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Sanskrit Literary-Arts Magazine


editor’s note You cannot have innovation without reflecting on what has been done in the past. From the Renaissance, to Modernism, to the legendary “cliffhanger,” we owe much of our artistic triumph to those who have striven to succeed before us. In this issue of Sanskrit Literary-Arts Magazine, we tip our hats to our cultural forefathers by looking back at the totally tubular 1980s, where it was all about big hair, shoulder pads, lookin’ bad, and feelin’ good. Our design team has utilized an artfully crafted palette of neon mishmash intended to be painfully nostalgic and perhaps a tad reminiscent of bowling alley carpet. Now strap in tight, because we may not be Marty McFly, but we are about to go on one gnarly ride. Peace Out,

Tierra Holmes, Editor-in-Chief

Pond at twlight Rojane Jesper Ballyvaughan LaDara McKinnon Bodegón Carolina Quintana Ocampo Frozen Instants by Carol Hamilton Bothar Na LaDara McKinnon Fowl City Emmett Thornburg Dark room Desiree Brown Porto, Portugal Elina Sukaryavichute Expectations Melissa Martin Fracture / Facture Kathryn Mccomas Affinity judith grissmer Gabriel Rachel Fussell JOSE CERNAL ALMOST REALIZING WHY HE LOST CUSTODY AND VISITATION Marc Tretin The Cave Rachel L. Austin gOGGLES Aba Hutchison A MUSICAL EVENING AT THE INSECT CAVE Myrthe Biesheuvel in the storm, Those who really care stay Danika Ng A Migrant’s Lay Alessio Zanelli Mini-Mew rachel Fussell The Soup Man Andrew Adams Biography benjamin Harnett Power Struggle melissa Martin Still Life with Fern + Chair Myrthe Biesheuvel A PORTRAIT OF TOMMY DORFMAN Jessica Miller Trail Myrthe Biesheuvel Afterwards David Reuter Twilight Horizon Emmett Thornburg rent-A-Puppy Jessica Miller Meat Market john f. buckley Bishop’s Quarter LaDara McKinnon Visiting hours Sharon Kennedy-Nolle

A Foregone Conclusion Jonah Smith-Bartlett death Zackery Clark transportation mirana comstock Dinner Party II Rachel Fussell Stan’s Donuts + Swiss Watches Elina Sukaryavichute A Poem like a house evalyn lee composition christa forster From the Chaos Comes the Calm Danika NG Lautrec Christa Forster oCEAN sEASHELL eARTHLY wOODHELD vASE Ryan Cook Box SERIES NUMBER 3 Myrthe Biesheuvel Brown Casket in a Yellow Room Edison Angelbello Bread House Rachel Fussel Pathway tO Ballyvaughan LaDara McKinnon State of the Union Kathryn McComas Fade RObbin Farr Stop tryna be neat! Aba Hutchison Take My Photograph Sarah Kinney The Little Koimaid Carolina Quintana Ocampo Until I couldn’t Claire Scott The Land Between the Notes N. Marc Mullin Untitled William Haynes Head Full of space Emmett Thornburg Glances oFf the Sill Alessio Zanelli nEW PAGE, NEW ME! Aba Hutchison NOT PHOTOSHOpPED ALEXZANDRIA EVANS Abuse Cameron Tate PHONECALL Myrthe Biesheuvel Silver Pool Emmett Thornburg The Sentinel Alessio Zanelli Yellowstone sarah Kinney Appendix

Pond at twilight I walk from my house

If they were to paint

Along a narrow pathway

Me into the picture,

To where the night waters

I would be sitting on a bench,

Of a pond stretch

My back toward the viewer,

Before me, dark and metallic.

As I look out across the water.

The far edge of the pond

What the viewer

Is fringed by long, slender trees.

Would not see

From the midst of these trees

(For it is somewhere

There emerges an eastern redbud, The pinkish purple blossoms of which Still appear visible Even at dusk. Beyond the trees The moon rises And casts a sliver of lemon rind Across the magnetic center Of the black waters. From the boat launch Two ducks as white as coconut Glide almost without perception

Beyond the periphery Of the painting) Is the silent movement of wings. For distant in the night, Comes the slow Sweep of a night owl, And seemingly, More distant yet, In that perfect stillness, Comes the haunting sound Of its call.

Across the glass surface Of the pond. If an artist Were to paint this scene, It would be as if one had stepped unbidden Into a solitary haven Of peace.


By Rojane Jesper 4

Bal l y va ug ha n LaDara McKinnon


acrylic on canvas


B ode g รณ n Carolina Quintana Ocampo




frozen instants The deep blue unfurled from its packaged neatness Star Map on my wall, holds tight Onto our whole sky as we saw it then. An Ice Age star chart clings to cave walls to Lascaux. They knew the Bull, the Sisters, the Vernal Groupings. Their handprints declare their findings, and even today, I put my stamp here for a possible future viewer who might find me, who might exclaim How little she knew! And how bold to think she might escape extinction. One grain on sand on one beach in however many universes? I, oxygen-hungry, each scrawl my signature for the cairn at the top of the climb, wonder who might gather up such a proliferation of scribbles, might even give a passing glance to this pile of weather-stained papers.


By Carol Hamilton 7

B o tha r Na LaDara McKinnon


acrylic on canvas


F OWL Ci ty Emmett Thornburg




dark room Clunk, clunk. The Stacy Adams drill through the thick silence, so thick I can hear the darkness swell, the beat of these thin closet walls pulsing, expanding, the rhythm of sweat raining over my converse collection. Clunk, clunk, clunk. They ramble across the hardwood, the weight of the wearer creaking the floorboards like a Western toad’s mating call. Croak, croak, croooak. A thin pair of Moccasins enters, sliding against the panels, scuffing the well-worn wood. Coconuts on sandpaper make a similar sound. The hippie slip-ons only murmur, but it’s still an eerie noise, like a whisper of tobacco breath, coiling around them. The Monkstrap boots, brown leather, screech and pivot to face the bohemian slippers. Maybe awaiting a tap dance. Maybe the next arrival. The bedroom door grunts open and I pick up the squeak of week-owned rubber. The delicate hum of a shoelace crawls across the platform, the purr seeping through the floor crevices and up into this commercial carpet. It’s distinct. It’s exact. Explicit. The Vans squeal with each step, making tire-track remarks heavier than the scratchy sighs of the Moccasins, the clunks of the Stacy Adams boots. Now united, like a nightmare, altogether, they dance. The shrieeeek of the sneakers cries the loudest, the piercing sound invading my memory. The Monkstraps perform by heelticking while the Moccasins’ hushed bass keeps the tempo. The cacophony chokes my ears until they gag, suffocating on the wretched music, retching up wax. The band starts to waltz, to salsa, to foxtrot, to disco, to rock, to twostep, to twist, to jive, to bunny hop, each hoof thudding and thumping and plodding and


echoing. The noises never cease.


After years of ear vomiting, I draw a gentle clip, clip, clip from the clamor. It doesn’t drown out the rest, but it soothes me, petting my sanity on the neck. As if I’d mumbled it, as if I’d asked for rescue, the clipping increases. The pace, the volume, the pitch. Clip, clip, clip. The boots press their weight forward, releasing their heels. Clip, clip, clip, clip. The Moccasins step on top of each other. Clip, clip, clip. The Vans howl on, rebelling against the rising tone. Shriek, clip, shriek, clip, shriek. A thick blow to the floor breaks the pattern. Clip becomes clomp, an uproar only a penny loafer can fashion. The Vans halt to surrender, to give the floor up to the bigger pair, the floor they’ve scraped and scratched and chipped and didn’t care about ruining. One of the loafers stomps twice against the wood, sending the Vans and Moccasins and Stacy Adams tiptoeing out the room. I can hear the door gently close and my ears stop bleeding.


By Desiree Brown


Po r to, P o r tuga l Elina Sukaryavichute




E x p e c ta tion s Melissa martin


colored pencil + watercolor


F ra c tur e Fa c tur e Kathryn McComas




A f f ini ty By judith grissmer You are in the air again, have barely seen the azaleas emblazon the yard in shades of rose and lavender. Your favorite by the road displays full red. An abundance of research ideas draws you back and forth between Santa Monica and Washington, seed projects developing as certainly as spring. I am on the ground knee-deep in perennials, circling plants with bone meal digging wintered compost into soil. I sit on the deck you built two summers ago, tell you by phone of the rough-legged hawk in the hickory. You talk of data that indicates why children achieve or fail— of funding that will allow you to cultivate next season’s ideas. Soon the day comes to a close— bumblebees linger in bottomless blooms. A 747 passes the rising harvest moon.


You are on your way home.


Ga b r iel Rachel Fussell 2018

soft pastel 16

JOSE CERNAL ALMOST REALIZING WHY HE LOST CUSTODY AND VISITATION: “I testified at trial, that my boy was born at a home birth where I was my wife’s midwife. He wouldn’t crown, but I did not want some doctor’s knife cutting her; I kept her pushing. She got slightly torn. During the year of her postpartum depression, my boy and I would crawl on the kitchen floor and with some old pots, bang outside her bedroom door. Though she wasn’t feeling better when he turned one, I planned his birthday barbecue. Before starting grilling, I defrosted what I had saved, my son’s placenta, still good—but a touch of freezer burn turned it magenta. It’s the only meat you get without killing. Flesh returns to flesh—Eating afterbirth Is how, we, bit by bit, return to the earth.”


By Marc Tretin


itchell’s heels clicked against

snobbery and sanctimonious

in exasperation and continued to

the scuffed stone floor and

bullshit. Letting out a heavy sigh,

move along the wall.

the sound echoed through the

he made his way around the

stairwell. He ascended the steps

room, staring with disinterest

from Shannon and his soon-to-be

with plodding, notably tired feet

at the artifacts and panels of

in-laws. Shannon was speaking

as Shannon and her parents’

information surrounding him.

about the reception’s floral

voices reverberated insufferably

He regarded a little cartoon

He tried to gain some distance

arrangement with such excitement

behind him. He hated dressing up

drawing of the city’s town

and rapidity that he could almost

and, particularly, he hated stiff,

square on a typical 15th century

hear her heart beat in her voice.

Italian dress shoes but Shannon

afternoon. A man, apparently the

Janice, her mother, stabbed in

had nagged him until he’d given

town drunk as evidenced by his

her own trying interjections

in and pulled on the vice-like

out-stuck tongue and shabby attire,

wherever she could while Hank,

hooves. His right foot landed on

spun in a cage-like contraption

her father, cooed a saccharine

the top stair and he tried to push

at the merciless hands of the

“Oh, yeah?” and “That’s wonderful,

the thought out of his mind.

town’s children. Another was

sweetheart!” every two minutes

splayed apart like a starfish, his

or so. Mitchell grew irritated

city of Rothenberg a week prior to

face wrenched in agony; he was

and thought for so-called refined

begin the final preparations for

being stretched between four

people, they talked awful loudly in

their wedding. Shannon, a Yale

large horses that pulled his limbs

a museum. He rounded the corner,

graduate who now worked as an

in opposing directions. Several

inspecting a rusted castration

assistant to the curator of a small

other little figures stood around

device that resembled hooked

Rhode Island museum, always

in clownish metal headpieces

garden shears, and thought back

preferred the castles of Germany

resembling roosters and pigs;

to when he first met Shannon.

to any of the other wonders the

these were “shame masks,” as the

world had to offer, architectural

panel of information attested, and

Haven only by coincidence; he’d

or otherwise. In the beginning,

were locked around the heads of

gotten lost on the way to a job

Mitchell had thought it romantic

those who engaged in questionable

interview just outside the old

of her to suggest holding the

moral behavior. ‘Why, on Earth,

college town. He’d spent the night

ceremony at a castle but by the

would anyone want to get married

prior sitting in front of his father’s

time all was said and done, he’d

in a country with such a morbid

television, taking warm swigs

begun to regard it as one more

a history?’ he thought, snorting

of beer in between superficial

indication of her exasperating

to himself as he shook his head

conversation with the old man


The two had come to the walled


Mitchell had been in New

and sneaking off to the frigid back

wore clothing reminiscent of a

against his wife should therefore

porch every hour or so to take

decade earlier. A woman, about

forfeit the luxury of defending

another quick suck off his one-

the same age, stood stoop-shoulder

himself against the elements.

hitter. He’d held the marijuana

beside him and fought to calm her

smoke tight and firm in his chest

hysterics. Brownish, wavy hair

for as long as he could before

fell over her beet-red face while

blowing it out in one momentous

the man pointed to what appeared

on their hay-stuffed beds in the

breath, at once both glorious and

to be a collection of chastity belts.

pouring rain. He felt the breeze

dismaying, before returning to the

He whispered to the teary-eyed

of a passing body that carried

couch for another depressing

woman, looking around the room

the familiar scent of Shannon’s

inning. He’d woken up late and

every so often to make sure

powdery perfume.

accidentally headed in the wrong

they hadn’t provoked the security

direction, putting him in the heart

guard. Mitchell initial annoyance

immature!” Shannon hissed under

of New Haven right at noon, the

at the disruption dissipated as

her breath as she walked past him,

precise time he was due for his

he watched the woman grab her

hinting towards the couple that

interview with John Malcolm, the

partner’s arm for mercy as he

was now standing and chuckling

head of the English department

continued to unleash his hushed

in front of another display. She

at some poorly-rated community

onslaught of wit. The sight of the

and her parents had caught up and

college he was trying half-assed to

two laughing grew contagious,

the three continued on past him,

work for. When he found himself

and a conservative smile rose in

starting up another conversation,

still circling the little town at

the corner of his lips.

this time about the “tasteful”

quarter-after he’d decided to cut

Not wanting to stare, Mitchell

“Rough” Mitchell muttered to himself, and he imagined the poor, beaten men sleeping

“Jesus, some people are so

beading of the wedding dress’s

his losses and resolved to grab a

turned back to the glass display

bodice, as she motioned earnestly

bite to eat.

before him and looked over a

with her French-manicured hands.

A cackling laugh erupted from

description of medieval laws,

Mitchell remembered seeing

one of which dictated that any

Shannon at the downtown coffee

as quickly snuffed out. Mitchell

man whom allowed himself to be

shop that day in New Haven. They’d

looked over at the two people

beaten by his wife was punished

sat at adjoining tables as the place

laughing red-faced about ten feet

by having the roof of his domicile

was crowded during lunchtime.

away, shoulders jiggling and hands

removed. As the placard read,

She had been hunched over what

cupped over their mouths. A young

the logic carried that any man

looked like homework; whatever it

man stood about six feet tall and

too cowardly to defend himself

was, she was highlighting roughly


a display up ahead and was just


half of it. He’d tried and failed

until the recently engaged couple

her meant she needn’t spare any

several times to take a first bite

found themselves in a shouting

expense. Mitchell tried to stay in

of his enormous sandwich, piled

match following a Halloween

his corner of the world during

so high that it was impossible

party. Mitchell was running

this time and interjected only

to fit into his mouth. He drew a

late and had to meet her there,

complimentary criticisms and

giggle from her when he finally

showing up twenty minutes late

appeasements when consulted.

gave up, dropping the sandwich to

and donning one latex glove and

In all the time that they’d spent

the plate with comic exasperation,

a lab coat that read “Dr. Seymour

physically together but emotionally

and picking up and shoving bare

Butts, Proctologist” on the lapel.

apart over the past year, Shannon

pieces of lunch meat into his

Shannon, who’d come as Betsy

had used the time to spin a

mouth instead. Striking up a

Ross, had been mortified but

fairytale, and Mitchell had

conversation, he’d wooed her from

played it off expertly. Mitchell

learned to accept a compliant

her studies and they’d spent

himself hadn’t noticed a single

defeat that he basted from time

the rest of the hour talking and

wrinkle in her demeanor and

to time with memories of their


had in fact enjoyed himself, only

courtship and elbow-poking

to be ambushed on the car ride

with his buddies about the

been impeccable and following

home for his “lack of couth” and

gentle tyranny that is marriage.

their hour of flirtatious banter,

his “tasteless” costume. Though

he’d felt exhilarated as he walked

they’d spent that night airing

from across the room, Mitchell

back to his car with her number

their grievances, which seemed

wondered to himself if it was

in stow. He felt a quick flood of

to pour out from their respective

possible that he had grown to

comfort from this memory, but

stock-piles in one giant emotional

dislike her, even to hate her, or if

the feeling fleeted and was quickly

tidal wave, they’d apologized in

he was merely spent on traveling,

replaced with uneasiness as he

the morning and thus became

planning, and the pomp of the

thought to himself that Shannon

the tainted nature of their

upcoming dog and pony show.

hadn’t been the same person in a


He wondered if he was just prone

He remembered her wit had

very long time.

to irritability and his patience

topic of avoidance, for Mitchell,

exhausted. He stood looking at

Mitchell hadn’t consciously noticed

and denial for Shannon. She threw

an iron maiden. He stared at the

or verbalized his distaste with the

herself into planning a perfect

tall, black apparatus that closed

fact that she’d gradually become

wedding and the repulsively large

around you and impaled you from

a high-strung social-climber

allowance her parents had given

every angle, your body encased


The change was subtle and

The wedding became both a

Hearing Shannon’s voice


in its metallic cavern of certain death. He felt briefly panicked, like fleeing from the museum and taking refuge in a dark pub outside of the walled city; one that Shannon wouldn’t dare set foot in for fear of common smells and drunks. “Mitchell? Are you ready to go?” He turned to find Shannon looking up at him with an expectant smile. She raised her eyebrows and gave him a small nod of the head, as if hinting him towards the right answer. Her eyes glanced down her pert nose in front of his chest and her forehead wrinkled just slightly. “I really wish you’d worn a tie. I hope the restaurant lets you in like that.” “I’m sure everything will be fine.” Mitchell exhaled his words in a perfunctory sigh as Shannon hooked her tiny hand around his bicep, leading him towards the


door where her parents waited.


GO G GL E S Aba Hutchison


pen + Marker



Myrthe Biesheuvel




in the s to rm, Tho s e who r eal l y ca r e s ta y

Danika Ng




A Migrant’s Lay They’d said at least I would have had a chance. It took me endless days, a slave again, and sleepless nights, with past and future ghosts, to save the cash and find the guts for it. I’ll always bless the time at last I quit. No desert, thug or sickness could have me, as long as my beloved child walked by, until this long-awaited water did. Already gone, I only let it win when trawlers neared my girl and pulled her in.


By Alessio Zanelli


Mini-Me w Rachel Fussell




The sou p ma n By andrew adams Chicken noodle Clam Chowder Tomato It’s all the same to me I’m the soup man, bitch Everyone knows me! Soup in the morning Soup at night I eat so much soup It gives my doctors a fright I bathe in the soup Inject it through an IV People say my soup use is excessive But it’s all the same to me Crab bisque Cream of mushroom Hell, even veggies with rice My soup lust can never be satisfied I’ve had so much soup it makes my mama cry What’s that? Cops are knocking on my door They say my soupin’ days have come to an end I say: “I can’t let that happen officer”


“Because soup is my only friend”


biography They were unctuously good children:

a secret conspiracy to hide

eager to please, clever at school

whatever formula exists—I mean by what

(as I was), or unprepossessing

application, what chemical concatenation,

and exceptionally dull (this is

how one might take

the insect-like trajectory). She was

the base metal of our bodies

a rare beauty who hid her wit

and transform it

until it cut someone down like a blade.

to gold.

He toiled on in obscurity. She had

and finally drifted

her work stolen. They were admired,


but only by those in the know. Until now. Every moment of their lives followed ordinarily every moment that came before. Some were born rich and we marvel when they make much of having much to begin with. A few rose from the absolute bottom. Every biography ends the same way— death of the main character. Though there is some variety in the means. There were always moments of insight. Voyages or pivotal meetings. But a lot of dull living, churning meat and vegetables into shit, chain smoking, four cups of coffee. Sciatica pain when they sit. So unsatisfying every biography is, as if by design,


By Benjamin Harnett 28

P owe r s tr ug gl e Melissa martin


mixed media


S till L if e wi th F e r n + Cha i r Myrthe Biesheuvel


oil on canvas



Jessica Miller


colored pencils on sketch paper 31

tra il

Myrthe Biesheuvel


oil on canvas


a f te r wa r d s By david reuter It’s all a riot of blurred edges

I feel it creep before it comes,

flecked across the frosted world

a skulking, surging force. From deep within,

that twirls on though I’ve become still.

it overtakes without a fight.

The steel skin is warped to a savage shape

The shaking starts from somewhere else,

on the snow scattered fringe

a hidden landscape I can’t detect.

of the glossy street.

The span of this vision

The careless cars grind fine ruts

tars the margins in ragged brushstrokes.

along those blanched lanes

Something travels like curdled vomit

while vapored air cringes

from that secret space in which in spawned.

like fur on a cat’s haunches.

I don’t hear it when it comes,

The scene’s a constant Etch A Sketch

that naked shriek,

curdled under a bloody sky,

but the iron and gray street

covert behind the dreary clouds.

on which I stand

My feet can’t fine the concealed concrete. On jellied legs, I strive to stand beside the battered smashed-in husk. Hands grasp the air in tepid trembles. Somehow the warmed air keeps its flow and breaks the naked silence. Remembrance of that skeletal hand that brushed my slender shoulder holds me boldly in its grasp.


The world is pitching, keeling about.


shakes as it frays the space

T wil ig h t Ho r iz on Emmett Thornburg




R e n t-A

- pup p y

Jessica Miller


colored pencils on sketch paper


Mea t Ma r ke t By john f. buckley He sidled. He tried to sidle. Is Heaven missing an angel? Because your eight fiery wings and bull’s face fill me with terror. Nothing ventured, nothing gained. I’m not drunk. I’m just intoxicated by you. I had been sober for five years. God damn you and your spirited breath. Men behind the bar shifted and reached into the dark. If I said you had a beautiful body, would you hold it for ransom? How many unwashed hands had plucked peanuts from these bowls? Was his fly down again? Was there a skin in his teeth? What’s your sign? I’m a Yield. Let’s take a tour of the dance floor. There is no dance floor. That dress looks good on you, but it would look better in my refrigerator tomorrow morning. Someday, his princess will come. No, the song is wrong. Are your legs tired? Because I’ve been chasing you around my head for months. Love on the rocks. Make it a double. Your place or mine? I live with my mother. You remind me of her.


He walks ahead like he already owns it.


B i s ho p ’s Q ua r te r LaDara McKinnon


acrylic on canvas


visiting hours One client comes carried on a stretcher, with an eye running down his cheek like a bad egg. Unfazed, Little Terry’s sister wipes her brother’s dribble as he croons Motown to the mounted TV. Towering, volume max, forever on, it sounds the hours we while away. Baby love, oh, Baby love… Another mother bible-thumps, talking of the current cancer incurables, with a face so creased, it could be ironed. Her bespeckled son, in for murder, mildly nods along. He offers us all chicklets, which I take, afraid to chew. Rumble erupts in metal and yell, when the vending machines don’t put out. Enough manhandling and maul dent the lounge wall. Inside the entrance, a small pile of funny-shaped sticks —confiscated slingshots and stolen stones— that stand stacked against all the Goliaths. Playing the tatterdemalion fool, you toss off the nuthouse lingo, bitterly grateful for “three hots and a cot.” You want to forget the door is always locked, swear you never miss the breeze. Autumn comes only in the rustling of drought-driven leaves


you never can hear.


Afterwards, I just lean against the car. A distant train chugs on a track I never can see. Lean deer prance across parking lots. Sit here long enough and all the wildlife comes out. The date is set to let you loose, but you don’t want to ever leave.


By Sharon Kennedy-Nolle


y father insisted that I

cause for Saint Jude. The exception

by his theological rigidity. He did

attend Saint Joseph’s College in

was wiry Father Anthony, who

occasionally speak quite plainly.

Rensselaer, Indiana, because it

daily left a new volume of rigid

“Every moment of resistance

was once the school of Gil Hodges,

theology outside my dormitory

to temptation,” he wrote, “is a

his third-favorite ballplayer of

door. The most memorable of


all time and his absolute favorite

these, that is, the one that I recall

first baseman.

now, twenty-two years later,

year, almost all students at Saint

By my sophomore year,

was The Precious Blood : or, The

Joseph’s had resigned themselves

I surrendered to the fact that I

price of our salvation by Frederick

to the idea that free will, had

would not become a close friend

William Faber. Within this thick

it ever existed at all, was now

to a future Hall of Fame gold

book, Father Anthony underlined

certainly over. Their character

glover, but instead a favorite

a number of paragraphs with

(and the content of this character

project for the priests that roamed

light pencil marks. An example of

would determine the content of

the campus like rabid squirrels,

Faber’s work (and I can’t imagine

their future) was cemented in the

ready to bite the underclassmen

that this Frederick William Faber

choices of the previous three years.

with a stinging shot of holiness.

was a joy to be around in any

The boys with the wire-rimmed

“Clarence Richards!” they would

social setting) was:

glasses and briefcases who fancied

call out to me, breaking prayerful silence or psalmic utterances, hoping, I assumed, that this would be the day of penitence for the boy of academic mediocrity but alcoholic exceptionalism. I was just as amazed as they were, if not more, when I noticed exactly how fast my short legs could take me. For those men who had dedicated themselves to lives of celibacy, I was frankly surprised and somewhat disappointed at how soon, certainly by my junior


year, they had deemed me a lost


“Alas! We have felt the weightiness of sin, and know that there is nothing like it. Life has brought many sorrows to us, and many fears. Our hearts have ached a thousand times. Tears have flowed. Sleep has fled. Food has been nauseous to us, even when our weakness craved for it. But never have we felt anything like the dead weight of a mortal sin.” Later I would learn that Faber wasn’t wholly isolated

By the beginning of senior

themselves the head of the student body politic were on their way to city halls and state legislatures. The philosophy majors, many of whom were poetry minors, were off to compose the elegies of young hopes of financial success. The artists would starve by passion, and the writers by the lack of the right word. And the education and the business majors who had thus far managed to avoid much ambition at all would do just fine. Those who lacked a vision for their future as graduation loomed

large (and I was in this repellant

temptation, I figured, Frederick

humor from tragic global news

bunch) twiddled thumbs, loosened

William Faber meant vice, if not

stories, and played violin. Those

belts, said things like, “Smoke ’em

outright sin, and I had successfully

who spoke ill of him would note

if you got ’em,” and “See you in

indulged in my fair share of vices.

with disgust his indiscriminate

the Funnies,” and wrapped pillows

The summation of my years at

licentiousness. Nicholas was glad

around their heads so as not to

Saint Joseph’s was one temptation

to have this be the topic of dining

hear the noise of the alarm clock at

after the next, a series of trials

hall conversation. How much they

their bedside.

down paths of gluttony and lust.

cared made him laugh.

Saint Joseph’s, now including

These were only two of the seven

“Hi, Nicholas,” I said with some

even Father Anthony, was ready

deadly sins. To me the ratio was

formality. We shared a couple

to get rid of me. Yet, despite full

rather admirable. In this game I

classes. I knew the reputation well,

academic satiation, I found myself

was hitting .285, just slightly above

but not the boy.

hungry. My stomach grumbled

the lifetime .270 batting average of

even after a large meal and my

the great Gil Hodges.

mind raced late into the night,

“Brother Clarence!” Nicholas

“I was watching you walk this way,” he said. “Thought you would be headed home, but you came this

causing a sleeplessness that made

Galloway called to me from

way and here you are. You looked

my whole body ache throughout

the porch of the apartment that

like your head was in the clouds.

the next day. I was sore because,

he shared with two farmer boys

What were you thinking about?”

really unbeknownst to me, I had

from just a few miles up the road.

been straining since I first stepped

His hair was slicked back with

a sleeplessness, and a strain.

foot onto that campus. I felt like

Vaseline and he wore a short-

None of these was I any more

an old horse still forced to pull a

sleeved button-down shirt with a

willing to share with him than

carriage— some unjust treachery

thin, light-blue tie. His reputation

with Father Anthony.

soon to break me in two. I couldn’t

on campus was unrivaled in its

explain it until I remembered

undergraduate magnitude,

months away,” I said. For seniors

Frederick William Faber’s

but the esteem awarded that

this was the most innocuous of

tamer words: “Every moment

reputation shifted dramatically

conversations. We held in common

of resistance to temptation is a

depending on the narrator. For

that sense of impending fear, even

victory.” I had resisted for nearly

those who spoke highly of Nicholas

more than the usual commentary

four years.

Galloway, they would note that

on the weather.

What it was that I resisted


wasn’t immediately clear. By


he had a fine taste in expensive bourbon, excavated well-buried

I was thinking about a hunger,

“Graduation is just two

“And the great wide world out there,” Galloway said. “Any idea

what you are going to do when you

the farmer boys would think.

if I had been looking at a simple

are set loose out there?”

Nicholas encouraged me to take

multiple choice question for my

“No. What about you?”

even the smallest dose of bravery

entire life, and during one of those

“No,” he said, running his

and I began to use the front door.

nights with that strange bedfellow,

fingers down the thin blue tie,

He laughed at my anxiety, what

I finally realized that the answer

trying to rid it of wrinkles that

I considered to be a brave dive

was “all of the above.”

were never there. “But I’ve found

into the deep unknown. Nicholas

that the worry does very little

conjured up memories. Earlier

manhood for my own. That’s

good. Well, actually no good at all.

realizations. That boy whose

what it was at the end of the day.

So I’ve given up on worry, not that

assigned seat I always stole in a

I figured him to be my biographer,

that stranglehold wasn’t a hell of

middle school history class. I

revealing to me short but poignant

a hard thing to wrestle away. It’s

called it a practical joke. In some

chapters that I never knew were

been instilled in me by a couple

ways it was, I suppose, though I

there. I fumbled to read them

of hard-nosed parents who

was the mark. A friend’s older

when he turned off the small lamp

wouldn’t let me near the busy

brother who boasted by using

on the nightstand. I find it trite

streets until I was well past

his broad shoulders and thick

now, but up until the point when

ten years old. Well, I don’t know

arms to lift cinder blocks above

I fell into the world of Nicholas

what’s going to happen, and

his head. A swimming coach.

Galloway, I hadn’t known pleasure,

neither do you. When you accept

A movie star. A Language Arts

just contentment. My bodily pain

that, this warm feeling grows in

teacher who tried again and

now, or most of it at least, was a

your gut. It’s hot chocolate on

again to explain the profound

result of immature ecstasy. And

Christmas morning before any of

need of Odysseus to make his

best of all, he played the violin for

the presents are opened. Or when

way home. Why home, I thought,

me. Mendelssohn’s Violin Concerto.

the bell would ring after gym

when adventure was abounding

Then, drunk on whatever

class. Do you know what I mean?”

outside those cavernous Greek

concoction this was, I asked him,

walls where Penelope wept?

“Do you love me?”

“Sure,” I said. “The great escape.” “No, not escape,” Nicholas Galloway said. “Liberation.”

hunger beginning, at least, to be satisfied. I must admit that I

“No,” Nicholas Galloway said. “Not yet.” And that word— yet— could

was surprised when the whole

have offered hope. Though I didn’t

bed. For a week I crawled through

world didn’t shift. There was

tie myself to it. I wasn’t bound to

his window, worried about what

nothing dramatic. It was just as

it. What would be the purpose? It


I spent many nights in his

This seemed to be it. The

I awkwardly searched his


was the opposite of liberation. So

growing tomatoes and caring

and a Quiet Boy” by one Mr.

instead, certainly doomed by that

little for a three-page debate on

Nicholas Galloway.

word, I threw the rope above those

the best domestically made riding

And here some excerpts:

vowels and hung myself.

lawnmowers, I opted for The New

“The most remarkable quality

We walked the stage, took

Yorker. A cartoon of President

about Stephen was the weakness

the diploma, and shook the hands

Obama made the cover, running in

in his wrists. He couldn’t pull

of unfamiliar administrators.

the direction of the White House

himself up to who he ought to be.

Pomp and Circumstance and we

and away from a stampede of red,

He couldn’t lower himself down to

were gone.

zealous Republican elephants.

who he actually was.”

I skimmed through the black-

It became very clear, and I

and-white cartoons inside the

suppose that I appreciated the

magazine— talking dogs in offices,

most minor favor of a pseudonym,

pondered my choices. Home and

alligators at an airport gate,

that I was Stephen.

Garden. The New Yorker. Popular

and an elderly couple siting at a

Mechanics. For years the door

breakfast table and arguing over

I awoke to find him, this time

of the bistro that I managed was

a newspaper headline. Something

dressed in a thoroughly wrinkled

thoroughly stuck. It took all the

about Medicare. Frankly, I didn’t

olive-green suit, crawling through

power I had in both arms to open

understand a single one. One

my window. He tumbled onto the

it up and get a whiff of what had

article after another written for the

floor and tried to gather together

been voted online as the best

Sunday brunch mimosa-sipping

his dignity before whispering my

tomato soup in town. A new and

elites. There was nothing that

name. ‘Nicky!’”

overly enthusiastic employee took

interested me enough to distract

I never once called him “Nicky.”

oil to the hinges. That morning

me from the pain of the chipped

“Stephen saw a glowing dot on

I pulled again with all my might.

tooth. I ran my tongue across

the horizon, and when squinting,

The door, now good and loose,

it. It was sharp enough to not try

he realized that ever-so-slowly

swung widely and caught me

that again, a blade protecting the

it drew closer. It could have been

directly in the face. I chipped a

vulnerable nerve. Then, nearly

the bourbon that he took from my

top right incisor. Now here I was

putting the magazine down to

desk drawer that persuaded him

waiting for a Dr. Prescott, D.D.S.,

instead close my eyes and nap

of a grand illusion. This was the

who was on the ninetieth minute

until the young assistant behind

judgement of God on its way. None

of his hour lunch break.

the desk awoke me, I stumbled

of his studies had prepared for

across a short story. “A Coward

him the inevitable end. None of his

I sat in the dentist’s office and


Knowing nothing about


“For the third night in a row,

whispers, those few whispers

The author Nicholas Galloway,

of Collins College was thick in

of truth, protected him. The priests

stated a short italicized paragraph

body, hair, and odor, and wore

didn’t know who he became when

not long after Stephen’s betrayal,

a dark-gray knit cap. It wasn’t

he loosened his belt. Neither

was an author-in-residence at

hard to imagine him working

did his parents. Neither did his

Collins College in the Berkshires.

down at the docks in a Baltimore

professors, his classmates,

or even a Gulfport, Mississippi. I

or that small handful of misfit

approached with some hesitancy

friends. He had confessed only to

I drove toward the Green

only to find him as friendly as he

me and refused to confess to Him.

Mountains in a Jeep that was new

could possibly be. His name was

Well, He knew what happened

to the Avis Car Rental lot. Two

Benjamin, he was from Bangor,

when those spring nights

days before I chipped my tooth

Maine, and he was an American

swallowed Stephen up with their

on the door of the bistro, my Ford

History Major. I hadn’t inquired

steadfast intention to induce sweat

Taurus had blown a gasket near

about any of these and realized,

by one way or another. He knew.”

my favorite record store and was

I suppose, that the long hours at

now locked up until further notice

the Collins College welcome desk

at Hal’s Auto Shop. Inside the Jeep I

(situated, Benjamin mentioned

felt bold (as opposed to the Taurus,

as well, at the further point

I de e pl y de s i r e d to know

where I felt safe) and rolled down

on campus from the Student

m y s el f in wha te ve r wa y

the driver’s side window to smell

Center) might make any mighty

he once kne w me .

all the potent scents of farmland.

longshoreman ready for kind

Soon I found myself twenty-

companionship. I saw to use his

four miles above the speed limit

kind and certainly loquacious

with a radio station playing the

nature to my advantage. With no

Nicky left Stephen to endure his

anarchic chords of the MC5. Collins

hesitancy or ask for identification,

unsympathetic self-affliction.

College was only an hour further

he personally walked me up

Nicky moved east, and Stephen,

north. My anger felt playful in a

two sets of stairs and down two

in that allusion to tragedy, limped

strange way, in the same manner,

hallways until we both stood

westward. Very precise adjectives

I assumed, as it would set upon a

outside the office door of Professor

and verbs generous to the author,

fueled-up boxer in his corner just

Galloway. His task completed,

if not authentic, made Nicholas

before the bell rings.

Benjamin gave me a hearty pat

The conclusion came when

Galloway’s choice in that final


paragraph to be inarguably valiant.


The student behind the welcome desk in the main hall

on the back and returned to his lonely, ground-level watchtower.

Nicholas did not recognize me

summon up a smile of my own.

when he answered the door, but

Given the circumstances I would

due to what I assume was a sense

settle for sardonic. “I’m a fan.”

of faint familiarity, he invited

“Oh,” Nicholas said with

affection for the man. “Hi, I’m Jennifer Galloway.” I hadn’t time to answer before the wife stood from the couch and took

me inside. A young, long-legged

surprise. It felt good to know that

my hand in both of hers. The tall,

woman sat on a leather couch to

this surprised him. “Welcome

blonde, smiling, finally satisfying

the right of his desk. Her blonde

then! How can I help?”

wife. “And I’m sorry. I didn’t catch

hair fit her well, despite being cut

I had a hundred answers to

your name.”

with a sure vision but no real plan

this question and not just the ones

“Clarence Richards,” I said.

of execution. She offered a wide

that I had concocted in the Jeep

Very kindly Nicholas asked if

smile. It was warm as well. She

as I passed one tiny New England

I wanted a cup of coffee, obliged

was a beauty. Not a leading lady of

clapboard town after another.

me the final contents of a low

the silver screen, to be truthful, but

They ranged back decades and

sugar bowl, and invited me to stay

one with a real shot at modeling

they haunted me even now. I

a while. I took him up on both

blouses in a JC Penny catalog.

realized in that tiny professorial

offers. He was very apologetic

office, more times than I would

when he said that he had a dinner

with such earnestness that I

have liked to admit. How could he

with some trustees in just a half

refrained from clocking him

help? It seemed like the answer

hour. He rolled his eyes when

immediately. “So, I suppose I

was, in every possible way. And

he mentioned the trustees and

might have missed it, so please

although he hadn’t helped,

Jennifer half-covered a giggle with

remind me. Could you give me

although he had abandoned me

her hand. Just the dull duties,

your name again?”

to a long, lonely, and wicked road

he explained, that came with

of self-discovery, although he had

the job of a writer in residence.

revealed a naked chapter of

He asked where I was from and

that self-discovery (and a chapter,

with no desire to be truthful I

to the woman on the couch who

mind you, better left in the past)

answered with an obtuse “down

then smiled at him as widely and

in The New Yorker that I found at

South.” That seemed to satisfy

warmly as she smiled at me. “Well

the office of Dr. Prescott, D.D.S., as

him and no follow-up questions

then, might I impose upon you my

I looked across that desk to faint

came. He asked if I read a couple

own introduction? My name is

familiarity beneath fatty cheeks

writers who had been especially

Nicholas Galloway.”

and thinning hair, I couldn’t help

influential upon him, and when I

but feel after all of this a fond

responded that I had not, he didn’t

“Have a seat,” Nicholas said

“I never gave it,” I said. I was tempted to say “Stephen”. “Oh,” Nicholas said, turning


“I know,” I replied, trying to


seem particularly disappointed.

Nicholas Galloway did not

He said, now chewing on the

remember me. Not long after I

end of a pen, that his favorite

had last seen that boy who played

protagonist was still small-

violin for me in no clothing at all,

town America and his favorite

we both became men. And at some

antagonist was the foil of

point when he became a man, no

conformity to an outdated

longer hiding behind any facade of

American dream. He noted,

either wit or depravity, he forgot

and here is the obvious, that

me. His elusiveness in my life

occasionally what reviewers

drew me closer in bludgeoning

refer to as a “slice of life” was

longing to him than I had ever

occasionally a slice of his own life.

been when we slept side by side. I

He sprinkled autobiography. He

deeply desired to know myself in

rubbed his cheeks in amusement

whatever way he once knew me.

and feigned embarrassment. “I

Yet I became useful in a way that

think I have a few copies of my

I would never have wanted, but

latest novel left,” he said. Then he

have come to accept, as one must

pulled a book called A Long Winter

accept things when there is no one

at Wendell’s Farm from a stack

to blame. With the whole of

beneath his desk and signed it.

me fading, the smallest bit

“Dear Clarence, Here’s something

lasted. And nameless to him

for a slow summer weekend.

he called me a plot, a theme, a

Yours, Nicholas Galloway.” I

conflict, and finally, thanks be

thanked him and he thanked

to God, a conclusion.

me as well. So as not to be left out, Jennifer thanked no one in particular. She blushed, which I found charming, and I left. As I left, I felt the air turn to a mild irritation. They would be spending the night with the trustees when


they should be spending it together.


dea th zACKERY cLARK




tra n s por ta tion By mirana comstock I dream about transportation:

only to find

trains and stations

someone else already in mine

climb skeletal metal stairs

I dream about transportation:

to empty, open-air platforms

trains and stations

elbow my way through crowded underground passageways looking for the right track study displayed maps ask for directions but always seem to get the incorrect information

where arrivals and departures are called men’s faces half-hidden by fedoras women’s wavy hair falling forward red lips, heels click ALL ABOARD…ALL ABOARD as they race across the marble floors

I dream about transportation:

occasional birds fly about

trains and stations

I wonder if they know the way out

search for my seat up and down the aisles while miles of night hurtle by outside the windows past passengers haloed by reading lights in the shadows and those sleeping on folded jacket pillows


wait under an electronic board


Dinne r Pa r ty II Rachel Fussell




S ta n ’s Do nu t s + S wi s s Wa tche s Elina Sukaryavichute




A Poem l ike a hou s e By evalyn lee Chester, I want to build

I see your body, on the ground,

A poem, like a house

An up-ended cabinet

For your wife and daughter.

In desperate need of help.

To make the windows

Chester, I am no carpenter,

Wide, like your smile,

Your work was beautiful,

And the front door, big,

But I want to join your life

Hinged perfectly for a lifetime,

To the moment you were lifted,

No— generations—

Up, by friends who want

Of openings and closing:

Eternity to hold you close, who

Instead, four men pat

Hope a carpenter, who lived

A shoulder to indicate where

And died, to build a resurrected world,

The weight of your coffin will fall.

Can both call you home and comfort

Daffodils shiver in the rain,

Your daughter who looks so like you.

Best shoes stomp; spring begins,

She strokes your wife’s

In the English cold, cigarettes smoke,

Tears, as they count the flowers,

People weep unsaid goodbyes,

I stand and struggle

As your coffin is carried

To understand the tender

Into Mortlake Crematorium.

Mercy of wood, nail and flesh:

The men of your village, far

If we are not at home, in Christ,

From home, mourn you

In this our life, where do

Like mountains,

We go in death?

Your daughter smiles, your wife,

I live in one language:

Too, then they both cry,

But God lives within them all,

There is confusion.

So, when it comes time to go home,

At forty, you ran into death,

I will close the door that you hung,

200-meters from a finish line.

Walk the floor that you laid,

The service is in Polish,

And build this poem over your grave.

I think in English: did you leave Your hammer, upside down,


Balanced on its head, against a wall?


com po si tion By christa forster That he was my father

I remember nothing good about my life.

makes no difference now

I remember long, silent dinners

although I recognize the brown

with him staring at me, my mother

suit with the elbows worn

staring at her plate, the restless

slightly and the silk scarf

nights when a woman’s collar bone

given by my mother one holiday

hung in the air alongside my mother’s

stuffed into the left pocket.

perfume. How I hated the uneasy

The woman found lying

hours of late afternoon entering

next to him is not my mother,

our home. When dinner was late.

though I have seen her face

When my mother’s dress wrinkled

in a black-and-white photo,

From sitting. It makes no difference

her name signed across

that the woman in the picture

her nape, a smooth chalk palette.

wore her hair high on her head

Many days I sat with that book

and that her pliant mouth

across my child-legs

always remains half open.

and tried to guess who the woman was who was not my mother, and I remember how her eyes were small and slanted like the streams of light that hit my bed when the moon was out


(the capital of my girlhood).



Danika Ng




lautrec A fluid day, a noon shut down, you loved the shade in everything. Boulevard queens, Jane, the wash, the nude back of the laundress. What was it you said? They give good heart. This was, it seemed, enough for you. At your best you lived against the lie of the completed thing. You cultivated vanity, said I’d love to see a woman have a lover uglier than me. October came, the Moulin Rouge hung on every Paris wall. Critics raved: “Regarde! the senile pigs, how they sit at tables in the company of little whores who lick their faces, make them hot…there will never be another painter shameless as Lautrec.” You couldn’t care less, you cared for love– Suzanne (Maurice Utrillo’s mother, who also posed for Jean Renoir and then became a painter too), the dancer Jane Avril, whose nighttime solitary walk you froze on cardboard with oil and gouache. Her hair swept up you dreamed unpinned, cascading down her spine. Time and time again you left your heart behind in darkened rooms, then panting slid into the street and trudged the hard walk home. Within the smallest pencil stroke you spoke about how hard it was to be alone. You said you’d always been a pencil, though you knew the nature of the brush. In Bed: The Kiss, The Two Girlfriends reveal this knowing tenderness. But love eluded you. You sacrificed your heart for art and reinvented hues of blue. You were a prophet of desire in a cruel milieu. It seems you understood that living itself within this world was the hardest thing the strong of soul could do. When you


looked in the mirror, did you see yourself? Or was it


the reflection of a stranger caught between the teeth of a quiet nightmare, so quiet it belied the possibility– that you might be just a man with stunted legs, black beard, heavy cheeks, with nothing much to say? 1897 came and Death began to sew his stones into the lining of your overcoats. The more you reached your hand toward life, the more life slipped away. Friends witnessed how you drank your cane. And after Villeneuve-sur-Yonne, men barred you from the world you loved: the syphilitic prostitutes, your alcoholic enemy, your mother living in Albi, your father’s work on falconry. You begged, Papa, you have the chance to act in humane ways. You know how something locked up dies. But there he let you stay. Inside the mental hospital, you asked for stones and chalk, watercolors, paintbrushes, a little light, then painted several circus scenes to prove you were all right: swarms of dilettantes swarming into canvas tents craning necks to see the spectacle –horses’ heaving flesh, the riders’ thighs snug against the horses’ silken flanks, agile in their skill and pride as they ride around the outside of the ring. And this painting matters too: A girl flush on a horse’s back, the horse connected to a man by leather strap, the girl in green and leaning forward but looking toward the man and smiling, perhaps in love, while in the background an awkward clown appears about to fall out of the frame.


By Christa Forster 55




soft pastel On pastel Paper


B O X S E R IE S NUM B E R 3 Myrthe Biesheuvel


mixed media


he funeral home looked more

time it finally stopped working,

and some aunt who remembered

like a law office— brick walls and

and a slightly smaller indent just

seeing me at one of their

a white roof and a sign out front

beside that one, from the days

Thanksgiving dinners decided

that looked like it should have said,

when Sara wanted to talk longer,

I should get a call, and some

Dixon and Dixon: Attorneys at Law.

from the days when she realized

woman I’ve been living with for

I sat out in the parking lot, waiting

Dillon was a dick and needed

ten years rubbed my back as I

for a few people to arrive for the

to vent about it. I wouldn’t say

screamed and cried into one of

wake. Getting there early was

anything, just put my arm around

the pillows she likes, the kind that

irrational. I don’t know, maybe

her. Later she married him and

make my neck cramp.

I had hoped for a little alone time

moved to Colorado and got a house

with Sara, but the whole idea of

and a job and a kid and some

thing all day,” came a voice from

that was a bit complicated now,

bruises, and when the bruises

right beside me. I jumped up,

her being in a casket and all.

got bad she called me, and then I

startled at how close the blonde-

Once I got there, I realized going

told her.

haired figure to my right had gotten

in would mean being the first to

“Sara, Dillon is a dick,” I said.

“Hey, you gonna be on that

without me noticing. I realized I

greet her family. I don’t hate

The next day she told him she

had somehow deleted every single

Sara’s family. I dislike them,

wanted a divorce. I should have

one of my emails, and I shoved

and they dislike me, so I decided

told her sophomore year. There

my phone nervously back into my

not to do them the disservice of

wouldn’t have been as much

jacket. She must have been sitting

being first through the door. I got


on the hood of my Audi for a few

out of my car and walked around

They hadn’t finalized anything,

minutes, smiling, waiting for me to

but Sara decided to move back

notice her, and then waiting for

with my butt on the polished,

here. I was away at a conference

me realize who she was.

white hood. I pretended to check

when she moved into her new

my email, and thought about how

place just last week. I told her we

awkwardly open as if I didn’t

I used to sit like that out in the

would get coffee soon, but the

expect to see Sara’s old friends

parking lot of our high school,

night I got back from listening


waiting to waste at least twenty

to a bunch of old guys talk about

minutes joking around with

Marketing Analytics, Sara went

said, golden hair bouncing as she

Sara before I could bring myself

out to pick up a pizza, and some

spoke, the same way it used to.

to leave. The hood of my blue

guy driving his Tacoma down

Saturn had a slight indent by the

Marina Mile didn’t see a red light,


to the front, leaning on the grille


“Jen!?” I said, my mouth

“You gained weight, Jet,” she

No one had called me that in years. It was a name I earned

midway through freshman year,

she said, apparently noticing my

bouncing off of them, illuminating

when people started to notice that

quick glance. “Sara wouldn’t want

the black leather couch and the

I tended to walk incredibly fast to

me to kill my feet like that.”

white carpet, the IKEA light fixture

class. I stopped doing it after a few

I nodded in agreement and

hanging from the ceiling, and the

semesters, because Sara was in

looked back toward the door. It

two bookcases on the far side of

most of my classes, and Sara liked

didn’t look like a lawyer’s office

the room, one filled with law books

to walk slow, but the nickname

anymore. This many people

and the other with my fiction,

stuck. Sara never called me Jet,

would never come see a lawyer.

the only part of the picture that

though. Always Jackie.

I thought about my wife, scribbling

belonged to me. I felt nothing else

on her legal pad all day about this

did— not the carpet or the blinds

my arms to look down at my gut

case and that case, sorting out

or the couch or the woman sitting

the way my father used to. It was

everybody’s lives right there on

on it. I turned and closed the door

just big enough to be noticeable

paper. She was a great lawyer.

on my lie, wondering if my wife

“Thanks,” I joked, holding out

underneath my suit. “Shall we,” she said, holding out her hand and gesturing toward

I told my wife I couldn’t come to the wake. I’m still not sure why. “I’ll only be able to make it to

knew as well as I did that the only woman I’d ever truly loved was dead.

the line accumulating at the front

the funeral,” I had told her in the

of the building.

morning. “Emergency meeting got

the funeral home, and I stepped

called today. Be ready to go at ten

inside after Jen. Sara’s family had

o’clock tomorrow for the service.”

placed a table right in front of the

I took Jen’s hand, pushing off the car with my other. And as we walked toward the line she let her

I had waited for her to

We finally reached the door to

door with a white table cloth and a

hand slip out of mine. I glanced

protest. Honey, it’s your best friend,

brown basket and a pile of purple

over at her and saw her for the

we should go to the wake, I

note cards and a sign that read:

first time. Blond hair and grey eyes

thought she’d say. She just gave

and a black dress with a slit down

me a thumbs up.

the back most of the older women

“Okay, Jack,” she said without

Please tell Sarah how much she meant to you. It would help her loved ones to

in this place would whisper

turning around, then she reached

about. She wore black flats that

over to the coffee table and

scratched the cracking asphalt as

grabbed another magazine to read

we shuffled forward in line.

as I watched her from the doorway,

stop myself from laughing, so I just

examining things for a moment

started to fake cough instead. It

“You’d be surprised at how


many girls wear heels to funerals,”


— the wooden shades with light

know just how much you cared. I had to cover my mouth to

was funny. There were only two

arrangement of flowers that sat

brown, but not a nice mahogany

things Sara hated in this world:

to the right of the table, and as we

brown— a brown kind of like the

compliments and the color purple,

entered the room with the casket,

color of vomit. The walls were

and this shrine contained both.

I wondered what sort of artificial

two different shades of yellow

Once during calculus, I told her

white her skin must be now, and if

separated by a white line of

I liked her outfit, and I smiled as

people’s freckles went away when

molding that ran horizontally all

I watched her face go from that

they died. I hoped they didn’t,

around the room, boxing us in. The

Irish-white to a red that somehow

but I would never know, because

bottom of the walls was painted a

made her freckles stand out even

when the man was speeding down

deep gold, and the top a sunshine

more. After that, I made it an

Marina Mile, preparing to run a

yellow. Who the hell paints a

everyday thing, and I thought I’d

red light in his black Tacoma, Sara

funeral home yellow, I thought.

run out of things to compliment

had just finished getting the pizza

her on, but I never did. I started

situated in the passenger seat

Jen’s voice from behind me.

small. I told her that her hair

and was still fumbling with her

Somehow, she had let me slip in

looked good one day, and that her

seatbelt. At least that’s what I told

front of her so that the only thing

eyes were brighter than usual the

myself, because it was somehow

between me and the casket was

next, and, before long, I was telling

comforting to think that she had

the ten feet of red carpet. Red

her how much I loved her take on

been moments away from still

carpet!?, I would think later. It was

Nietzsche’s philosophy or that the

being alive. She seemed closer that

true, someone had decided to put

novel she had recommended was

way. The point is, the casket was

red carpet in a yellow chapel in a

fantastic. I lived for that moment

closed, because her family had

funeral home, and still that wasn’t

when her cheeks would bud like

decided that we should remember

as poor a decision as the purple

the roses in my backyard, when

her as she was before she wanted

notecards. None of that mattered

her foot would tap nervously,

pizza, before some guy missed a

now, though. The colors faded

and her leg, not immune to the

red light, and some aunt made a

to dull blacks and whites and

blushing that spread throughout

call, and some woman rubbed my

greys, and the lines of the stained-

her whole body when anyone

back as I wept into a pillow.

glass window sitting above the

complimented her, would accidentally rub against mine.

We inched closer to the casket,

“I think it’s our turn,” came

casket became blurred and then

shuffling forward between the two

nonexistent. All that was there was

sections of pews on either side of

the heavy, wooden casket, and

Jen finished her little letter to Sara,

the chapel they had stuffed inside

my hand on it, and Jen’s hand

and we moved on past the large

that law office. The pews were

on my shoulder. And I tried to


I didn’t take a purple notecard.


pray to something because that’s

she could get used to waking up

was something different about

what I thought you did with your

like that. We never mentioned it

Jen’s sadness. All the other people

hand on a casket, but there was

again. She got married and moved

in the funeral home stood out

nothing else to pray to. There was

to Colorado and had a kid and a

starkly against the yellow walls.

only the casket, and my hand, and

divorce and bought a pizza and

For them, Sara’s death was only a

my shoulder, and Jen’s hand on

went to pick it up and found her

fraction of their pain, like a drop of

my shoulder. The casket and my

way into a casket. The casket, my

red food coloring in a cup already

hand and my wedding ring and my

hand, the wedding ring, my

overflowing with blood. I could see

shoulder and Jen’s hand holding it

shoulder, and Jen’s hand, and

it in their eyes. But Jen, Jen seemed

a little more firmly. Casket, hand,

it’s time to let the next person go.

to exist somewhere high enough

wedding ring, shoulder, and some

I thought I heard the voice in my

that a funeral could actually drag

guy in a black Tacoma, and all


her down. For the rest of us, we

I wanted was a white pillow to scream into. Her freckles were gone. Somehow, I knew it. Once, we tried to count them at a party when we were both drunk— her a little more so than me. I got up

“It’s time to let the next person

were already there on the ground,

go,” Jen said a second time, and I

some of us leaning over the edge

was as startled as I was when she

of our graves, and I felt ready to

snuck up on me in the parking lot.

fall in with Sara.

“Right,” I said, and staggered away from the altar. I sat in a chair in a corner of one of the rooms for the rest of the

up any longer, and her head fell

time, while Jen moseyed around

into my lap while I tried to finish

and looked at all the posters they

counting, trying to get the ones

had put up with images of Sara in

that almost seemed to blend into

various stages of her life. I

her blue eyes, brushing back her

watched her move from gravestone

brown hair to count the spots at

to gravestone and look at all the

She walked to me from across the

the very top of her forehead. But I

pictures, like little epitaphs all

room, leaned over, and whispered

couldn’t stay awake either, and I

stringed together. I watched

in my ear.

slumped sideways onto the couch

Jen smile at seeing Sara in her

at 324. We woke up on the couch

blue soccer uniform and in her

said, as if we were in a bar, not

in the morning, still holding each

pink tutu and in her homecoming

a funeral home or a law office or

other, and she smiled at me as if

dresses and her prom dress. There

whatever that place was.


to 192, and then she couldn’t sit


Who the hel l pa in ts a f une ra l home yel low ?

Jen saw me looking at her.

“Let’s get out of here,” she

She invited me over. She

it and placed herself on my lap

a darn thing in God knows how

wanted to catch up and have a

with her hands back on the wheel.


few drinks. So, I followed behind

I reached both of my arms around

her red jeep to her home in a

her and put my hands over hers,

the feeling of my arms on top of

neighborhood across town. She

because I felt that was what she

hers, of the sensation of her

lived on the water. I said I liked the

wanted me to do.

skin. It was different than when I

water. She poured me a drink or

“So, Jet, how has your life

I was suddenly aware of

embraced my wife or hugged any

two. She said she had a boat. I said

been?” She asked, turning slightly

of my friends. It was, somehow,

I liked boats. And then, we were

to the left.

electric— a sort of electricity I

on the Intracoastal, her holding

“Unimpressive,” I said.

had never felt with reading,

the wheel and I a beer. Her hair

“I doubt that,” she said. “What

writing, even making love. The

looked like sunshine out there on the water, so light and wonderful. As I sat with my hand over the side of the boat to feel the white spray, I thought about why I had told my

do you do?” “I work in Marketing Analytics for a big firm.” “No, I mean what do you do?” she said.

color was starting to come back into the world, the alcohol helping me recover from that feeling of being alone with the casket, and I could see the lights on the sides

wife I had a meeting to attend. I

“I figure out how well a

held up my hand, and examined

company’s marketing campaigns

the blue water, and the green

my wedding ring. Perhaps it was


mangroves dancing in the wind.

because I might have realized that, as sad as it was, if that were to have been her wake, her pale, white body in a wooden box, I

“Really?” she said, “that’s all you do?” I was silent for a few moments, thinking.

of the waterway shining on

“Married?” Jen asked, her pointer finger tapping my silver ring. “Yes,” I said.

would not have been as destroyed,

“I guess I read,” I decided to say.

“Happily?” she asked.

as lifeless, as void of hope as I was

“You guess you read? Reading

It was a strange thing to ask so

at that altar with the casket and

can be a very noble thing to do,”

directly. But the water looked a lot

my hand on the casket and my

she said, “that is if you don’t guess

bluer than it had, for me, in years,

shoulder and Jen’s hand squeezing

at it.”

and the mangroves a lot greener,

my shoulder. I was still looking at my hand when Jen grabbed

“I read,” I corrected myself, “and write sometimes too.” “See,” she said, “that is

to the chair. She sat me down in

impressive. I haven’t written


a hold of it and pulled me over


and I felt I should tell the truth. “No,” I said. She turned and kissed me, not slowing the boat, and her lips felt

more electric than her skin, and as I kissed her back, I hoped to catch whatever sickness made your skin feel like that. “Why did you kiss me?” I asked after a few minutes of listening to the motor create a wake behind us. “Because you are a good person,” she said, “and good people should be kissed every once in a while.” She made a joke and I laughed and I said I should go home and she agreed and all the lights were green on the way back to my house. But when I turned onto Marina Mile, I wondered what would happen if some guy ran a red light, and I was afraid.


I was afraid, and it felt good.


B R EA D HOU S E Rachel Fussell


Hand-Made miniatures + found objects


Pa th wa y tO Bal l y va ug ha n LaDara McKinnon


acrylic on canvas


S ta te o f the Unio n Kathryn McComas


Digital Print


fa de By robbin farr Your kitchen, in grey hesitant light – coffee, French bread, goat cheese served on mostly blue unmatched china. Breakfast is simple. We eat quietly. The hiss of the espresso pot intersects careful conversation. The local radio station plays a rebroadcast of energetic klezmer music which you heard Tuesday night in an auditorium of mostly older Jews, a warming feeling of community, you say. A stack of New Yorker magazines, months of them piled up on the bench next to me and you wonder whether to read the poems, at least. We almost touch across the table, both of us reaching for the knife. I can feel the heat of your arm. The moment waits, wanting something more, but it passes like the morning sun – all potential, it blooms into the day,


becomes cloudy and uncertain.


S to p t r yna b e nea t ! Aba Hutchison


colored pencil, pen + Marker


Ta ke M y P ho to g ra p h Sarah Kinney


Ink + Watercolor on paper


The L i t tl e Koima id Carolina Quintana Ocampo




Un til I coul dn ’t By Claire Scott I sang to you my son you loved Burl Ives way up yonder above the moon you smiled & sailed past Aquarius in your Batman suit, pointed ears, blue cape I loosened as you slept now no lullabies can ease your nights no songs can untangle your body torqued & twisted no way up yonder to transport you to a place without crutches and opiates a place without a texting driver a sudden thud, your body sailing through space, smacking the street as sirens slash the night I want to sing back time to the child you once were asleep in your batman suit but only a moonless night an empty voice


a blue cape lost long ago



drapes over the kitchen sink

crammed into his wife’s lambskin


glow with moonlight. Buraq, his

slippers. Apparently, though, the

mother’s white fluffball of a cat,

governor’s rant against public

her sleepmate for years, snakes

employees woke him. Hopefully,

message, on drawing paper, is

around Julien’s ankles, nudging

he’ll nod off. He gave Julien’s day

taped to the refrigerator door

for food. Julien kneels to touch

a rough start, and the son needs a

and hand-printed in red until the

his nose to the cat’s as his mother

soft finish.

crayon must have skidded and

used to do. Buraq. When he was

snapped in an angry grip. His

young, his mother’s rolled Rs and

you’re home — Julien untapes

father finished the diktat in

palatal Ts, the traces of her first

the note, balls it up, and bounces

baby blue.

language, embarrassed him before

it off a Formica counter into the

his friends. But he wrote and

sink. Walking over, he pulls out a

before, Julien — ­­ son, songwriter,

recorded his music for her, with

matchbook and carefully takes a

guitarist, and oudist — ­­ came home

her in mind. When she became ill

joint tucked inside.

shivering and famished from yet

and began her long descent into

another nonpaying gig. And he

cancer, he added an oud for her,

to blow out smoke, and winter

wolfed down two — ­­ two! ­­— of six

to capture the semitones he heard

air wafts in. Staring through

meatballs the old man bought for

when, as she drew on her oversize

the parted curtains into moonlit

himself at Rosario’s deli.

pad, she hummed childhood tunes.

snowfall, he reruns his father’s

The notes between the notes, she

lecture that morning: “Nobody

sees that his dad, Ralph Paetz, has

called them. She was the audience

wants to buy such sad music. I

scrawled MINE in black marker

that mattered. He would succeed

mean, c’mon, Julien, that oud

on a jar of Del Monte grapefruit

and she’d be proud. But then she

sounds like crying. It’s crap.” Here,

slices, on vanilla yogurt containers,

was gone and he hadn’t succeeded.

Ralph, standing over him, bit into

and across a Ziploc bag of sliced

Not even close.

an apple core, finished the thing,

o now this bullshit. The

And for what crime? The night

Opening the fridge, Julien

cheddar cheese. He’s buried the

The upstairs TV blasts about

Quietly — don’t let him know

He cracks the window open

and spit the stem onto the floor. He

good turkey burgers in the bottom

Chris Christie and Bridgegate, and

seemed increasingly ogreish since

freezer drawer, leaving Julien the

his father answers, “No, you’re the

Yasmine, mother and wife, died.

cheap, frost-burned ones ­­— more

fucking drug mule.”

roof shingle than poultry. Again, Julien’s home late.


The lights are out, but cotton


Ralph, a high school English

“Even Shakespeare,” his father went on, “sold people what they

teacher, would normally be asleep

wanted. Ghosts, witches, jesters.”

by now in his recliner, his feet

With that, he spread a letter on the

kitchen table, an iTunes statement

a little typing, maybe. You’re thirty,

and gaunt from grief, lost his

showing Julien had received only a

Julien. Time for a real job. Music is

words. He choked up and left

few dollars in royalties from sales


the room. They’d been married

of his songs. “Look at me, Julien.

What did Ralph Fucking Paetz

thirty-five years, having met

You’ve got to deal with me now.

know about the hard work of art?

where they taught. He ran the

You understand? You get a job. You

Recording night and day in a dank

English department, and she led

pay for food and gas and clothes.”

basement. Playing guitar until

vocational fashion design, a trade

He slapped the tabletop so hard,

your hands cramp. Prying the

she’d chosen as a girl from the

Julien, seated, felt the sting up his

frets out of an old guitar to turn

hills of Tizi Rached, watching the

arms. “You get your own place to

it into an oud. Singing yourself

colonials, the pied noirs, strut the

live.” This was not the father who’d

hoarse. Hawking your CDs. Pulling

boulevards of Oran and Algiers in

bought him guitars and paid for a

midnight gigs in shitty bars.

Parisian designs, showing more

singing coach. This was the son of

Scrimping for gas money. Fighting

skin than she thought proper for

a Bronx butcher he’d heard about

with bookers for a slice of the gate.

a woman, but so graceful, elegant,

as a child, carrying great sides

And how exactly do you stop being

and free. Her charcoals of gowns,

of beef into a meat locker. The

a musician when you think and

coats, hijabs, burnooses, and

infantryman from Nam. Had he

dream music? When your art flows

feathered hats — more fine art,

been loving, Julien wondered, only

from your mother’s blood?

thought Julien, than mere fashion

for show, to please a wife? Ralph patted Julien’s hi-top

Uncle Alan, Ralph’s brother,

sketches—still littered the den of

had said, “He’s mourning badly is

the family’s cramped split-level in

fade, piled dark curls that, like his

all. When he looks at you, he sees

Linden, New Jersey.

mother’s, bore a touch of Berber

her — eyelashes, cheekbones, nose.

red. A haircut, his father once

Even the color of her skin, Julien. I

his lips, Julien lights a match. He

commented, like the black kids

think it drives him a little nuts. You

sets fire to the balled paper in the

wear. Like the brown kids wear

should forgive and forget.”

sink. Idiot note — idiot man. And

too, Julien thought but did not say. The father peeled a twenty off a wad of bills. “Now go get a real haircut and see Uncle Alan at his law office in Metuchen. Interesting

Easy for Alan to say. But time to stop this crap. “Mom would never ask me to quit— ” “You don’t get to tell me

Now, with the joint clamped in

the flicker of the burning ball, its sweet incense fanned by cold air, brings Julien a moment’s peace. He lights the joint on his little bonfire and inhales deeply.

what Yasmine would never— ”

An ember floats to the drapes.

runaway shopping carts. You’ll do

And there Ralph, pale-faced

They catch fire.


stuff, he has. A lady crushed by


A smoke detector shrieks.

drummer or bassist. Occasionally,

“A what?”

Julien is on the kitchen counter

he plays guitar after work near

“A Biju Misra. She says your

pounding out flames with his

his uncle’s old Honda, with a

father sent her over.” She hangs up

hands when his father, wielding

foot on the bumper and his lyrics

before he can answer.

an extinguisher, blasts him more

notepad on the hood. But he can’t

than the curtains, as if to put Julien

seem to finish a song or find a

a bill collector or process server.

out. The pressured spray stings

clean melodic line. Grief troubles

He owes more than a hundred

and freezes and cuts off his breath.

his sleep and numbs him during

to the guy who printed his last

Julien gasps and pukes over the

the day.

album. His father would give out

sink while Ralph Paetz throws

Alan and his wife, Marie,

the fire extinguisher to the floor,

have tried to break through,

storms out, and pounds up the stairs.

inviting him up for breakfast or

This can’t be good. It’s got to be

the work address — to embarrass him before his coworkers. He grabs his coat and makes

dinner. But, best not to go. Their

for the stairwell. Even if they pass

daughter, Betsy, a recent graduate

in the hallway, this Misra won’t

He and his father haven’t

of Stanford Law, lurks upstairs. A

know him from Adam.

exchanged a word since the fire.

damning contrast. After all, what is

These past three months, Julien’s

he? A crazed arsonist to his father

lived in Uncle Alan’s basement

and perhaps to his aunt and uncle


room, little more than a closet that

as well. An all-out loser in the

She’s in his path, on the

opens to the family garage. The

music market. A guy who never

landing, her hand gently on his

nearby toilet gurgles and burps

finished college and who now,

sleeve. Her face is round and dark

through the night. He has no car

in a back room at Alan’s office,

with a maroon bindi between her

and rides to work with his uncle

hacks through piles of deposition

eyebrows. She opens her arms,

or takes an old bike. When he

transcripts, summarizing witness

palms up, and smiles softly. “Look

fled his father’s house, he brought

testimony about deadly shopping

at you. More handsome than your

bare necessities: a garbage bag

carts, failing septic systems, a rat’s

album cover.” Her voice, Indian-

full of clothes, a framed photo of

head in a child’s frozen yogurt.

accented, and her eyes are too

his mother as a teenager in hijab,

One Monday, he’s at his desk at

and his acoustic guitar. The oud, he

Alan’s office when the downstairs

left behind.

receptionist buzzes.

Julien’s given up on gigs and


rarely returns calls from his band’s


“Hey — you know a Misra?” Maggie always seems pissed at him.

warm to bring harm. She asks if they can speak for a moment. “About?” “What else? Your beautiful music. And a way, Julien, to maybe

earn a little money.” This makes no sense. Who

“No. My son Ravi bought your album at Club Z.”

“I borrowed the CD from my son and brought it into the apartment

would think this? Who would

“In Red Bank?”

where my job was that day. A

say this? Is this a prank by his

“Exactly. And then he had it

young woman was near her end,

bandmates? Is he being filmed or

playing while he drove me

on morphine patches already, but

taped? Whatever, he doesn’t need

to a job.”

still agitated, restless, you know.”

this to play out within earshot of

“What kind of job?”

Biju closes her eyes and shakes

Maggie. He leads her back and

“I’m a hospice nurse.”

her head, as if remembering the

apologizes for his tight quarters.

“I see.” He leaned back in

sounds and sights of the woman’s

“My husband, may he rest in peace, was a solicitor in New Delhi.

his seat. “Sometimes people become

pain. “At my request, her husband brought in a boom box, and I

His cubicle was smaller than this.”

afraid of me when I tell them

played your music for her as she

She sits opposite him, as if he were

what I do for a living. I spend my

lay there. For him too. He sat on

the lawyer and she the client.

days with dying. People think they

the floor with his back against

She wears silver hoop earrings

might catch that from me. Do you

a wall. And your songs, Julien,

and a gray overcoat buttoned

think that, Julien?”

brought them peace and took her

to her throat. As she speaks, she

Her eyes are wide and black,

through the last moments. The

keeps her hands folded politely

and it’s easy to look directly into

husband left your music on even

on her lap.

them. He feels himself relax, and

after his wife left us. And I had to

the two allow an easy silence to

find you after that. You wouldn’t

pass. This woman is about his

believe the maze I went through,

mother’s age, with jet-black

calling up one Mr. Paetz after

He s e ts f i r e to the ba l l e d

hair. She wears a lavender scent

another, knocking on this door

pa pe r in the sink. Idio t no te

that seemed harsh at first but has

and that.”

— Idio t ma n.

softened. “No. I think you must have a kind heart,” he says.

“You saw my father?”

“I hope so. I particularly

senses Julien’s effort to maintain composure. He’s cried more than enough, and he isn’t going to do

“At your house.”

loved a piece from your album

that in front of a stranger,

“You know him?” She must

Yasmine: the song by the same

however warm.

work at his high school. God knows

name.” She unbuttons her coat and

what he said to her.

pulls her chair closer to his desk.


She pauses again, as if she


“Did you tell my father about any of this?” He does his best to

make the question seem casual,

accepting my money, your father

lately, says that the man seemed

embarrassed at his hunger for

asked me personally to bring you

lonely. “As we say in my country,


the check for your CDs. He told me

Julien, one has to do the needful.”

“I did. At first he didn’t invite me in. Though it was evening, the lights were off inside, and I got the feeling he needed to

where you worked.” Julien reaches for it, but stops himself. Biju continues that she’d like

“My father,” Julien says, “didn’t come from a country like yours.” Nor, he thinks, did he come from Yasmine’s land. And he remembers

be alone. I had a nice chat with

to buy more of the CDs, that she

his father patting his head, his

him at the front door. He went

imagines many other hospice

mother’s curls, telling him to get a

down to the basement and got me

nurses would love to play his

real haircut.

ten of your CDs, and I tried giving

music for patients. She asks if

him a check for them, though he

he’d be willing to play live at the

wanted me to take them for free. I

bedside of terminal patients.

told him I intended to give Yasmine

He’s touched by her sincerity,

Biju’s scent lingers, sours and fades as he sits and stares at the

to other hospice nurses and their

but as she speaks, he loses the

patients. At that point, he did ask

thread of her conversation,

me to come inside, and he even

repeating to himself, “He told

The one his father mocked. It is

made me tea with milk, the British

me where you worked.” So. Isn’t

obscene — no, impossible — that

way. He explained how you made

this woman, sweet-hearted and

the instrument he so painstakingly

that oud, heating the frets with a

innocent and motherly as she is,

made for his mother’s final days

torch so you could pull them

his father’s living joke? How much

remains in his father’s house. He

out, filling in the slots with plastic

does your music suck, Julien? It

knows where he left it, in a corner

wood, sanding the guitar neck,

sucks so bad, only the dead will buy

of his old room.

restringing the instrument, and so

it. Julien, his voice on automatic

Without asking permission,

on. He was so proud of your work

pilot now, tells Biju he’ll have to

Julien walks out of the office. He

and music. He told me about your

think about live performances,

gets on his bike, a rusty Schwinn.

late mother and showed me her

that really, he is out of the music

He’ll smash that oud before his

sketches. He said she, too, loved

business, but he’ll get back to her.

father’s eyes if not over the man’s

your music, Julien.” She takes a folded envelope

“Are you all right, Julien?” She stands and buttons her coat. “No, I’m fine,” he says.

it on his desk. “Finally, instead of

She asks if he’s seen his father


out of her coat pocket and places


unopened envelope on his desk. His thoughts turn to the oud.

ugly head.

a cold stop. One of the songs he On high idle, he peddles the miles from his uncle’s office to the little split-level on Locust Road. It was winter when he left his childhood home for his uncle’s place, but now he passes full, leafy sycamores and oaks as well as manicured lawns. His mother, he recalls as he rides, meticulously tended tea roses on a backyard trellis and nurtured hydrangeas and lilacs. She filled the house with cuttings in short, tinted vases. With ease, she sketched perfect irises and sunflowers in india ink. Julien finds himself at the end of the driveway. His father’s Jeep is parked curbside, and there’s a pile of mulch on a tarp at the front lawn. His father must be working in the backyard and using a wheelbarrow. So the rear door will be open. He’ll enter the house while his Ralph Fucking Paetz has his back turned. He’ll grab the oud, come outside, and do what needs to be done. But as Julien comes to the end of the driveway, nears his mother’s


old trellises, music brings him to


wrote, one that playfully echoes her accent — “Water, Whistle, Word” — is coming from an outdoor speaker that he and father rigged years ago. And there, in afternoon sun, at a wrought iron patio table, sits the man. Julien watches, motionless. His father uses a sleeve to wipe sweat from his brow and then takes a sip of a Corona. The man puts down the beer bottle. Now, he taps his fingers to Julien’s song, and almost imperceptibly, he sways with the beat, forward and back. Rage bleeds out. Slowly, silently, Julien backs away.

Un ti tl e d William Haynes




HEA D F UL L O F S PA CE Emmett Thornburg




Glances ofF the sill All those dogged hours adding up to years. The bulk of life before the very same window, defying the rule of time. Watching people walk by, seasons change, birds fly. Unseeing anything indeed. It used to be like a job, and it used to be fun— a visual rocking chair of sorts. The chair’s still there, but the rocking’s gone, and also either kind of words, the spoken and the untold, appear to have dissolved. All is absence now, but murky remnants vaguely shifting in the distance whither they will yet be lost. Out of mind’s control, above emotions, beyond physical boundaries, even past belief. Just within awareness. Pupils drained from staring vainly, a messy mass of emptied eyefuls. Loose would-be recollections. Glances off the sill.


By Alessio Zanelli 80

NE W PA G E, NE W ME ! Aba Hutchison


pen + Marker






A b us e By cameron tate On your nightstand, in your half-awake stupor you turned off my song you told me to play, but you still refuse to leave your bed. I go back to sleep as well, it’s too early for me. “Roll your ass out of bed, Sir.” I wanted to say.

Close some damn apps, Sir. I’m always in your hand as you tap my screen with your cheese dust covered fingers. They leave imprints on my screen that smear when you try to clean it off. You’re co-workers point at me in my new case, the only nice thing I have,

You wake me hours later,

as you brag I’m indestructible.

yelling that it was my fault you were late.

It feels nice…

I keep my composure and suggest your quickest route.

You then throw me on the ground,

You furiously press my screen, hurting me, as you respond

over, and

to your boss’s messages before shoving me into your pocket.

over, and

Filled with dust that gets in my ports,

over again to prove the point.

pens that scrap against my case,

I feel a fracture on my screen,

and the humidity of your thigh

you say it’s a hair.

fogging up my screen.

Give me some damn respect, Sir.

You’re a disgusting pig, Sir.

We retreat to our respective chargers to end the day.

I’m placed next to your keyboard at your job,

After the abuse I dealt with today,

you fill spreadsheets and forms with data you don’t understand.

I needed the rest because we’ll repeat it again tomorrow.

You ask me every minute to do the math for you,

I dreaded it, but that’s all I can do.

while playing your music,

You reach over again, and open the browser.

finding local restaurants that serve breakfast at 3:00,

You type in the search engine, P-O-R…

the capital of Utah,

I shut off for a “scheduled” update.

saving your score in Fruit Ninjas from 3 days ago,

Leave me alone tonight, Sir.


and a dozen other tasks that make me exhausted.


P HO NE CA L L Myrthe Biesheuvel


oil on canvas


S IL VE R P OOL Emmett Thornburg






acrylic on board




oil on canvas



Thank you for choosing us to showcase your amazing work. Without you, this magazine would not be possible. way n e m a i k r a n z :

Thank you for all of the work you put in to support us, and the helpful advice you have given us along the way. danny huffman:

Thank you for your patience in answering our constant stream of questions and for always having such a positive attitude. joshua wood:

Thank you for always having your door open and offering us your design expertise.

k e l ly m e r g e s :

Thank you for your help with circulation and for encouraging us to showcase Sanskrit to the world. art


l i t e r at u r e j u r y :

Thank you for dedicating your time to helping us pick the very best work

to feature in Sanskrit. laurie cuddy:

Thank you for being a wonderful Business Manager and an important part of Student Niner Media. pi marketing:

Thank you for taking our idea and turning it into a reality. Without your team, there would be no printed version of the magazine. jeff allio:

Thank you for being patient with us while we worked out all the kinks for this year’s issue. Your dedication to Sanskrit is much appreciated. student union art gallery:

Thank for for coordinating with us to display this year’s art and literature and for creating an amazing exhibit. janitors of the student union:

Thank you for always keeping the office clean and pristine.

students of unc charlotte, shfc



Thank you for all of your support and interest

in our work. We hope you enjoyed this issue! fa m i ly , f r i e n d s


loved ones:

Thank you for being there to support our hard work and encouraging us to follow our passions. We love you! of our incredible and dedicated staff members and volunteers, thank you! We have all worked very hard to put forth another beautifully-made publication of Sanskrit. We have come a long way from our initial literature read-throughs and our calls for submissions. We should all be proud. Congratulations on an awesome job well done!


to all



When she isn’t chained to her computer working on research projects, she enjoys marathoning Korean dramas and spending money she doesn’t have. After graduation, she hopes to curate a museum or gallery and possibly guest-star on Mysteries at the Museum. m e l i s s a m a r t i n is a sophomore at UNCC pursuing dual degrees in

Psychology and English and dual minors in Linguistics and Cognitive Science. Her talents include eating multiple Cosmic Brownies a day without tiring of them and slipping the word “incredible” into every conversation. She adores her friends, family, and reading.

Associate Editor

t i e r r a h o l m e s is a senior studying Art History and History at UNCC.

Lead Designer

m e l o d y s o n g e r is a senior at UNC Charlotte studying Graphic Design,

Journalism and Art History. When she’s not designing, you can catch her at the movies with goodies in her purse or lost in nature’s beauty with a DSLR in hand. She looks forward to her future in design as an Art Director, creating alongside passionate, empathetic and hardworking peers like herself.


and a minor in Art History. As an inspiring Illustrator, she hopes to one day work in film as a storyboard artist or any job that has to do with illustration. When she’s not working on art projects or doing some other school-related thing, you can catch her reading bizarre mangas, heading to the gym, or watching movies with friends.


a s h l e y j u n g is a sophomore at UNC Charlotte pursuing a BFA in Illustration

is pursuing a BFA in Graphic Design. When she is not working on school work, she enjoys biographical movies and watching baseball (Go Yankees!). She also enjoys the company of her family ad close friends. She is a TV and movie addict. With a variety of shows that suck up her time she is slow to break the addiction and feels that it adds something interesting to her personality. Too bad that can’t be put in her portfolio!


h e at h e r s c h a r d i n g is a senior at UNCC but a junior in her program and

g r e y s o n n a n c e is probably a sophomore pursuing a Bachelor of Art

and plans to concentrate in Graphic Design. He enjoys music, comics, watching movies, sleeping, and a bunch of other stuff he can’t fit in a short bio.


s i e r r a b e e l e r is a junior English major at UNC Charlotte who was declared

a feminist by her peers. A pantomath of T.V. and film, she aspires to create a super awesome, diverse, magic girl cartoon/show/movie/book series reminiscent of Sailor Moon. When not obsessing over Steven Universe or Star vs the Forces


Content Editor


of Evil, Sierra enjoys playing butterfly videogames and daydreaming about nonsense. She also spends A LOT of time panicking over nothing.

Content Editor

and Political Science. When she isn’t reviewing theater for Niner Times, she is working on bringing new programming to Sex Week UNCC and forcing her friends to binge watch television with her. In the future, she would like to be an investigative journalist, a lawyer, or the second female President of the United States (because if there isn’t one before the time she gets there, that’s just sad). a n d r e w wa l k e r - wat s o n is a freshman International Studies Major. He

loves Brazilian rap music, discovering useless facts, and, naturally, writing. If he could ever stop staring out into space, he would like to start a global movement to change the world and guest-host Saturday Night Live.

Content Editor

e l i s s a m i l l e r is a sophomore at UNC Charlotte studying Communications

Content Editor

n a n c y c a r r o l l is a senior at UNCC double majoring in English and

Political Science. When she is off campus you can find her speculating Star Wars fan theories or hanging out with her cats. If she ever graduates, Nancy would like to join a publishing house and see the world.

and Environmental Science. With creativity embodying her every essence she enjoys creating art concepts that will remain in her head forever and being around people who actually put the pen to paper. If you ever want to spark up a conversation, bring up her favorites Chance the Rapper and/or Steven Universe! d a n i e l j o h n s o n is from Laurinburg, NC. He currently a freshman here


at UNCC with majors in Mathematics, Pre-Economics, and Philosophy. He enjoys playing soccer, tennis, sleeping, and listening to music. Music, visual art, and theatre are interests of his, but he really enjoys writing poetry and listening to spoken word. His enjoyment of the arts drew him towards volunteering with Sanskrit and being a part in assembling the great conglomerate of work that caught his eye during his very first week on campus.


j o n e s e p i p k i n is a sophomore here at UNC-Charlotte studying Earth

c h i a m a k a o k o n k w o is a freshman Biology major on the pre-medical

y e s i k a s o r t o a n d i n o is a sophomore at UNC Charlotte studying Political



Science and Public Health. An aspiring United Nations diplomat, she hopes to oneday grant world peace. While she is not contemplating the complexities of life, she is watching the West Wing while eating chocolate.


track at UNC Charlotte. To her, poetry and literature are safe havens in the times when chemistry and biology are just a little unforgiving. Chiamaka enjoys spending her free time reading, exploring, and storing poetry on stray scrap paper and in random Word documents.


IN ART m y r t h e b i e s h e u v e l was born in the

Netherlands, where she completed a year of intense classical drawing at the Wackers Academy in Amsterdam. Recently, she was offered the great opportunity to relocate to Charlotte and study arts at the UNCC. Myrthe has a deep love for painting and gets inspired by animals and mystery. zackery clark is a gamer with a wide variety of

interests. His is an artist who uses computers as his medium and is currently working with his girlfriend and her sister to write what he hopes will become a book or series of books. ryan cook is an illustrator, painter, and all-around

avid visual artist, who primarily does surreal landscapes, reptilian creatures, and atmospheric, otherworldly environments even conceptually. Some of his works also involve depictions of still-life, abstract aesthetics, and humanoid creature designs as well as impressionist techniques. Will Ryan’s artworks are best seen in the realm of 2D in both digital art and traditional handmade artworks, he has also created some pieces that are 3D, from crafts to paper mâchés and from sculpture to ceramic. Ryan Cook plans on becoming a videogame concept artist and illustrator. a l e x z a n d r i a e va n s has had a passion for

art her entire life. She spent the first 18 years of her life confused about where she was headed, but the support of her loved ones led her to pursue her dreams of becoming an artist. She loves working with almost any medium, and is inspired to spread awareness on suicide, because her best friend, Erica, committed suicide in 2012.


rachel russell is an Illustration senior at UNC


Charlotte. She enjoys working with the human form and depicts it in any medium possible. w i l l i a m h ay n e s is a young man, born in Japan

and growing up most of his life in the Bay Area of California. For almost ten years, he has been in a period of focus on the human hand. With his medium usually being ink, recently he has changed direction towards acrylic, a medium unfamiliar to him. a b a h u t c h i s o n is a freelance artist who

appreciates the beauty of diverse faces, enjoys the feeling of drawing them into existence, and then seeing them depicted in the likeness of her own style. OFFICIAL INSTAGRAM: @akh.prints sarah kinney is a recent UNC Charlotte graduate

and artist who spends too much time reading and not enough time sleeping. k at h r y n m c c o m a s is a graphic designer

working in Charlotte. When not working she can be found practicing martial arts, taking photos, and making stuff with clay. ladara mckinnon is a published multimedia

artist focusing in Ceramics and Painting. She grew up in Japan and Hawaii, where her love for art began. LaDara uses abstract, texture, mark-making as tool’s, purpose, and meaning in her practice. Her work is influenced by the rawness of landscapes and human body. In 2017, LaDara studied abroad at Burren School of Art in Ireland and will graduate with a BA in Fine Art. jessica miller is pursuing a B.S. in Biology

and a minor in Biotechnology. She loves everything to do with science, learning, spending time with family and friends, and of course her passion: art. She enjoys different forms of art whether it’s playing

piano, origami, listening to music, watching movies, or drawing. She has been heavily influenced by Caravaggio, Michelangelo, Picasso, DalĂ­, Chopin, and Debussy. danika ng is just another human being, flawed

yet created in perfectness. As a college student at UNC Charlotte, she is still growing and still learning as she takes on the world one step at a time with her friends and family. c a ro l i n a q u i n ta n a o c a m p o is a freshman

at UNCC who wants to double major in both Illustration and Digital Media and possibly minor in Japanese. She loves to involve different worlds and cultures into her cartoon style artwork. In the future it would be a dream come true if she could be a story board artist for an animation company. melissa martin is a Sophomore at UNC Charlotte

pursuing a degree in English. She enjoys having philosophical debates with her friends and examining complex topics including purpose and existence. e l i n a s u k a ryav i c h u t e was born in Russia

(Moscow) and is a PhD student in Geography and in the Urban Regional Analysis program at UNCC. Keen explorer and life lover. Loves big cities, solo traveling, hiking, hot tea, and winter. One of most favorite places in the world is Barcelona. em m ett tho r nburg is a Charlotte high


school student that plans on attending UNCC. He is an aspiring photographer that is passionate about pursuing a career in visual arts. He is also a fan of music and fashion and one day hopes to produce music videos.


alessio zanelli , an Italian poet who writes in

English, a photographer and formerly a painter, has published 4 collections to date. His work has appeared in over 150 literary journals from 13 countries. For more information please visit

IN Literature his undergrad at UNC Charlotte. He aspires to write for film or television in the future and currently writes stories and poems as a hobby because “there’s nothing else to really do here in Charlotte besides drink.”

exhibited extensively and are in the collections of the 9/11 Memorial Museum and the NY Historical Society. A Juilliard-trained musician, she is currently mixing new music as singer/songwriter/keyboardist for alt dance duo Theory of Tides.

rachel l . austin is a college lecturer and

ro bbin far r , writer, poet, and photographer of

andrew adams is an English Major working on

independent researcher who teaches sociology for UNC Charlotte. Rachel has a M.A. in Sociology (UNC Charlotte), a M.A. in Psychology (UND at Grand Forks), and completed undergraduate work at USC Upstate. Rachel’s research concentrations include counterculture, social movements, and deviance. She has received grants and presented research at conferences through the U.S. and abroad and has lived in Western North Carolina since 2004.

blighted buildings, lives in Doylestown, PA where she is actively involved in a community of poets. She holds an MFA from the University of Queens in Charlotte and currently teaches writing at Rider University. She is currently working on a series of poems and photographs depicting the plight of abandoned buildings as social commentary on the impact of deindustrialization on society and culture.

Homeschooled grades kindergarten through twelfth, d esir ee brown enrolled at Central Piedmont Community College at fifteen to study English and American Literature. She published her first poetry collection, “Roses are Read”, at eighteen. Currently, Desiree is working toward her degree in English at UNC Charlotte and plans to pursue a Ph.D. Her works have been featured in Hedge Apple Magazine, Unlikely Stories Mark V, and The Woven Tale Press.

from the University of Houston’s Creative Writing Program, where she studied with Edward Hirsch and Adam Zagajewski and served as poetry editor of Gulf Coast: A Journal of Literature and Fine Arts. She has won multiple Individual Artist Grants in Literature, attended the Tin House and Naropa Summer Writing workshops, and written for and performed in live bands and theater productions, including several original one-woman shows.

j ohn f . bu c kley lives in Ann Arbor, Michigan

ba r ba r a g r e e n bau m has studied with

with his wife. His website is http://johnfbuckley. net/. One of these days, he’s going to be older than he already is. He’s undecided whether he’s aging like milk or like cheese. Maybe he’s becoming tangy butter. m iran a c o m sto ck is an award-winning


copywriter, screenwriter, photographer, and musician. She has also won Best of Fest screenwriting awards from, among others, the Burbank International Film Festival and Worldfest. Her photographs have been


c hr ista f o r ster earned an MFA in poetry

Michael White, Suzanne Strempek Shea, Brad Barkley, and Jack Driscoll. In 2011, Barbara was awarded a Teaching Arts Fellowship from Surdna, now known as the National Artist Teacher Fellowship (NATF), to develop a memoir. In addition, her work won second place in the 2006 Fiction CT Authors and Publishers Association (CAPA) contest. Barbara has a B.A. in English from the University of Hartford, an M.A. in secondary education from St. Joseph College, and

an M.F.A. from the University of Southern Maine Stonecoast. She is presently retired from her career as a creative writing teacher at a public magnet arts high school in Willimantic, CT. In addition to teaching, she is also involved in land conservation. She writes using the pen name B.P. Greenbaum.

Hayden-Harnett. He lives in Beacon, NY with his wife Toni and their pets. He can be found most days on @benharnett. He works for The New York Times.

j ud ith g r iss m er worked as a Marriage and

training as a registered nurse in London. She is currently living in the Midwest. She has traveled extensively working with a peace organization. Her travels have taken her to Europe, Asia, Israel, and South America. Recently, she has trained as a black belt in martial arts. She has long held an interest in the history of art, and she enjoys going to jazz concerts. She runs youth summer and winter camps.

Family Therapist and Professional Counselor for 25 years, receiving an M.S. from Purdue University and a post-master’s certificate in marriage and family therapy from Virginia Tech. She lives with her husband in Charlottesville, Virginia. She enjoys gardening, meditating, living near her daughters and their families, and beach walks on the Outer Banks of North Carolina where she manages their vacation rental home. caro l ham ilto n taught in Connecticut, Indiana

and Oklahoma, the last twelve years in an elementary school for gifted children. She taught in the graduate writing program at the University of Central Oklahoma. She was a volunteer pediatric translator for 21 years. As a writer, she won a Southwest Book Award, Oklahoma Book Award, Cherubim Award, Chiron Review Chapbook Award, David Ray Poetry Prize, Byline Literary Awards for short story and poetry, and the Warren Keith Poetry Prize. She is a former Poet Laureate of Oklahoma. b e n j a m i n h a r n e t t is a historian, fiction writer,


poet, and digital engineer. His works have appeared recently in Pithead Chapel, Brooklyn Quarterly, Moon City Review, and Tahoma Literary Review. His story “Delivery” was chosen as Longform’s “Story of the Week.” He holds an MA in Classics from Columbia University and in 2005 co-founded the fashion brand


ro j an e j esp er was born in Italy and spent most

of her childhood years in Scotland. She completed

A graduate of Vassar College, sharon kennedy nolle holds an MFA and doctoral degree from the University of Iowa. In addition to attending the Sarah Lawrence Summer Writing Institute for several years, Sharon was accepted to the Bread Loaf Conferences in both Middlebury and Sicily in 2016. This year marks the third that she has been honored to be a scholarship participant at the Frost Place Summer Writing Program. eva lyn lee is a former CBS News producer. She

has produced television segments for 60 Minutes in New York and the BBC in London. She has studied English literature both in the U.S. and in England and had the opportunity to interview writers, including Joseph Brodsky, Seamus Heaney, and Margaret Atwood, about their work. Most recently she has worked with American novelist Joyce Maynard and the English novelist Louise Doughty.

kate m c co r kle ’s stories and essays have

j o n a h s m i t h - b a r t l e t t is an ordained

appeared in several publications, including Adelaide Magazine, Barely South Review, r.kv.r.y Quarterly, Marathon Literary Review, and Penmen Review. A Pushcart nominee, she writes with the Greater Philadelphia Workshop Studio. Kate is currently

American Baptist minister and received his master of arts and theology at Union Presbyterian Seminary. He received his master of divinity from Yale Divinity School. He loves to write about small-city America and examines how deceptively simple moments

working on a book-length thing about her time as a 9/11 infantry wife. A mother of four young children, she swims to keep insanity at bay.

in the nation’s history can shatter lives, embolden relationships, and transform the face of a community forever. In his spare time, he sings in an Irish band.

A native of the Bronx, n eil m u llin drove a taxi and spent years as a sheet metal worker before he became an attorney specializing in civil rights and employment law. He has studied one-on-one with Alice Eliot Dark and Kate Pullinger. He currently has his own firm, Smith Mullin, P.C., and has successfully argued cases in front of the United States Supreme Court and the New Jersey Supreme Court. Neil writes write under the name N. Marc Mullin.

m arc tr etin was the second runner-up for the

dav id r eu ter is a Lincoln Park, New Jersey

based writer who has been a member of the Montville Writer’s Groups since its inception in 2007. He is an experienced fiction writer who was the runner up in the Garden State Horror Writers Short Story contest in 2012 for his short story, “The Facsimile.” He also dabbles in poetry and theatre writing. He continues to work on becoming a published author. clair e sc ott is an award winning poet who


has been nominated twice for the Pushcart Prize. Her work has been accepted by the Atlanta Review, Bellevue Literary Review, Enizagam and Healing Muse among others. Claire is the author of Waiting to be Called and the co-author of Unfolding in Light: A Sisters’ Journey in Photography and Poetry.


Solstice literary magazine poetry prize in 2013. He is the 2015 winner of the Audrey Wasson and Carol Leseure Scholarship in Poetry. His poetry collection, Pink Mattress, has been published by New York Quarterly Press in 2016. Conferences he has attended include 92nd Street Y, Colrain, and the West Chester Poetry Conference. He has studied with David Yezzi, Molly Peacock, Rachel Zucker, William Packard, and Emily Fragos. He was an attorney in private practice and is now retired. c am ero n tate is a graduate from the University

of North Carolina at Charlotte. He is an aspiring writer of poetry and short stories. His writing includes themes of mental illness and social commentary. He currently resides in Charlotte, North Carolina. alessio zanelli see Contributors in Art for bio

art Jury m icah c ash is a visual artist and educator with over ten years of experience working in non-profit visual

arts organizations. His work investigates how land use, landscapes, and their social histories influence cultural geography. Micah holds an MFA from the University of Connecticut and a Bachelor's Degree in Painting and Art History from the University of South Carolina. His first monograph, Dangerous Waters: A Photo Essay on the Tennessee Valley Authority, was published by University of Tennessee Press in 2017. He currently teaches courses in drawing, 2-D design, and photography at Wingate University and serves as the Director of Community Engagement at The Light Factory in Charlotte, North Carolina. A lifelong artist, an n e n eilso n began painting in 2003 and quickly became nationally renowned for her ethereal Angel series. A favorite among individuals and private art collectors, Neilson’s paintings are inspiring reflections of her faith and recognized for their innate color and flare. In 2012, Neilson self-published Angels in Our Midst which has sold over 30,000 copies. Following its success, and the demand for more access to her acclaimed Angels, Neilson released a follow up book, Strokes of Compassion, and launched Anne Neilson Home, a growing collection of luxury home products which includes candles, notecards, scripture cards, prints, and journals. Most recently, Neilson released Angels: The Collector’s Edition, her largest coffee table book to-date, showcasing the most-loved content from Angels in Our Midst as well as brand new stories of faith from renowned musical artists like Steven Curtis Chapman and Amy Grant. A Portion of the new proceeds from the sale of The Collector’s Edition benefit organizations championing those fighting homelessness and poverty. A wife, a mother of four, and an artist, Neilson paints with both passion and purpose, giving back to those less fortunate through the sales of her products and original paintings. In su san g ro ssm an 's work, images and landscapes in motion initially suggest photography; however, her luminous, shimmering drawings are rendered in charcoal and pastel. Her drawings of urban and rural scenes juxtapose the human with the natural. The images, autobiographical in the sense that they are culled from the artist’s own travels and experiences, are deliberately unspecific and allow for the viewer’s own interpretation.

literature Jury c h r i sto p h e r dav i s is a professor of creative writing (poetry) at UNC Charlotte. He holds an MFA from the

Iowa Writer's Workshop. He is the author of three collections of poetry: The Tyrant of the Past and the Slave of the Future, The Patriot, and A History of the Only War. s h e l by st e p h e n s o n is Poet Laureate of North Carolina. Recent books: Elegies for Small Game (Press 53),

winner of Roanoke-Chowan Award; Fiddledeedee (reissue, Press 53); Family Matters: Homage to July, the Slave Girl (Bellday Books), the Bellday Prize. Recipient of the Distinguished Alumnus Achievement Award, Department of English Department, University of Wisconsin-Madison, he is Professor Emeritus, University of North CarolinaPembroke, serving as editor of Pembroke Magazine from 1979 until 2010. lara v etter is Associate Professor of English at the University of North Carolina at Charlotte, where she


teaches modernism, poetry, and American literature. She is the author of A Curious Peril: H.D.’s Late Modernist Prose and Modernist Writings and Religio-scientific Discourse: H.D., Loy, and Toomer; editor of H.D.’s By Avon River; and co-editor of Approaches to Teaching H.D.’s Poetry and Prose and Emily Dickinson’s Correspondences. Her articles on H.D. and Mina Loy have appeared in the Journal of Modern Literature, Review of English Studies, and Genre.


c o p y r i g h t 2017:

Sanskrit Literary-Arts Magazine and the Student Media Board of the University of North Carolina at Charlotte. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form electronic, mechanic, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the permission of the copy holder. pi marketing, charlotte, nc:

3,000 copies for Sanskrit Literary-Arts Magazine were printed on 80# White Text with 100# Accent Opaque Cover. This magazine contains 100 pages, with a trim size of 8.5 x 11 inches. typography:

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