The Tower, Fall 2020

THE TOWER fall 2020

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THE TOWER fall 2020 Gods and Bodies

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Special Thanks

Masthead

Our Advisor, Jessica Handler

Editors in Chief

School Printing

Ivy Jones

Oglethorpe University SGA All Contributing Artists

Sophia Summerlin Daisy Astudillo

Hannah Banfiel

Rachel Bacchus

Bella Barbone

Aleece Bustamante

Jeremy Cooper

Valeri Cruz-Amaya

Laurann Herrington

Elijah Istre

Mattie Jones

Dani Lindmier

Milo McGehee

Montserrat Olvera

Rae Pinheiro

Julia Price

Sammi Rowell Jason Thomas

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Contents Charismatic, Mattie Jones ........................................................12 The Rise of Smoke, Joshua Lambie .........................................13 Ode to the Pinelodge, Mattie Jones ........................................14 “Death Must Be So Beautiful” -- Oscar Wilde, Brit Rosser 15 Sterilite Mess 1, Aleece Bustamante .......................................16 DADA2020, Ivy Jones ..............................................................17 Sterilite Mess 2, Aleece Bustamante .......................................17 229, Jeremy Cooper ..................................................................18 Mother Paints, Daisy Astudillo ...............................................21 the courts won’t protect us anymore, Aleece Bustamante ................................................................................................22-23 The God of Joy, Caroline Gammage ......................................24 I Descend Upon Your Earth from the Skies, Joy Carpenter 25 THE SUBLIME SUITE, Ivy Jones ..........................................26 Chrysta Avers ............................................................................29 Brook Deutschman (cover) .....................................................30 Roomba?, Cooper Willis ..........................................................31 To My Persephone, Rowan Joignant ......................................32 Narratives of Introspection, Bronwyn Matlick .....................32 grasp, Hannah Banfiel ..............................................................33 Moth Mother’s Lament, Daisy Astudillo ...............................34 The Pier, Nathaniel Page ..........................................................38 The Station, Nathaniel Page ....................................................38 The Car Wash, Nathaniel Page ................................................39 Fragrance and Vacuum, Nathaniel Page ...............................40 The Change Machine, Nathaniel Page ...................................40 Collections I, II, III, and IV, Milo McGehee .........................41 pov, Hannah Banfiel .................................................................44 Chrysta Avers ............................................................................45 Afer “Stupeflip Vite !!!”, Ivy Jones ...........................................46 Fire, Rae Pinheiro .....................................................................47 Untitled, Aleece Bustamante ....................................................49

On Knowing, Mattie Jones .......................................................50 Daydream, Britt Rosser .............................................................51 At the River, Astarte, the Forgotten Goddess .........................52 jungle concrete, Bronwyn Matlick ...........................................54 Cage, Leah Wright .....................................................................55 Chrysta Avers .............................................................................57 Eulogy., Cierra Lianne ...............................................................58 It’s a Long Way Down (Series), Sammi Rowell ................59-61 mamihlapinatapai, Heather Ake ..............................................62 ineffable, Heather Ake ...............................................................63 Disaster Body, K. Mog ..............................................................64 Eyes in the Sky, Cooper Willis .................................................65 I’ve Cognitive Dissonance and 18 Ways to Reduce It. Can We Call?, Jeremy Cooper ...........................................................66 You Will Be Okay, Daisy Astudillo ....................................68-69 Moonblinde, Ivy Jones ..............................................................70 paths ahead and behind, Hannah Banfiel ..............................73 The Forsaken Spirit, Leah Wright ...........................................74 Don’t you remember, Brit Rosser ............................................76 Self Love, Brit Rosser ................................................................77 The Burnt Popcorn Boy, Joshua Lambie ................................78 The Walk Home, Mattie Jones ..................................................79 Burrito Bot, Cooper Willis .......................................................80 The Killer Robots, Cooper Willis ............................................81 Gas Station Gothic, Leah Wright ............................................82 The Fire, Emily Farmer .............................................................83 Chrysta Avers .............................................................................84 dreams, Hannah Banfiel ...........................................................85 Hoo ha hoo ha hoo ha, Eros, the Love God ...........................86 Chrysta Avers .............................................................................88 Claver, Ivy Jones .........................................................................89 Premonitions, Mattie Jones ................................................90-91 Italicized works have been selected as winners of The Tower's awards: Handler's Choice and Editors' Choice.

Handler's Choice is given to works in the categories of art and writing by our advisor, Jessica Handler.

Editors' Choice is given to works by the editors in chief.

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The Rise of Smoke Joshua Lambie

Charismatic Mattie Jones

The fire caught first on the porch and traveled up the front façade. It deafeningly whooshed up and around the roof of the porch like water swallowing a sinking ship. The heat of the flames spread across the top of the wooden roof-peak, around the diamond-shaped window, until finally landing on the coarse and weathered planks hammered into the rooftop.

The flames reflected a ghostly glow in the night on the sparse, graveled landscape. Looking from below, the fire seemed to be reaching towards the heavens— as if the church itself was gasping for air and begging to be called home by its Lord.

The old and gnarled tree that, in days of hot summer, shielded the church’s parishioners from the oppressive heat was now engulfed in heat of a different kind as the fire spread to its gangling branches, singeing the leaves that once fluttered in the spring breeze.

The only sound one could hear in the night air was both church and tree popping and smoking in the intense angry heat. The entire structure was almost completely consumed on the outside— not a single inch except the red brick foundation was left without flame. In a sudden ghostly squeal, the church’s simple windows shattered from the heat.

Its front-facing diamond-window let out an endless plume of black smoke.

It wasn’t until the last shards of glass fell to the gravel that the smoking man wearing the gray hat could hear the screams. Women, men, and children all crying out to the savior they once believed would protect them. The man looked down at the now empty gasoline canister and wondered if he made the right decision. He scoffed and took another drag from his cigarette. Who cares, he thought. If hell is real, I was on my way there long before tonight.

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Ode to the Pinelodge Mattie Jones

Peaches says: the Pinelodge Motel is where people go to kill themselves.

Says years ago, her grandmother broke her heel off on a woman’s ribs in the doorway of room 9 and mourned nothing but the loss of the shoes.

Says the pile of human rubble just outside the parking lot is named Crazy Phil.

Says he has three teeth, a one-string guitar, and has not aged in 21 years.

As we pull up to his red light, he monologues to no one about the sacred duty bestowed upon him by the USPS to paint postal stamps with images of hell.

Three teenage boys stop to watch him rave; their shared laughter smells like nitrous and malt liquor.

Peaches says: oh, but they are good.

Says they want to be teachers and preachers and metal workers— not addicts.

Says they make her heart turn sharp in her chest.

Says they make her ache for a tenderness she has never claimed to own.

As the light turns green, I watch them from the rearview mirror and grieve silently for the soft cartilage of their noses, the callused pads of their fingers, the thin white hairs on the backs of their necks.

Death Must Be So Beautiful” --Oscar Wilde Brit Rosser

Peaches says: there are no living Kyles this side of Appling County.

Not Here— where the good side of town is the football stadium, where you can buy $10 meth pipes and peach Nehi at the Quick-Stop, where the lumber yard caught fire and burned for a week straight before anyone thought to put it out.

Not Here- where brothers walk into traffic with their eyes shut tight, where old men with leather skin drive lawn mowers down the highway and stuff wintergreen Copenhagen into the slick pockets of their lower lips.

Not Here— where I am the granddaughter to strangers whose favorite song is static on the police scanner, where I am more Sharpe than Malarkey.

Where I am a sweet girl, for a Yankee at least.

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DADA2020 Ivy Jones Bedclothes! Bedclothes! BEDthis is a holdup!--)(0 echoes of the chicken feather father vomit sludging down my chin… you’d think the fl0wers wouldve choked us by now-BLAH BLAH BLAH rip me from my slumber, uuhhhh a girl in a boat in a sea in a beetle in a dog’s mouth BEDCLOTHES! soft as a castle door’s slam, slow as a snail on pOt Hey! Hey! Hey! I can go too! I can do that! I can be with you! (noNOnoNOnoOO)o grief nails me to the grass, i turn into a snow angel BEDCLOTHES! am i dreaming or do you love me again? one year of hitting snooze until my fingerpad bled handsomely

(above) Sterilite Mess 1 (right) Sterilite Mess 2 Aleece Bustamante 17

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Jeremy Cooper

She had heard of summer.

Ma lamented its heat, And Pa fretted how it had dusted his porcelain dolls from some lavender sickbed-Forcing confessions of having twice been plastic.

There was more space in the sunsets and more frills on the girls’ dresses this time around, All the easier to tuck behind seatbelts when flying down baby’s first dirt road— Baby’s first time going 150, Chasing thunder as Pa’s knees crack like cypress to floor it.

It was custom to tape over the mirrors then And seek reflection in Ruffles bags on the way; All to be remembered of summer Just was.

For three days she preferred blueberries.

On the fourth, it rained.

Diamonds fell from the sky: Diamonds on the hand, Diamonds from the blue, Diamonds on the palms.

Overturned buckets— Now strawberries in the chef’s hat, Silver jewelry in the pond, Barn out back.

She had been counting birds against the sun and found comfort in the blind.

She was theirs but is now barn’s, First time possessed and didn’t know if she liked it.

Now it’s two, and she’s finding ease in it.

They met under his conditions— With pinned ears and damp khakis.

His frame echoed his age, and she could smell the woods on him.

She thought she had seen him before in the apple orchard, Feasting on blueberry poptarts and levitating to lock hands with the scarecrows.

He knew kittens could be trained to miss vertical lines— That mornings are not mornings without silver wrapped tchotchkes, And of the place where the sky is kept.

“It has potted plants,” he told her.

Laughter hit walls like a thin child’s fist— Fingers too clumsy for knots; It gives, It takes, It beckons, It makes a fist.

First kiss in the barn.

What was his name?

She wanted him to know her for her gentile nature, Not the look on her face when he finally won.

Warm, soft, blanket catching, Tears falling-Wrong shape— Diamonds on the hips, Diamonds on red, Diamonds on bud.

Eyes stuck on her, Clothes caught on crack, Gnarled hands on the back of a chair, Raphael scratched from the backs of men: “Are you intentionally not looking at me?”

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Recognition to reality to fantasy to belief, Her mornings were now of black satin sheets and Listerine.

She grew more comfortable in the paint of the wall, Gifting her reflection hands to bury shadows and pull boats from cabinet drawers.

Pa knew gingerbread men would rot in one year: One year.

And that dogs become feral.

In his youth He had spoken his persuasions into orbit of the sun and watched it pass Saturn, And he wondered where she kept her rings at night, But his daughter is ringless and plain.

In his youth He fathered Ishtar on a sky carpeted in stars he plucked to string round her neck as testament to her form— Her agape lungs; Yet she straddled the flames of prudence to kiss the bull goodbye, And he wondered if he should teach his youngest to ride.

He never did.

But she knows.

Choking fear Can’t think from the medicine, She knows the soldiers get sick too.

It was odd to be a rose and so unthorned.

It was odder to be ruined And sleep so well.

Mother Paints Daisy Astudillo 21

the courts won’t protect us anymore Aleece Bustamante

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The God of Joy Caroline Gammage

I was born in the daytime’s youthful radiance, and the world was pink.

I opened my eyes, and the first thing I saw was the effervescent glow of my mother, basking against the orange sky.

Her kind, all-knowing reflective eyes were staring down at me, revealing all of my secrets, already knowing exactly who I was.

My father was beautiful, exquisitely chiseled from deep marble and gold.

His pearly tears Batted away by his heavy dark lashes, Were coasting down his perfect cheeks.

His dark, generous lips were curled into a smile and was chuckling in relief at my arrival.

They swaddled me in the soft down of a cloud and named me Joy. Borne of soul, Daughter of love.

Their little god of happiness.

I am their beautiful abomination labored over for countless days and nights.

Made from incomparable sweat and tears fever-red passion blackest night poison the fresh kiss of morning dew mind and adoration.

My father is the meaning of life And my mother is my heartbeat.

We all dwell in the rich blue sky keeping a watchful eye over my brothers and sisters while I play in the sun.

My parents made sure that all was well And warm And kind By creating me.

I Descend Upon Your Earth from the Skies Joy Carpenter 25

THE SUBLIME SUITE Ivy Jones I: PERCY BYSSHE the taffy on my tongue feels like a heart, we were euphoric on a hilltop where the toppest house eats babies. twelve months later, and ive known you for so many octobers, twelve weeks later the mondays walk the dog. halloween fucked me and it felt generous, halloween fucked my best friend and it felt right. i swim when i cant, and when the hotel pool’s lights turn off and the manager says “go home” i take his advice and sink into the deep end. sometimes we shriek and write “spleen” from cheerios on the kitchen floor, it’s an average day just folding clothes and folding clothes and folding clothes. the smell of poppysmoke chokes my throat so i call off and puke in my purse in the uber on the way home. a god in a mirror is myself, a god in a painting is my mother. she looks at me with jellybean eyes. i wish i had jellybean eyes. instead, im taller than i will be tomorrow, thats how my body functions, bloodletting brings out the fetus i didnt know i held. tastes like silkworms, my baby, tastes like silkworms. percy bysshe kicked my ass in wii sports resort, so i owe him a soda, but when i punch the machine all i get is a still-beating heart

II: BYRON Love you! Love you I love you like hair I love you like a handshake. touch my neck, i like it when that happens. my choker presses like fingers to my pulse, it dangles a chokecherry bear. the bear’s feet are pillow soft.

Why is this important? i am beaten to life. the peanut butter is stocked every tuesday, so i take spoons and hide them under the bottom bunk i make a pentagram out of hotel salt packets. i take deep breaths of hotel salt water. did you know that i can swim faster than you? byron pushes my tongue behind my teeth, i bite down and the popsicle stick is a tree the tree is my lantern my lantern is apples the apples are marijuana i take them down my throat like a good boy and let my stomach teeth chew chew chew chew am i a bad person?

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III: JOHN KEATS moonlight is when the pinkishness slices best, under the ceiling stars, under the ceiling fan. my throat is filmed with mucus and spit (i drink sprite to keep from vomiting) when i was there i was not there, the silver and gold tinsel shards cutting into my ankles. me, laced into a tree bleeding from arrows. me, sitting in place, on fire from thoughts. me and john keats, lying on the rug like dead birds. just like dead birds! i can’t stop bleeding! where can i meet her? where can i best sigh? where is the path? moonjuice into my arteries! italy smears blue eyeshadow on my sleeping lids. we dance inside membrane, breathe with chest cavities. italy smears ruby red lipstick on my mouth until my teeth are stained. no resuscitation! you cannot wake me up! life hit me with four fists and each of them landed. this is none of your business.

Chrysta Avers 29

Brook Deutschman (cover)

Roomba?

Cooper Willis 31

To My Persephone Rowan Joignant To my Persephone, I’m sorry.

What a brilliant light you are.

You drank my Pomegranate promises, But I only gave you scars.

For my Patroclus, I weep.

There’s only so much I can do.

Before my knees give out under me, And I become someone you knew.

To my Future, I swear: I will never love another.

My lips are full of poison; No more hearts, with them, I’ll smother.

Narratives of Introspection Bronwyn Matlick The screen is bright as day, illuminating my eyes but not my heart.

In my world I can do anything, but not everything.

There is calm, quiet, security.

Everything I need to fuel the continuous sway; [of] This chaos that occasionally arises in any isolated mind.

grasp Hannah Banfiel 33

Moth Mother’s Daisy Astudillo Lament I. Little brown moths on the floor Shocked by the too bright light Their flickering wings and rotten mouths Little brown moth mouths While iiiiI was outside, the ground startededed dispersing. It became tiny specks of matter, cosmosssss of the Earth.,,,..,,,..?

EArTH????? earth disperse , tiny, tiny molecules Atom/s Sleep by the moon.

But it will electrocute me too No it won’t Yes (it) will)))))) No(yes)nonono Yes! --. ..-… …...-- (god it’s him) Pull the cord to turn on the light You coward Dark room, lit room Half cracked blinds You coward Coward coward coward owwsrdocaord coward Regurgitating moths slip from my child mouth To feast upon the soul of a devil man (INFANT) Eat the moths, You coward

II. im gonna eat the pictures! im gonna eat them!! zzzzzzzzzzz/z/z/zz////z/z////z//z/z/zz/z/z/z/z/z/ buzzzbuzzbuzzbuzzbuzzbzbzuzbzbzuzb go around my head, around around and around and around, merry-go-round fair i’m at the fair the girl wears a golden dress she looks like an hourglass Well then! i eat a cactus (let me eat a cactus!) i let my tears water the cactus (poor cactus!) i think i’ll eat the cactus (crunchrunchrcunch curnch) no relief, no cactus, no tears im gonna eat those pictures!! who’s gonna stop me??? you? her? (i bet she will) She looks like an hourglass (Is she mary? mary is that you? With your halo, Holding the babe in your arms?) (no, i am mary) (i think she’s married) With her golden dress, Maybe i’ll eat my nails and my eyelashes i’ll break an hourglass and throw the sand out beach, 35

Maybe i’ll eat my nails and my eyelashes i’ll break an hourglass and throw the sand out beach, because who cares about time when time doesn’t take a second out of its day to care about you i will make you eat the sand i threw on the Ground Grounding Grinding i grind my teeth, God i extend my arms to you, And i ask that you let me eat the hourglass You’ve set in front of me.

III. Flickerflickerflickerflicker Turn the light on and off on and off on and off on and off Offoff off on ononon No, no, NO! i will keep the lights off Let me feel my way around the darkness, i cant find my way and the lights are off i think i feel a baby cradle, i think i feel my feet, If i turn on the lights, will i be there or not?

In the darkness, i don’t see myself, If i turn on the lights, will i disappear too?

Let me keep my body, Let me keep my feet, Crucifixion There i am

There he is That’s where my feet were, On and off and on and on and on And off and off and off the lights keep talking to me Where are the moths?

Where is the baby? ….. ----..--.-..-.. -- (H E T O U C H E D M E) IV. In the beginning, God created the heavens and the earth God divided the light from the dark And He made the stars, the land, the water, time (years, days, minutes, seconds) I became the spring, and the summer, and the winter, and fall I gave birth to a dandelion puff, and she drifted away (My feet hurt, my hands hurt, Night and day and day and night) I used to make wishes on dandelion puffs.

I wished for innocence, and kindness, and love, and hope I wished for childhood, with the soft grass crinkling under my toes My hands dancing with the morning dew (I collected morning dew and drank it in a mason jar) But one day, God turned off the lights, And I shrieked - I became scared - I couldn’t see my body The darkness held my hand I never said it could hold my hand Darkness entered, The light embraced, And I gave birth to a dandelion, But watched her drift away.

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The Pier The Station Nathaniel Page

The Car Wash Nathaniel Page 39

Collections I,II, III, and IV Milo McGehee

I. October was motion, the perpetual flow of everything, the surface of a river put in flux by wind and current, shot into reality by glittering light—noiseless.

And before the cold could express itself in my breath (as it does now) I would go into the gardens and climb the mound at the center and face the unbroken, timeless buildings where I would be unmade, deconstructed by the silence, stripped of my past and my tomorrow, so here so now: “I am October.”

Fragrance and Vacuum The Change Machine Nathaniel Page

The darkened leaves move in the wind like a flock of midnight birds, rustling quietly, revealing stars between fluttered wings.

Words skate, flaring up with color as they rip through the dark; conversation rises like the tide, swelling, becoming, and then fallen again, leaving still pools which hint at what was; I skim through them, searching for reminders of eternity floating beneath the surface; translucent, pale petals twirling as if moved by unseen threads.

Staring into the night there is an explosion of color and shapes and forms—memories bare themselves up, erupt outwards, tumbling onto the faces around me, changing the timbre of their words, the significance of who they were and who they are to become.

Then, silence, a divine hush, a dream broken, the tick of a clock. October walks ahead of me. I descend the stairs and walk quietly across damp grass.

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II. Why is it that rapture and despair so easily break one another? As if our moments of becoming, casting off of veils and dreams, the lighting of a lantern who burns off the shadows on all things and brings a peal of immediate light—as if buried deep within this moment, contained within its triumph over illusion, is the seed of despair which will burst out suddenly, falsifying eternity, stilling the rush of a river, making us named things, mortal things, with a center, a tomorrow and a yesterday, a mother and father.

III. How to make sense of it all? The still walks through parks, wind flowing through me, the water moving like consciousness, striking beams of streetlight with the force of a miracle, a shattering of appearances; atoms ignite into visions, visions ignite into sensation, and in their golden flames—decorating my sight as candles would a room—the world coalesces, gathered in one dense point of phenomenal space.

And after being pieced together, after having submitted myself to a name, after feeling the rot and decay in my limbs, the eclipse over my eyes—it is sudden, immediate, a shout and a shattering of glass, a profusion of color, a burning inevitable, beyond me and within me the world forms new and endless; with patterns, with shivering water which flings reflected stars into dance, bringing me into the froth, the shake, the moment in a flash of light, a cry, a moan, a dance.

IV. Sound seeps into everything, pooling across the ground like ruby ink which spreads from the tip of a pen onto the page, shapeless yet colorful.

How do we live, caught in the beating space between decay and eternity?

We must make this space our own, decorate it with experience, make it a word and an expression, a place which shifts, which is empathetic to the constant activity of becoming oneself in the knowledge of Death, strides into chaos, strides into order, always moving, a beautiful falling apart, a wave which crashes, broken and spread, then reforms again, framed by the soft, rosy light of the setting sun.

Music stampedes through the world like light through a church window, illuminating images which were once darkened, color is born moving—blue, red, lavender, gold—each filling the mind as the piano swells higher and higher: reality is spangled, reality is crying!

I am a word in a prayer, as are the stones beneath my feet, the bent flowers, the hurried professor: all of us words bound together in the same voice and that voice belongs to the present, the loving sister of permanence. Within this moment there is a fantastic understanding, a burst of emotion, which draws all my sensations into an incredible form, a form which embraces me with infinite love and compassion, then which departs without remorse, leaving behind nothing but whispers.

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pov Hannah Banfiel

Chrysta Avers 45

After “Stupeflip Ivy Jones Vite !!!”

We’re drinking coconut mochas in the cold park overlooking the river. We’re all places at once. Your hair turned blue when it was supposed to be green, and mine is tickling the back of my neck like a noose. And, okay, we get it, you’re trying to light a cigarette. And maybe I’m watching, enamored. And you’re drawing a person in your sketchbook and smoking and I feel like I’m in France or something. The wind here bites into your ribs and makes a home. And maybe I like it.

Inside the cafe it is too warm but you can still see the river sucking and sucking things under its surface, drowning fish.

So we’re out in the cold when we’re not sitting in the car, listening to “Stupeflip vite !!!” we’re at a table by the window.

Stupeflip is a funny little French hip-hop group and they have this hopefully fictional cult called “Le Crou” and it’s fun to turn up the music loud enough to rattle our bones and deafen our hearing except for a phlegmy rapper named King Ju. The thing about French is, I lean forward at the table, the sun painting me scarlet-hot, the thing about French is that it’s so aggressive.

The s sounds are sharper than in English. The k sounds are abrupt. Or maybe it’s just Cadillac (pronounce CADDY-YAK!) shouting his verse through the speakers. I’m oblivious to meaning when it comes to Stupeflip, and I don’t like smoking cigarettes. I just can’t do it right! But, again, how much of this is true?

Fire

Rae Pinheiro

Ripping. Shredding. Tearing.

These are the things we do to forget.

Forget all the shit you put me through.

You put my lover, my friends, my family, through.

All the letters, photographs, and promises.

I crush them. I destroy them.

I burn them in the fire that lives in my soul.

A fire of hate and revenge.

Of rage and anger.

Of all the things I need to rid you from my life.

This is what we need this fire to be.

To be evil and effective.

We need to disintegrate our enemies.

Only wanting hated ones to turn to ash.

But sometimes, love needs to be cinder.

We all had a love that started as a spark.

It may have been platonic or romantic, but we’ve all had it.

And I had it so bad with you.

You were a best friend that was thicker than blood.

Your pain was mine and we shared the same tears.

Your laugh rang in my ears and I couldn’t care less.

You were my whole world, but I guess you were Pluto.

I lost you years ago but I refused to forget.

I kept your memory warm in my arms.

I even made new memories with you in my dreams, But you always slept in a different time zone With a different kind of moon.

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I should have tossed you into a star a long time ago But I never wanted your voice to wane.

I only wanted my fire to consume my nemesis, It’s much less painful this way.

But in order for growth to happen, I need to shed you away.

You won’t be coming back for me, so I should stop calling your name.

If every reminder of you makes me cry, Then your position in my life has shifted.

You used to be my main source of joy, And in order to gain that back, I need to leave you behind.

I need the sensation of you to cause nostalgia, Not be bait for my demons to use.

I did and always will love you, But this attachment needs to go.

This longing for your never coming return, Makes it hard to close this final chapter.

I need to scream your name asI write you away.

Your image will be the timber I need to move forward.

So I place a drawing of you on the bottom of my pile, Cause although I know I need to part with you, I’m not quite ready to see you disappear.

Untitled Aleece Bustamante 49

On Knowing

Mattie Jones

The Catfish brothers always did tend towards knowing. They knew when the Flint river would be running high and red and roaring, and they knew which felled trees would hold their weight for a crossing. They knew which high school sweethearts would last, and they knew which family secrets were best left buried in thick Albany clay. But it was their habit of knowing sin when they saw it that never did go over too well.

Brother seemed like more of a label they wore than an accurate description of their relation. They didn’t look all that much alike when you looked close. They dressed like brothers, cuffed their jacket sleeves the same, wore their wide brimmed hats tilted at the same angle, turned out the corners of their mustaches with the same muddy fingers. And they behaved like brothers ought to for the most part. But there was something about the way they held their weight, never settling too long on one hip or the other. And something about their jaws, the way the sides of their matching throats pulsed— like they were holding down bile as thick and cloudy as river silt.

Nana says they saw her through just fine, and with their knowing too— cut her some firewood a couple falls back, brought lines of fish by her front porch and scaled them in the yard most summers. They knew your grandfather was no good, she says, knew any man named Terry in this town was likely to have no sense and less kindness. They tried to tell her, in their own sort of way. Of course their mouths didn’t work right, not for talking anyway. They’d stand there and look at you, shoulders tense and drawn back, their eyes just a little too light, worrying those puckered lips of theirs that seemed to only open sideways. But they tried to tell her,

mumbled something about water levels and slid that vacant look of theirs towards her husband’s work boots leaned askew against the frame of her screen door. You ought to do something about that, they said. Someone ought to do something about that, they said. Or one of them did. It was always so hard to tell which one of them was speaking once they got started.

They didn’t come by Nana’s too much after Terry’s leather belt washed up in the Flint just two weeks after he stopped coming home. She never did find those old work boots of his, but she guesses they’re with him, wherever it is he got off to. I suppose it doesn’t matter all that much— Nana’s got four husbands worth of stories anyhow.

Daydream Brit Rosser 51

At the River Astarte, the Forgotten Goddess I went down to the river to wash away a pearl white impotence.

It goes I go Oh, to the river.

The waves spoke in prose for me to take to my knees— To kiss all bias and shed the skin that had serenaded the Khan with a phantom touch.

There were buttons in the river and veins in that skin, Alabaster memory and alabaster visions of Valhalla-White prayers sent to Freya at night in the company of his bed And in the plucking of mustard seeds in the morning.

I knew of his rage by where he kept his candles And mine by when I gave him a middle name— Curious fingers craved the quixotic and bridged the split ends of his beard hairs with folly.

They trace; They find Oh, at the river.

He made habit of rolling women to smoke— I counted sorries in his cigarette packs— And he made sinecure of parking the sun behind the bedpost that held his hats.

I had traced their brims and bargained his indulgences for wit sharpened on the backs of chickens, And he decided to ask me many questions.

I knew he refunded my answers to the plum trees to savor the fruits of his power for later.

“Do any of your friends do e-cigarettes?”

Vice was still a captive of obsidian, And snake was still companion of stallion.

The bastards would survive the night.

They answer, They lose Oh, at the river.

He had decided my breasts were a desert, And his perception of the pyramids was that they were smooth and supple.

The sand was dry— The sand was hot— I was not.

I was incapable of dry, Incapable of hot, Capable only of still-Usurped of my feet and told to be landmark.

The world was still hot pink, And modernism was only felt when you held your core wrong during sit ups.

Agency, arson, bravura, mollycoddle, cash.

Clemency was in my teeth, And aloe vera was on my scars.

I rub I heal Oh, at the river.

Persecution had once hollowed bones, And pretty boys were once chiseled by discipline.

Now touch leaves impressions on their flabby flesh, And we toss out judgment with the fishbones.

I was a summer cocaine baby— A second Rod Stewart song on the radio.

My hips were pried open, Mountains were moved to craft cradle,

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And permanence was thrust upon me when they took Mary Magdalene vocal cords for woven basket.

A baby was mine to lose.

We go We drown Oh, in the river.

jungle concrete Bronwyn Matlick

Cage

Leah Wright

My room is the perfect haven for a 5-year-old boy. The room is huge; tons of space for the child to live and play. The wallpaper is a beautiful blue world map, complete with red hot air balloons, grey biplanes, and wooden pirate ships traveling around the world. My bed is a canopy with a green down comforter. I have a train track, rocking horse, and an adorable little reading nook complete with simple books perfect for small hands. Any small child would love to live here. Too bad I’m not a child.

My skin is as soft as silk. My body is small and weak, I can barely pick up some of my toys. My eyes are green, my hair is black, and I am a tad past 3 and a half feet tall. I am 34 years old.

Every morning the maids come into my room. I am gently woken and lifted from the bed, my face and hands washed with sweet rosewater. They dress me in colorful clothes and brush my tangled hair, and then I am ready for breakfast. I say nothing, I have no choice. I let them manhandle me at their will.

Mother cuts my toast into triangles and my apples into slices because my hands aren’t very dextrous. It demeans me, but I sit and eat quietly anyway. It is not worth causing a fuss now; it is almost playtime, almost my free time.

“Plans today, Claude?” Mother asks, smiling at me.

I flash her a winning smile with my milk teeth, “Just playing.”

She squeals, cooing over my lisping voice. I grip my fork a little tighter, but I let it go. Mother says I am a child. She knows that I am not a child. She ignores it. As far as she cares, I am and will always be her sweet baby boy.

After breakfast, the maids let me outside and I scramble around shouting and pretending to play until they get tired of watching me and go inside. I am alone. I head to the tree.

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The tree is enormous, an oak. It stretches over the entire back length of the yard, with a little wooden swing for me on a strong branch. I hook my tiny fingers into the bark and try to climb. My shoes catch the wood and propel me up. I climb higher and higher; I can almost see the wall.

The wall is all that stands between me and freedom.

I am cursed, cursed to be so young. I am for all intents and purposes a real child until I can get over that wall. If I get over, no one will ever bother me again. Mother won’t be able to catch and contain me here. I’ll age swiftly and be a man. I’ll be able to live my life as the adult I truly am.

I can almost see over the wall now. I can hear the winds rushing around my head, the sun shines brightly on my dark hair, and the delicate flowers are getting farther and farther away. My heart thumps excitedly in my chest at the thought of being so close to freedom. I’m ecstatic, unperturbed at the thought of leaving. And then she’s here.

Apparently, I wasn’t as high up as I thought. Mother sneaks up behind me and plucks my little body out of the tree.

I yelp in surprise and anger as she effortlessly pulls me off the bark.

“Claude? What are you doing baby?” Mother cuddles me closer to her as I instinctually try to pull away. I was so close this time!

Telling the real truth will get me nowhere. I make my voice cuter, like an actual child, and lie, “Climbing the tree!”

She nuzzles her face into my silky hair as I take one last look at the wall. I was almost there this time, almost free. I sigh.

It’s not the first time I’ve failed. There’s no use fighting my way out of her arms. I tried that once and only got 20 minutes in the corner for my troubles.

I allow her to baby me, dressing me in my pajamas and putting me down for a morning nap. She kisses me on the forehead and I turn away, pretending to sleep. She says goodnight, turns out the light, and shuts the door.

Even though my mind is fine, my young body is tired.

Maybe I actually do need a nap. I hate that. I’m an adult, even if

my body says differently. I try to relax, to allow myself to sleep. I can escape some other time. She cannot catch me forever.

Chrysta Avers

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Eulogy.

Cierra Lianne

They say to never speak ill of the dead.

To coat the thought of them in sugar and hold their name in the light, And yet here I am, saturating the memory of you in blood, and sweat, and tears.

You died as you lived, Pathetic and weak, Alone with your thoughts and finally.

Finally aware of how little your significance was.

I remember the music you left in your wake.

Flesh against flesh, Broken, gnarled words rattling around in the living room.

The voice of a child that fell silent.

You were the broken record in my brain, Replaying the same shit over and over Until I couldn’t breathe Until I fell silent again.

They say to never speak ill of the dead.

To lie your way through a service so that the living only remember your good nature, And yet all that I have to say is good riddance.

It’s a Long Way Down (Series) Sammi Rowell 59

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mamihlapinatapai mamihlapinatapai n.

1.

2.

3.

4.

Heather Ake

small smiles crafted with love and lit by the light inside small hands fitting perfectly into another’s palm looking deep into their soul and gazing into the eternal internal flame each one wishing with their whole heart just to be seen by the other

ineffable in·ef·fa·ble adj.

1. the beauty you see

in the eyes

of your beloved

Heather Ake

2.

the view from the place where I sit atop your shoulders, never truly alone

3.

a vivid and gorgeous light appearing when all you’ve seen is shadow

4.

the strength you have seemingly hidden away

5.

the smile on your face when you laugh with your whole heart

6.

the love I have in my heart for you

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Disaster Body

K. Mog

The problem with being in pain all the time is that comfort seems like a myth. People actually wake and stretch, not waiting for the pain of the day to take center stage? Sounds like bullshit to me. No one else dreads their thoughts? Lies. You see having your body be Katrina and your life as New Orleans is not as beautiful as I can describe it. My muscles are canoes thrown around in a sea of cramps and bruises that I can’t explain and I am too poor to hire a hurricane expert.

Not like they would believe me anyway. Some days, earthquakes rattle my brain and I can’t duck under door frames. I am tornado trapped and spun in flesh. So sometimes all I can do is leave the rest of me destroyed. Take the beating laying down and when people ask me is going on, all I can say is ouch.

Eyes in the Sky Cooper Willis

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I’ve Cognitive Dissonance and 18 Ways to Reduce It. Can We Call?

Jeremy Cooper I spent no summers in Wichita, Spent no prayers on grandma’s deathbed, Just spent my time in her store— Ears attentive to whispers of fighting over her grand piano once she passed.

Jenny got it.

Jenny doesn’t play.

Little left now to be said of grandma, Whispers now of soft spots in the dirt where you’ll slip— Eyes attentive for lavender gray nails and strawberry thighs in the dark, Bouncing over raised mounds left on dirt roads from the trucks when it rains.

It rains often.

In summer I’m light enough to slip into the water— Light enough to ride the current.

I can’t blame it on Cairo.

My knees have been baptized by its dirt, Used to stuff wound— Red to brown to mud in mama’s kitchen, Back to red to brown when she cauterized the wound.

Found time to count trees when tracing scabs— Wonder if yard trees lost their branches to spite their trunks Just like how I lost the arch in my foot to scale them.

Mama hid the splinters in my hair.

Mama had the trees removed, The stumps all ripped up With no hair to hide them in.

Now the world is bald, And I can’t blame it on Cairo.

I blame Nazarus for potato soup in winters.

Prayer was easier then because the palms were so soft from hand holding and gloves, But it was still easy to be hungry.

I miss hunger.

I look for it in a cooler in the back of a jeep, The golden cracks of a prescription retinol cream, And the drying machine.

The drying machine is where I’m feminine.

The kitchen is where overlapping chatter is, As we have always been obligated to gossip, Reading between tan lines, And pouring whiskey in teacups; Mama’s fine china is to be preferred, not desired.

Rigor mortis in the pot-Grandpa’s pot, because he liked coffee that way, So grandpa bought mama a pot to bitch about bringing out when he came over.

He’s dead now, But it stays out.

I can’t blame it on Cairo.

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You Will Be Okay

Daisy Astudillo

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Moonblinde

Ivy Jones

(published originally in Thimble Magazine Vol.2 No.4) Act I There is a piano on the moon, and Ramona with expert hands is playing it.

There is a piano on the moon, and Ramona with her hair down is lounging on it.

There is a piano on the moon, and Ramona with a big bat is hitting it.

There is a piano on the moon.

Ramona, old enough to be able to count her birthdays on both hands, has realized by this point that she has a life ahead of her, and she is revolting. The cheesy surface, cratered from toddlers taking little fistfuls of it, cradles Ramona as she cradles her bat.

But the music sounds like rubbing your finger pads on the tip of a wine glass. Ramona’s fingers, producing the pulsing tones, slide from key to key, the vacuum blessing. There is a way to hear and it is this: Is, Is, Is, Is. Ramona leans her weight on the wood of her bat following none of these and like a ballerina twirls around it, to come down slow as a feather gently leaping into the air. A shy pink feather, a shy little movement from tiptoe to tiptoe. The bat comes up—of her, and she is revolting. The cheesy surface, cratered from toddlers taking little fistfuls of it, cradles Ramona as she cradles her bat.

But the music sounds like rubbing your finger pads on the tip of a wine glass. Ramona’s fingers, producing the pulsing tones, slide from key to key, the vacuum blessing. There is a way to hear and it is this:

Is, Is, Is, Is. Ramona leans her weight on the wood of her bat following none of these and like a ballerina twirls around it, to come down slow as a feather gently leaping into the air. A shy pink feather, a shy little movement from tiptoe to tiptoe. The bat comes up— Act II The galaxies in your pocket have changed You. If I were there I would reach inside, the hole in The bottom, producing nothing but meteorites.

I put them in my mouth, roll them around Up with a pair of tongs, put them in the salad.

Word salad— () () () Lacing our fingers Together like ribbons That will come undone when we Dangle on strings in the night sky— Man in the moon waving with a Cupped hand— Me in the moon killing deer for Sport— You in the moon, ripping apart the

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Act III Ramona’s pet brother is a wolf named Dog. Ramona’s pet brother diligently sits as she, around herself,

destroys everything.

Ramona’s pet brother diligently sits as she sets fire to the vacuum.

Ramona’s pet brother has three eyes.

What does Beethoven sound like at twenty-one thousand feet?

Cluck Cluck Cluck Cluck Cluck Cluck Cluck Dog that anything is being played is unaware. Hearing Ramona bash in the piano, his ear twitches sideways. No way it’s the fourth. The third one? The second one.

Dog is glad he invented his body. Dog is glad he has a sister, is able to. Dog tilts his snout upward, has a few sniffs. The splinters of wood float nearby, caught in the orbit of the moon so very suddenly. Ramona regardless of this does not stop.

paths ahead and behind Hannah Banfiel

Act IV

Cow. It’s a sweet Meat. Pummeling it with A baseball bat, just like a Tender eye searching for the Cure to our luna— Cy. What makes a mad Man mad? What turns fun from fun And into screaming matches and Saturn’s choking rings? () () () I will say this, at least: The babiest of neptune’s moons tastes like Charcoal paste, the kind They hand fed me when I overdosed 73

The Forsaken Spirit Leah Wright When I saw Orphanage Director Talia choking the life out of little Stevie, I couldn’t move. My feet froze in their places, locking up as tightly as possible. I couldn’t breathe; all I could do was watch that child slowly get the life choked out of him.

That’s not to say I’m not a child too, I am, but I’m bigger than Stevie. I should’ve done something. But I wasn’t as big as Talia. She was an adult, and I’m only 12. There’s no way I would’ve been able to overpower her. So, like a filthy coward, I turned on my heels and ran the other way.

My room wasn’t technically mine alone, but at least it was free of murder. All my roommates were soundly asleep, and I collapsed on my bed and tried to take stock of what I had seen. Was it real? It had to be. I didn’t have any eye problems or hallucinations. So it was real. The orphanage director who held the babies when they were colicky and made us hot chocolate on winter nights was a murderer. A violent murderer. I had to tell someone. I had to.

The next morning at breakfast, I gathered a plate with bacon and eggs. I picked at the food, barely eating anything. I didn’t even protest when another child stole my food for themself. I felt horrible. My face was pale with dark circles under my eyes, my hair disheveled. Talia came into breakfast smiling like nothing happened at all. She didn’t even look at me.

At playtime, I stayed in the darkness under the big tree pretending to read my book, willing someone to come over and ask me what was wrong. I felt tethered to the ground, almost unable to move. No one came.

I was in a stupor for days. There were so many kids at the orphanage, no one even seemed to notice Stevie was gone.

He was just one of the many grains of salt on the beach. I felt for him. I knew what it was like to feel ignored.

Towards the end of the week, my sadness turned to righteous anger. How dare no one notice Stevie was gone! How dare memories of him be reduced to nothing but wind! How dare I not do anything to fix it! I was spineless, craven jellyfish, but I

could do something this time. I could confront Talia and keep Stevie’s memory alive!

She was in her office that night, lamp on with the door slightly ajar. I pushed it open, floating in.

She looked up at me, “Daniel? It’s past your bedtime.”

Indignation burned in my throat, but I didn’t back down, “I know what you did.”

“Why whatever do you mean?”

“You killed Stevie.”

The smile disappeared from her face, replacing itself with a sneer. She stood up slowly and came from around the desk. We circled each other, me keeping her well within my sight. She crossed the room and closed the door.

“So what if I did? It’s over now. And it’s not like you can do anything about it. You’re nothing.”

“I’m not nothing and neither was he. I’m going to tell on you. I will.”

“No, you won’t, child.”

I narrowed my eyes and backed away, “And why not?”

Talia smiled sweetly, “Why sweetheart, you’re not real. I killed you first.”

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Don’t you remember Brit Rosser

Self Love Brit Rosser

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The Burnt Joshua Lambie Popcorn Boy The boy used to dread going to his father’s house.

The frightened boy’s parents, now long divorced, expected him to shuffle back and forth between them.

The displaced boy’s heart, like his father’s, often blistered and raged at the thought of his mother.

The bitter boy’s mother got out, but why didn’t she bring him into her protected permanence?

The angry boy choked down his hurt and resentment like the cold can of SpaghettiOs. The Cold SpaghettiOs boy could not remember a time of home cooked hospitality while dodging his father’s bitter indifference.

The guarded boy who walked on eggshells remembers nights where all he had to eat was burnt popcorn and a can Coca-Cola.

The burnt popcorn boy, now a burnt popcorn man looks across the table at his handsome date.

The guarded man remembers his father’s rancor and unmalleable maleness and he smiles.

The healing man is no longer a boy.

The Walk Home Mattie Jones 79

Burrito Bot Cooper Willis

The Killer Robots Cooper Willis 81

Gas Station Gothic Leah Wright

I work the shift from 2100 to 0600, 9 hours. Few people come in that late, but here I am. I battle sleep deprivation, filthy floors, and the customers.

There are the beautiful children, with eyes too bright and smiles too wide and faces too perfect. They ask for sugary treats and they disappear when your back is turned, leaving the exact amount needed in coins on the counter. But if you look one in the eyes, you wake up disoriented and nauseous, with a scar on your lower abdomen and the taste of peppermint in your mouth.

The man with the stark white dress shirt and the green sweater. He only buys iced tea, steak-flavored noodles, and a lighter. I have never seen him eat these. He just keeps buying them. You can hear him ticking. It’s loud.

The woman in the business suit is the worst. She never speaks. Every time she comes in, she goes to the one blind spot I’m unable to see. I don’t know how she does it, but before I can walk over and act like I’m trying to be helpful, all the donuts are gone, and there she is, looking innocent, licking her lips with one long, forked tongue.

The man with the trench coat and the wide-brimmed hat pulled well over his eyes. He’s the normal one. He doesn’t speak unless spoken to. His lips are sewn together sloppily with black thread. I don’t know how he eats. I don’t know how he speaks.

He always leaves a nice tip.

This job has become a business of minding your own.

I’ve found that applies to life as well. If you don’t ask questions, you won’t get answers you’re afraid of. And honestly, I don’t need any more answers than what I’ve got now.

The Fire

Emily Farmer

The ashes on my face do sting Proof of what I have done He has hurt me for many years I know now that I’ve won No longer do I have to hide The bruises on my skin I know he can never hurt me My new life, I begin He went to the bar too often Alcohol was his vice He stumbled and staggered to me Soon he would pay his price I left him asleep in our bed Then I poured gasoline The flames were so hot and so loud I never heard him scream I now have no regrets because My plan went without hitch I might go to prison, but you You will burn in hell, bitch

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Chrysta Avers

dreams Hannah Banfiel 85

Hoo ha hoo ha hoo ha

Eros, the Love God

My body isn’t a tool of pleasure; It is an instrument of worship.

What is your god worth?

Bastardize elitism and Baptize the fool, String him up by cups to some sky— Some sky littered in rooftop jargon— Same sky where he fathered Ishtar on a bed of stars and leaked moonlight from my hips To please oh please Astarte.

She was stricken fancy, Stricken fickle, In some shipwreck seduction of his ego Found outside dream outside nightmare outside fantasy outside costar-Pride outside bedroom, Fear outside condom, Smoke outside electric chapel She kept her secrets under garden gate.

Sweat in pit, Body in bath drew by peculiar and curious; Fret rode the winkles when she stayed too long.

December took my hamstring But January robbed the bone.

February scattered the ashes like patience Before taking an autumn March.

Hoo ha hoo ha hoo ha His feet sound like how he smells-Familiar-Like he swipes Left right left right pivot turn ignore him forget me it’s sexy to forget hoo ha hoo ha Can he trace genesis back to spayed cat and slow cadence to a crawl?

Hooooooo ha hooooo haa hooooooo ha Brown eyes bleed blue read red before black, Eager to smite for the ruler, Eager to see the heavens clumsy with power And toss thunder to ride the belt of a boy— A man, oh boy, With a blue body so blue so big enough to straddle the flames of prudence and kiss the bull goodbye.

He encumbers back with souvenir and fidelity Held upright by fisherman pole vertebrae aligned by Circe to lullaby When brushing the ocean under the rug— Brushing hair behind ear.

Busy parts and busy robs your lip service; Am I too conquered to worship you?

Et ego in Arcadia hoo ha hoo ha hoo ha 87

Chrysta Avers

Claver Ivy Jones 89

Premonitions

Mattie Jones

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