from my mouth as I lie cut by a careless knife, a white flash of bittersweet steel.

Like a bird with a wrung neck, unable to cry out, I am silent.

But I can still spin a story, weave a tapestry, with my tongue cut out.

A fourth Fate taking a thread and deciding the future: one as harrowing as a nightingale’s lament.

HELEN Casey Johnson

The hands of culture warp perception like heat warps cold metal.

These hands have hairy knuckles, callused scars, meaty fingers, and unfiled nails.

And it’s unfair.

It’s unfair that those fingers point with indiscretion and tell our malleable minds that Helen was to blame for launching a thousand ships, and Eve for biting into an apple, and Medusa for being raped by Poseidon.

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GREEN PARK, LONDON Griffin James For Kasey, The sun sits like a tangerine in a porcelain bowl stained watercolor by the sweet juice of its light.

White clouds cradle the expansive fruit as it bleeds onto the ground, blankets our bodies from the world nothing can disturb us not the alarm of traffic nearby, the passing footsteps a few feet away, not even ourselves as we ponder how we made it this far in a city we only just met, and I wonder would anyone try to mug us as we lay here exposed, alone, thousands of miles away from anyone who knows our middle names?

It wouldn’t be hard.

We bare ourselves so open and vulnerable, strangers to the grass we lie on close enough to smell.

I don’t feel endangered, only so tired, and trusting, and warm. I look up to see the green leaves quiver in the cool breeze as checkered shadows are cast onto our skin.

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THIS PRODIGAL DAUGHTER DOESN’T RETURN Nikita Chintalapudi

I grew up with offering plates in my lap, communion in my mouth, and a Bible in my doubtful hands.

Now years have scattered my parts like dandelion seeds, leaving me to find pieces that feel like home.

Every now and then, I find myself in velvet pews, comforted by cathedral and echoing hymn, listening to Latin rumble off empty walls– meaning just out of reach.

This, I think, Must be what faith feels like.

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VICTORIA SPONGE Julia Lowe

Sweet thing, I stumbled upon you On eighteen drowsy daybreaks And dove, Clumsily, Into your decadence.

You were a promising specimen, saccharine.

You towered above the usual desserts.

You had me making three-week plans, Measuring minutes, Memorizing your shirts.

When I thought I had sunk my teeth into you, When your glucose snuck in and fooled my gums, You left me grinding my teeth into powdered sugar, Barely grazing your skin, drawing no blood, Spending no fluids at all.

You were unset, underbaked, Unprepared for my mirror glaze.

And yet— You still used my glassy surface to look at your reflection, Push back your pink-tinged locks, Ask me for a hair tie.

And now as time stretches out between us, Behind and before me all at once, I wonder if you decided to keep growing it out Or if I should look out for something shorter.

Are you still freshly severed where I cut you off?

Me desperately wringing your neck, Waiting for you to clutch—just once—at mine.

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I could build the better man, since he lies Not over the horizon, Waiting to be stumbled upon.

No— Great men are made, I tell myself.

If I could meet you again, I would wear an apron this time, To protect myself from your spatter When I cleave your skin from your bones And fold your epidermis into a batter.

And while you recrystallize, molecule by molecule, Within the boundaries of my oven door, I would pulverize your skeleton, furiously blending The pillars of your height and pride— Which, as if I was blind, you reminded me of Draping my ankles, like fondant, over your broad clavicles— Your long femurs and tibias and torn meniscus All into pale fluffy buttercream.

And blast-chill your blood, Curdling from the hot pulse of your arteries To raspberry jam And spread you out wide Vulnerable, finally, In thick glossy layers Pressed between sponge, risen from your skin, There: Now your insides are right-side-in.

This is how I do it.

I bake you into cake, Coat you with sugar, Keep you sweet In case I crack.

This is how I slice you back.

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THE PERSEIDS Andrew Lockwood As I sit and watch the sky awaiting my night vision to fully adjust, the lectures begin in my head.

There!

Single finger to the stars: The Big Dipper, Ursa Major, the great bear, the consummate constellation to wow any fresh stargazer yearning to chart the expanse for themselves and give some organization to their universe.

But I’ve seen those falling stars before.

Years trailing back to the radiant, my wonder for them has waned, so that I hesitate to measure the angles.

Where shines curiosity when all distances lie marked and all directions catalogued?

A rock cascading through the atmosphere is assaulted by air molecules to create the blazing cape it wears for a brief moment before casting off to the horizon and the show ends.

I’m only out here in the mystical moist night air, because your wonder is waxing and should be magnified, drawn into focus.

In this passing of knowledge, my negative capability can be renewed.

It can perch back along behind Perseus and avoid being hardened by the gorgons of the world, at least for a little while.

Your face illuminated by the dim night blinds my thoughts like the life of those ancient stones dashing toward obliteration with no care for the sharp fade lingering on the eye.

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Jade Dickinson

CARDIAC ARRESTFUL

CUT TO

A drop welling up In the deep soft creases Of the base of one of my fingers The drop swells fat And it is so large and heavy So thick in the palm Of my most useful hand I have never felt a drop so heavy I bring it to my face And barely have the power To whisk it off my skin With the tip of my tired tongue I gather this weight And let it roll back inside of me Like medicine

Robert Prince

It resists me And I am surprised To have misjudged my own ability To take this pain And bring it back into my own body Still warm Still heavy I gather a tissue in my hand To catch the rest of them I get back to cooking Though I am no longer hungry

Thick syrupy thoughts On watts Turn moths to turtles I’ve mixed all the crowns With frowns Take open wounds for circles You’ve got all your goals I’m told How it will all be worth it Seen the rot in your eyes It shines Death in the form of purpose, Thanks for the way you worship, All of the signs Ticking off time All till the timer forfeits Blissful now when your heart Won’t start All cardiac arrestful All that they want-A chest-full Better when left To fester Can’t laugh with a Heartless jester Now in your sleep…

So cardiac arrestful.

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SPLIT AND SWOLLEN Travis Green I stared across the sluggish sidewalks at the rising sun humming sad tunes in late December, hovering in a sea of swollen space, shallow and surfacing. I looked at the falling leaves from trees, how their hazy surface crumbled in endless edges, sunbaked and soundless, scattering in scorched yellowing grass.

I listened to the fold and unfold in my arms, how its shuffling sound froze in midair, how my scratchy ankles settled in unspoken angles, an abandoned geometry trapped in razor boned equations.

I stood still in my driver seat as I sipped on my ice-cold coffee, allowing it’s conflicted contents to sift inside my veins, letting it arrive at a moment in time when I could feel the beats rise, the hypnotic blaze igniting a wave of mazes across my chest. I was existing beyond endless worlds. I could breathe in the melodic notes without hesitation.

I could hear the falling rain drizzle outside my home, all high rising and harmonious, a sparking soul lost in the sweet escape.

There was a mixed feeling inside my heart as I gazed at the slow-moving vehicles driving by. I could see the whirling smoke seeping in the air from their swelling engines, loud vibrating rhythms raining in reverberating syllables.

I turned around and saw a young gentleman walking into a shopping center, his stone blue eyes a drifting reflection of what I was carrying inside.

I could see behind that serene smile a broken shell filled with emptiness and speechless mechanics. His somber shirt and stained blue jeans was a mere depiction of small silent roses sinking beyond hope. I thought to myself – I know the pain that you are harboring inside. I know the secret that you cannot hide. And as I saw his shadow fade away, I could feel the strong diction drumbeating my existence.

The collapsing cheeks. The stripped muscles breaking into smudged songs.

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But as I continued drinking my coffee, I could see the crimson flames intensifying, stabbed seagulls floating in silence, vanishing bluebirds gone in broken down realities, all sunken deep and lowering. Everything was unstable. The quivering beats. The circle of damaging labyrinths. The shattered rain yellowing my existence. The whispering wind reminding me that the pain will never fade away.

And at those words, I saw the same young man scurrying out of the store towards his vehicle, earthbound frame unfamiliar and steady changing, hard heart-shaped cheeks muted and unmoving, a burning scar just like mine, split and swollen.

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SHOW AND TELL Caleb Bartholomew

Our double-wide has these big, cracked, eggwhite cabinets where Mom keeps her medicine—and us.

We have trash-bag relay races, bowling alley hallways.

A lightbulb cracked under my foot once, shard shoved into sole. It hurt, but only a little. Mom says, I’m a big kid.

We crack ramen blocks with counter corners, boil broken noodles in the microwave, add sticky ice and orange flavor powder, eat with our hands, with buttered bread, like a sandwich, like Mom taught us.

My sister and I search for change in couch cracks, floor vents. We save pennies and nickels for Gameboy games, give dimes and quarters to Mom for help.

When Mom’s home, we play Rummy together, make wisecracks: will you go pee for me? I stay, late into the night, past my bedtime, but I’m on Mom’s team, and she needs me— And when Mom’s not home, my brother makes chicken in the pan.

I watch, listen as oil crackles like sugar burning in Mom’s crack spoon.

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MAN ≠ MORTAL Patricia Ndombe

after Talking Walls by James De La Vega at the Gregg Museum in Raleigh, NC

earthened vessel / cryptic dust baton receiver / blood exclusive rich ash blood / jar of tears curly hair / parching heart assertive / brown gun barrel / trophy brave / hunter

vessel broken / crystal dust baton dropper / blood seclusive frigid blood / wasted years sun kissed hair / leaking heart aggressive / dark trigger / china reckless / prey

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POISON THE WALLS Tymber Felts

I’m allergic to this place The honey bee sting Didn’t kill this time The swell and poison of it all The white welt on my foot Leading me to a graveyard of Broken homes

This is a message for you I did not love here The bees were here first And they did not invite us to stay What you see on the walls Of this filthThat is not honey That is a molding of all The hearts that were broken here All of the cruel written on these walls That is a meshing of the ugly things That have followed me here And I’ve been trying to scrub it away For years But it’s impossible to wish away Something that was not

I catch myself sneezing through the walls Who left all of this dust?

Who hasn’t been sweeping?

I wonder: Who was here before me?

Whose hands were on the other Side of this wall?

Did she love?

I wish that whoever Steps on this hardwood after me Whoever she is I wish that she could ask the same Of me And taste the honey

Yours to begin with

Rather than feel the sting

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MY LOVER’S EYES Jade Dickinson My lovers eyes Are full Overflowing With dark clouds Dripping syrup That pools And sticks His velvet dark and soft lashes together

I eat and I whisper Of all of our futures That only I can see My eyes are clear Glass diamonds Empty

He cannot see past these pools So he lays down and imagines What I look like

But I shall lay And drink my lover’s gaze And reflect it back A million times

I appear in his visions Sticky and saccharine He drinks me like the nectar That he pours forth Uncontrollably Hungry and blind

I will let him call me a giver Knowing full well That I only give back A sopping handful Of all that I take

We lay down in a flower stuffed mattress And he marvels At how he wandered into my love He wonders At how I hover over him He cannot see that I am a fly Drawn to his sweetness Rubbing my hands up and down him I climb inside of him And nest in his heart Like a rotting fruit

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THIS APARTMENT IS A UNICORN S L A U G H T E R H O U S E Shannon Pitone

this apartment is a Unicorn Slaughterhouse, an ephemeral waiting room, a trial sentence to a promised severance of being & becoming. witness to the gaping mouth of the world; she swallows us whole our reflections ensnared in her glittering diamond teeth distorted dreams digesting within the styrofoam habitat of microcosms in the heart of the fridge so much right in the center, glowing through the fringe so much leftover the third-floor ascent expanding with elevator conversations of pilgrimages and moments of departure extinguishing chapstick exhalations of worlds we thought we could keep contained listless mist over the ledge of the balcony where the universe exists in stuttering chains beneath pink faces of vibrating tongues and wide, so wonderfully wide cherry blossoming eyes

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BAD BITCH GONE D.E.F.

I’m losing you that once hard shell Self proclaimed bad bitch melting away You’re at Your

his mercy heart in his hands Bad bitch and foul mouth gone Replaced by tender love and song Desparate for touch Much of you

is gone That fuck you attitude turned into blissed out eyes

and mind Bad bitch under pink spell

hypnotized by his black

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eyes Shaded under his smile I miss you your coldness I wish you could

freeze these tears that fall Remind me that men ain’t shit They can’t handle a bitch like you that I’m worth it and more

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CASTRATED ANGELS Robert Prince

I have fire proof hands and a jump start heart To let the pain soak in without setting me ablaze is an art I can’t tell if it is cost or punishment The doors to the promised land have been closed since heaven sent Me So I’ve been called an angel by the multitudes To see the faces here at times feels tumultuous The way the warden wraps his knuckles on the bars Makes me look out just to ask, who is gazing at the stars?

We We is a solitary term that changes But the problems get passed down along the line like generations It’s not exactly the same as a genetic wing clip But getting up and skyward is still impossible for the angel

Miracles make the mad men sane Smile like All Might day after day after day Like the Water Walker, I absorb rancid and produce clean Turn water into wine and off the whine try to wean

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Just like the holy father I come close then abandon Then frantically my human side goes looking for the stand in Where’s the wood when you need it? Now only strapped to my chest and to crucify myself I need a nail or a vest I attest, I switch vehemently from refuse to the best

Once upon a time I was made of stone And I traded all the hardness in the world to watch the flowers grow So now I can walk among the world of men at least in half But now softer than ever and still expecting the rain to last I’m deserted in the dryness With nothing left but prayer and hope I’m an angel living flightless on these tearless heightless slopes I’m the sun without a shadow, I’m the fire bereft of smoke If a stranger passing by could only help me to the road…

You cannot drown a horse in water you can only let him know

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GARDEN OF E

i’m a practicing mortician because i still put filters on old pictures of us, playing dress up in the past while you are photobombing foreign territories that welcome you timidly before detonation the smoke kills faster than the flames so I still edit these digital consolations of lust because i believe in comfort and if you’re going to die,

Shannon Pitone

at least be pretty at least be 12% saturation, mirror flipped, -3% highlight for me, filter for finishing touch touch upload retouch like reload at least like my post at least be a public display that we used our own teeth to bite the fruit pics or it didn’t happen so you told me don’t delete the photos you wanted them to stay like perfect little bonsai trees taking a form never engineered to grow my electronic garden of toxic shards and more masks than i could keep track of

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MY FRIENDS DON’T SLEEP Breia Houston A few of those I hold most dear Spoke of the Foe to them quite near.

For hushed and low they told me so; The wars they lose between their ears.

Their beds commence bullets to fly As stress begins to multiply.

They said to me they cannot bear The aching mass behind their eye.

One told me of her plan to win The war that happens deep within.

This plan I heard caused me to weep It seemed to me like giving in.

The lifeless iris ringed in red Are scars of battles made on beds.

All I can do is keep them fed, And urge them soft to rest their heads.

I FOUND LOVE IN: Jon Copes

lavender (bed sheets, jumpsuit, oil) a green ceramic hand pipe (freshly scrubbed) a gentle wash of kisses (in private) a subtle brush of fingertips (in public) 5,000 miles (12-hour flight) 44 missed calls (a long night out) two weeks visit (already paid) the 39 bus (if it came on time) empty city streets (if it didn’t)

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THEN Briana Miller sometimes i go back to those young and warm, mosquito ridden july nights where lost lovers searched for answers among the desolate darkness the least of all our worries was if we would have the same lunch period so you could give me your pretzels as a swift trade for my unconditional infatuation forever i would give the meetings at long stretches of wooden tables and stone expressions for parked car meetings in the lot at the top of that hill, and music when lying under the stars and assigning dreams to each constellation was enough to fill the hollow crevices of our soul as long as stars burn our dream still exist but as we all learned in school, before we learned about wars or how to pay bills, stars eventually burn out and the songs we sang of freedom and desire all come to a slow and dismal end we would always skip those parts but there is no passing the part in life where pillow forts and laughs turn into mortgages and fights over “her” and the stars just don’t shine quite the same

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NEW TESTAMENT

You and The Gospel taught me that everything on this Earth is expendable — my body no exception. On the fifth of June, God commanded the night rain to muddy the earth for creation.

God lifted my body from dirt into the air and crushed it to give me form. After ancient palms molded my face into clay, I saw your black torso, blood-draped, tip-toe down a moonlight-shrouded stairwell, stopping on the step before my birthing ground, and knew my worth. Premature,

Bryan Cambra

I fled from His grip and crawled over, reaching out to touch that soft obsidian.

You uncovered a thigh to indulge me, and counted every millisecond spent blemishing it with fingerprint patterns and vapors of my warm, first breaths — my clay body quivering with each feeling of empty eyes probing it.

Once lips finally touched skin, you and the stairwell left my hands and blended into night.

I remained there on all fours, head cocked back towards the black clouds accepting you and the rain are the only parts of Heaven I’ll taste.

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AN ODE TO MONGO OF SHREK 2 Griffin James

Innocence washed away, scalded by men who don’t know your name or age.

Men whose faces are some of the first faces you’ve ever seen.

You bear scars on your skin as birthmarks. Each one a tally for a minute of life.

You were born to expedite the process, left lying in the water like Ophelia.

No flowers to adorn your crown, only the sunken gumdrop buttons mistaken for rocks.

Your skin dissolved into the stream as dirt. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. We’re all buried in the end.

You were born into violence bred to cry power against those stronger than you. You learned a battle cry before first words, a hymn of protest.

You spoke a language meant for war at an age meant to learn love.

Not everyone can be so lucky.

The song of unsung heroes is the hardest to tell.

It’s strange, you’d expect it to piece itself together, each word after the other, but every letter is scattered like crumbs across the floor.

Fragmented with no clue of where to start.

Innocence washed away, scalded by men who don’t know your name or age.

Men whose faces are some of the first faces you’ve ever seen.

You bear scars on your skin as birthmarks. Each one a tally for a minute of life.

No one thought of the consequences what it means to bear life in times of war, to throw someone out of the oven and into the flames.

It’s easy to stomach someone dying when it’s not their death to bear; it’s just like systems of power to cut middle men out to keep themselves alive.

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VLLL

You were born into violence bred to cry power against those stronger than you. You learned a battle cry before first words, a hymn of protest.

You spoke a language meant for war at an age meant to learn love.

Not everyone can be so lucky.

The song of unsung heroes is the hardest to tell.

It’s strange, you’d expect it to piece itself together, each word after the other, but every letter is scattered like crumbs across the floor.

Fragmented with no clue of where to start.

No one thought of the consequences what it means to bear life in times of war, to throw someone out of the oven and into the flames.

It’s easy to stomach someone dying when it’s not their death to bear; it’s just like systems of power to cut middle men out to keep themselves alive.

You were born to expedite the process, left lying in the water like Ophelia.

No flowers to adorn your crown, only the sunken gumdrop buttons mistaken for rocks.

Your skin dissolved into the stream as dirt. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. We’re all buried in the end.

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FEAR Ken Nakazawa Fear is salty time.

Time when the ocean’s water consumes and paralyzes your body, your mind.

Time when parched mouths crack, like swallowing gallons of the Dead Sea. Time that induces an agonizing desperation for liberation, for relief.

Time when riverbeds are etched into cheeks by the burning of streaming, saline tears.

It is the time when a lover’s threats split scars with corrosive rubs of sodium chloride.

Water on the body evaporates, erasure of my visible suffering.

Yet the salt lingers like an exasperating itch, it’s remnants glued to me, refusing to disappear to drift away.

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ODE TO LIGHT HIMSELF Karah Hamel

Even the freckles on my skin claim their dappled little spaces under the brilliance of your fiery eyes.

Persistence in even the most fragile being weaving lungs to fill with yourself, rendering darkness a memory—strips off his mask with your loving smile.

You were right about him.

Friend, tell me more about how you don’t discriminate.

I promise I’ll listen now.

How you have Never selected a skin to leave without illumination... knowing well that your beloved would flatter the ocean in imitation.

In retaliation of your sweet descent, the ocean gulps you into her throat with her selfish waves like an ungrateful child… forgetting who gave her life.

Humanity marking each other with our hateful waves splashing heavy white foam oppressive straightjacket just to say

Futility left her bones bare. you lay your grace out like a silk garment over her shivering skeleton in silver moonbeams.

The dark ocean, slick with oil, still can’t resist your rays.

“Light was wrong about you”...

How much proof do I need?

You were right about them. Even as I sink under her rippling surface lovestruck or answer the call of darkness and wander, his whisper enveloping my ear, you find me there.

When you’ve always searched for yourself in the dampest and in the least foraged soul, evaporating your children’s foam-covered shell to prepare a space for your glowing embers.

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MANDIRA1 Nikita Chintalapudi

The floor is porcelain polished white, the air a sticky sweet. The wrinkled leather skin of aging aunties glows against the crackling blaze of burning sacrifice absolving sin.

Before Ganesh2, thin and kala3, hair a static frizz, they mouth their prayers– each hungry supplication. Laying pear, amruth, anar; offering, beseeching.

At gods’ feet, the milk rots, the flowers wilt, and mold begins to creep along the hidden marble cracks. The garlands knot around the necks of gods, a choking heap.

A freshly shaved toddler adds one more and the air, this dizzy heat, presses inward.

1 Hindi word meaning temple 2 Hindu Elephant god 3Hindi word meaning very dark skinned

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HONEYED HONEYPOLLEN-PROPOLIS KISSED DREAMS Kimberly Rogers What obscure golden green dreams she dreams from a sleepless sleepy sleeping honey bee away from her assiduous reigns from which she works extremes In wildflower perfumed fantasies she is free She dreams of honey nectar kisses from her sisters and in lull of a trance she dances pollen-propolis dances away from where she works herself raw and with throbbing blisters in day she toils and drones on to keep a queen’s alliances on colored wind from sun to moon thundering arduously, drifting through a lazy eternal sky her time might be coming quickly soon she catches sleep, her worries still, and she needn’t no longer try in the end her small honeyed honey-pollen-propolis kisses makes sure that a queen doesn’t go a misses.

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PATIENT SURVEY QUESTION 2 Leo Kerner

2. If you checked off any problem on this questionnaire so far, how difficult have these problems made it for you to do your work, take care of things at home, or get along with other people? a. I opened a book on to a page- a list of things that it would be easier to be than a human, cursed with limitless capability: i. a rabbit, to just hunt that swaying grass,

1. to care only for fucking, to hide from beasts

2. as easily as it is to burrow into the warm, beating dirt. ii. an oak, to shade and to shelter,

1. to nurture, to gather,

2. to be betrayed, smoothly and hobbling

3. by dropped children at your knees,

4. Eventually… toppling... iii. a trout, for who’s only great pleasure

1. is to be the vector for his seeds,

2. to fill the great, thronged rivers,

3. to fall in numbers,

4. to paint those great bare rocks with unsuspecting ichor

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SELF-PORTRAIT IN MEDIA RES Caleb Bartholomew middle of the driveway, moon and streetlight meet, idle blue car, guitar gentle, parked, paused forehead, nose-hook pressed into steering wheel, breathing breathing, half-clenched fist rests atop gear shift cars pass stuck in drive; yellow serenade, soft, holds on to my hand this moment and ends

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Printed By Theo Davis Printing Company 1415 W. Gannon Ave, Zebulon, NC 27597 Typefaces used are Brandon Grotesque Basic Set and Monarcha Book + SemiBold Set Printed on 80# Lynx Opaque Ultra Text, 80# MacGregor Gloss Text, and 122# Neenah Plike Black Cover with gold foil Created with Adobe InDesign CC 2019 1,200 copies printed.

Windhover considers artistic work for publishing across many mediums created by NC State University staff, student and alumni. Editorial staff, alongside their respective volunteer committees, review submissions with particular criteria in mind and then choose their nominations for the annual magazine. Submissions do not reflect the opinions of Windhover, Student Media or NC State University.

To see submission guidelines please visit windhover.ncsu.edu

© NC STATE STUDENT MEDIA 2019 307 Witherspoon, Box 7318, Raleigh NC 27695 919.515.5012 | windhover-editor@ncsu.edu