Voices lit mag 2020 Uncharted

• Voices Literary Magazine Vol. 13 Nation Ford High School

/ 2020

•

Cover art “Here Be Monsters,” colored pencil by Janani Salai

“Millenium Carp” colored pencil by Emma Friberg

Uncharted

Voices Literary Magazine Volume 13 / 2020

A publication of Nation Ford High School 1400 A.O. Jones Boulevard Fort Mill, SC 29715 Phone 803-835-0000 nationfordvoices20@gmail.com Best in State 2019, South Carolina Scholastic Press Association Scroggins Award for Best in Show 2019 Southern Interscholastic Press Association

“At Sea� cover photo by Michael Marciniak

Uncharted

Editorial Policy

of

Voices Literary Magazine

V

oices, the literary magazine of Nation Ford High School, is produced by the Creative Writing classes.

All students enrolled at the school may submit as many works as they choose. Those pieces are then anonymously selected by the magazine editors. The editors select art and photography on the basis of quality and suitability for the magazine.

The staff reserves the right to edit manuscripts for clarity, grammar spelling and punctuation. The ideas expressed by the writers and the artists are not necessarily those of Nation Ford High School or the Voices staff.

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policy

Contents sailor’s story

Writing

fiction

traveler’s tale

nonfiction

siren’s song

poetry

Editors’ Note / 7 Prologue: Uncharted / Claire Mattes 9 Lantern in the Dark / Khonnie Kounbandith 11 Everything in Moderation / Annamarie Yates 11 Dear Flannery / Claude Hejl 13 Signs / Elizabeth Hartman 15 Finding the Words / Alexandra Cardona 17 Your Love & My World in a Coffee Cup / Anna Leach 21 Memories of a Cold Winter Morning / Megan Andrews 23 Buttercups / Josh Cacciatore 25 Dear Loneliness / Maggie Roskinski 27 Two Worlds / Sarah Wakefield 29 Kraken / Taylor Cobb 30 As the Earth Pulls on the Moon / Claude Hejl 33 Catch of the Day / Taylor Cobb 35 Drowning / Ava Pidhayny 37 Seeing the Shadows / Anna Leach 39 Asylum / Miku Pitman 41 Buy Me Some Peanuts / Alexandra Cardona 43 Of the Performer from Those Who Watch / Elizabeth Hartman 47 Of Those Who Watch from the Performer / Elizabeth Hartman 47 Stop & Listen / Maggie Rosinski 49 Interview with Anthony S. Abbott / Josh Cacciatore 50 Interview with Ted Kooser / Annamarie Yates 52 Ad Astra: Review / Connor Brandenburg 54 Persona / Elizabeth Hartman 56 I Am Not Four Anymore / Annamarie Yates 58 Explorer of an Overweight Planet / Alexandra Cardona 60 Map of the Soul / Elizabeth Hartman 60 Stink Bugs / Annamarie Yates 62 The Aquarium / Zion Payne 62 Prarie / Taylor Nixon 65 Epilogue: Promises / Claire Mattes 67

contents

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Contents

Art & Photography Cover Art: Here Be Monsters / Janani Salai Millenium Carp / Emma Friberg 1 At Sea / Michael Marciniak 2 Shark! / Madelyn Collins 4 Humpback Blues / Lizzie Gale 5 Anchor’s Aweigh / Michael Marciniak 6 A Day at Cape Hatteras / Yasmin Awan 8 Departure / Laura Lee 10 Prophetic Dream / Lake Rucker 12 I Spy / Malique Sherrell 14 City View / Josh Cacciatore 16 Creek Find / Anna Leach 19 Bridge to My Heart / Anna Leach 20 Winter Suburbia / Abigail Heeney 22 Monticello Spring / Abigail Heeney 24 Creek Find / Anna Leach 27 The Raven / Madelyn Collins 28 Wash Away / Michael Marciniak 31 Sunset Slips / Michael Marciniak 32 Sailor’s Sundown / Michael Marciniak 35 Crab Grab / Michael Marciniak 37 Sky in a Crystal Ball / Michael Marciniak 38 Back Alley in a Beach Town after Rain / Michael Marciniak 40 Forest Fade /Julian Radovanovic 42 The Performer / Elizabeth Hartman 46 Birdsong / Emma Friberg 48 Abandoned Mansion / Kaleigh Rogers 51 Blue Arches / Abigail Heeney 53 Apollo 11 / Melody Leach 55 The World Revolves Around Rock n’ Roll / Grace Janzen 57 Purple Persona / Taryn Samons 59 Around We Go / Yasmin Awan 61 Taxidermy Trio / Jenna Fereno 63 Sea Grass Gold/Michael Marciniak 64 Epilogue: Journey into Tomorrow / Lizzie Gale 67 Colophon: In the Slip / Abigail Heeney 68

“Shark!” pen & marker sketch by Madelyn Collins 4

contents

Uncharted / Voices

“Humpback Blues,” watercolor by Lizzie Gale

Voices Staff Editors

Alexandra Cardona Khonnie Kounbandith Anna Leach

Art Director Taylor Cobb

Staff Megan Andrews Miku Pitman Sarah Wakefield Ava Pidhayny

Faculty Adviser Beth Swann, MFA staff

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Uncharted / Voices

“Anchor’s Aweigh,” photo by Michael Marciniak

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“A life’s work is ... like an ocean crossing where there is no path, only a heading, a direction...” ― David Whyte, author of “The Unknown Sea”

Captain’s Log

U

nder ravenous storms and brutal heat, rolled up parchment encased in glass rides the waves into uncharted territory. Curious critters swirl around the bottle, wondering about the secrets inside.

The glass crashes onto shore with wild waves where a hand plucks it from the sand, and a new journey begins.

Like messages in a bottle, these stories and poems hope to find their way into the hands and heart of each reader. We invite you to untie each sailor’s story, every traveler’s tale and siren’s song – take a voyage with us around the world and beyond into imagination.

This magazine offers both familiar and previously unknown journeys, carrying us to uncharted harbors, exploring experiences and imaginings that make us who we are. In this moment in history, a pandemic has changed our lives, and whether finding our way by land or by sea, we find ourselves off the map.

In “Uncharted,” the Voices magazine staff presents the surreal and real, untraveled and traveled, the traditional and non-traditional.

We journey into the future and back to the past as we explore our own lives to make sense of our experiences. We examine promises and fears – as well as offer an escape to fantasy worlds. Come with us to investigate coming of age and identity as our writers find the words to express themselves. As you travel through the pages, consider your own expedition through this life.

And remember, – the most important journeys are the uncharted.

Sincerely, The Editors Alexandra Cardona

Khonnie Kounbandith Anna Leach

editors’ note

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Uncharted / Voices

“A Day at Cape Hatteras,� photo by Yasmin Awan

Uncharted Claire Mattes

The lighthouse in the distance illuminates my page. Ink stains the knuckle of my left pinky, dragging the scribbled words across the page until they are nothing but smudges of unsaid thoughts.

Sand grinds between my toes, the remnants of a seashell stab my upper thigh. Dreads of sunbaked hair rest heavily against my back as the wind brushes strands to tangle in my eyelashes, caked with salt.

I raise my eyes to meet the horizon, but it has nothing left to say. I am alone in this journey, with nothing but my intuition for a compass.

prologue

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“Departure,” oil on canvas by Laura Le

Lantern Dark in the

Khonnie Kounbandith

W

hen the smog began to thicken around our once-lively town, I was the first to splash in sea salt.

Factories congested with ego neglect to notice my disappearance, much less my bloated bags scraping the sidewalk.

Brass lanterns light the dock, illuminating my departure while refusing to allow any lingering.

The last lantern, rusted by saline teeth, flickers from factory soot.

I imagine it’s you, friend, the flame blink, blinking in morse –

in

Annamarie Yates

Leave Don’t leave Leave

Everything Moderation

Don’t leave...

Scent of rain swirls with smog around the lantern and me. I unhook and place the lantern on the bow, candlelight casting a safety net ahead.

My craft sways in musical motion with the hum of the waves. Eelgrass

Her dreams have sailed away, captained by calls of dish rags and floor wax.

Makes her yell at the life she half-wished to have.

peeks from beneath the rotting dock.

With a push, our voyage onto the Neptunian blanket begins, crawling with crustaceans and mighty unknown monstrosities, our only entertainment the twinkling chatter of the stars, masking the foghorn’s moan.

sailor’s song

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Uncharted / Voices

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“Prophetic Dream,” painting by Lake Rucker

D

Dear Flannery Claude Hejl

ear Flannery, Do you still remember the medical exam rooms? Their metal tables burn like liquid nitrogen, as sterile and hard as marble. The examiner’s hands are cold, too. But needles – they burn in a different kind of way, like lighter fluid or gasoline, replacing your blood with saline until you’re bruised and bloated.

Somehow I picture your 1950s exam rooms more like an interrogation scene in a noir film – the kind where detectives shine a massive halogen bulb in your face and scream until you confess.

Or until your body confesses, I guess, and spills all the secrets of what’s plaguing you. Mine is pretty good at playing dumb. I promise I’m innocent, officer! It was the masked man!

But still, I wonder, did you feel this way, too?

Suffering in your home, born too soon for the slightest release? This will kill you, they said, and slowly. Was your diagnosis easy, with your father suffering the same? Or just scary when you knew what awaited you?

Doctors keep telling me they don’t know what’s wrong. They’re playing musical chairs with my file, waiting for some unlucky fellow to get stuck with me. A modern medical mystery with no end in sight.

How did you keep working, despite it all? I know you had too much to say, but still – I can’t do both.

I miss it, terribly, but sitting at my computer is the

equivalent of being locked in an Iron Maiden. And though I sit here writing, I’m filled with words until I choke on them, but I choke on bile as well. It’s just the pleurisy; you knew a thing or two about that. Yet on your deathbed, you were as prolific as ever. Maybe it’s just time and experience, but I keep catastrophizing until I’m ill with it.

How did the pen still form words when your hands shook? My hands tremble so much I keep missing keys. The idea of a typewriter is a nightmare fueled by correction tape.

Robert Giroux would have eaten me alive.

And the nausea, too!

Sleeping helps until I feel guilty about how much I don’t do, and I mainline caffeine and carbs instead. The cats miss me; I’m an absent parent. How did you keep the peafowl alive when you could barely walk?

I can’t keep asking my parents to do everything; they have their own problems. I hate being a burden, but I detest this lonely existence more. I am finally starting to understand Jonah – life in the belly of a whale.

Write soon, will you? Send some prophetic dreams from beyond the grave. Leave a rotting avian corpse on my front stoop; I’ll read its entrails. I’m getting desperate, you know?

Give me a sign. I’m waiting.

My hands tremble so much I keep missing keys.

traveler’s tale

Yours in eternity,

Claude

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“ I Spy,” collage by Malique Sherrell

Signs

Elizabeth Hartman Soaring down antique highways, along the asphalt you see signs, neon green mile markers, exit signs hanging on overpasses, billboards for fast food, for orange stands and tourist traps, UFO WELCOME CENTER, WORLDS BIGGEST THIMBLE, EXOTIC ANIMAL ZOO, the signs for tempting exits, the signs for what you’ll find there, the signs for beaches, parks, overlooks on mountain ranges, docks looming over the ocean, and the signs you don’t see – the signs warning that maybe you should turn around, that you aren’t going where you think you are, the whispering signs of gray skies, the hiss of tires going flat, the signs you won’t find on a map.

siren’s song

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Uncharted / Voices

“City View,” photo by Josh Cacciatore

Finding Words the

H

Alexandra Cardona

er knee pushed the bottom of my spine, and her hand pulled my shoulder backward.

“Look at your spine. Where is that brace I got you from Colombia? It took Marcela months to get it. No man will want a woman with a hunch on her back. ” My mother mumbled a curse word under her breath as if it would not be offensive because it was in Spanish. Her grip on my shoulder hinted at her arthritis – swollen and sharp edges of her cold fingers trailed the curve of my back.

I tried to straighten up, but my muscles stiffened, and I slumped back into my usual posture.

“It hurts,” I said.

“I know it hurts,” she said with irritation.

Because she is always right, she had never tasted the sour flavor of losing.

I crossed my legs to hold my bladder, puffed my chest so my breasts would look bigger and gazed at the mirror down the hall. I opened my book – “It” by Stephen King.

I feared my mother would burn my face with the flat iron while straightening my hair. Steam rose from my hair. Acid in my stomach stirred.

I flinched when the iron came too close. “Ma, don’t burn me. You’ve done it before, remember?

I’m already nervous as it is.”

“Why are you nervous?” asked my Latina mother with a tone that may as well have asked, Are you stupid?

“It’s junior year, Ma. I have hard classes and ten-

nis and SAT. Then college applications and writing submissions,” I said. It sounded like nothing, a voice of anxiety from a teenager. Everything piled onto each other like bricks on my chest.

“Why can’t you be an engineer or a doctor? I remember when you wanted to be a doctor,”she said.

I closed my book. “Ma--” “I told your Papa that I would no longer have this conversation with you. You do what you want. It’s your life. What do you want to do again?” she asked as if she never heard the answer in her life, but she knew. She believed deep down that if she asked enough times maybe the answer would change.

I fought my rising anger, knowing that my response would escalate the argument.

I cleared my throat. “I want to be a writer.”

I glanced at my reflection and saw myself fading in front of her.

“And what will you do with that? Hmm?” Her eyeballs bulged and her jaw stuck out.

“I am going to write books.”

My mother leaned back.

“But...I have a backup plan,” I said. “I will work at a publishing company and write as a side job until I make it. I have a plan. A good plan.”

Brushing the cover of Stephen King’s book, I imagined my own novel in my hands. I felt the pages, the story, the words, the characters in my palms. Both fear and power sent chills down my arms.

“She believed deep down that if she asked enough maybe the answer would change.”

traveler’s tale

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“Creek Find,” photo by Anna Leach

I wanted to scream, to tell her that she didn’t understand – but that was disrespectful. I knew what she would do if I said what was on my mind.

Her jaw would lock, her pride would put down the iron, and she would walk away in silence. But I knew what I wanted. I still do. I want to write.

“Really?” she asked.

“Yes, really.” I straightened. I told her before – writing is the only thing I love, and I remembered her using the word stupid.

“Do you think I came to this country so my daughter could be a writer? An artist gets no money. It is a hobby, a silly hobby on the side, nothing more. Do you want to be on the streets? You just wait,” she warned. “You don’t know what real life is like. You have never experienced how cruel the world can be and how hard it is. The world is not about doing what you want – it is about the sacrifices you make to get food on the table.”

She continued to straighten my hair. My eyes burned with tears that blurred my vision.

“You do not know what the world is like,” my father said from his bedroom. He lay on the bed, watching the TV screen flickering with images and humming with energy.

I saw the through the slit in the cracked door.

Heavy eyelids from a full day’s work.

My dog Lulu rested her head on his leg ,watching the scene unfold.

“See? Listen to your Papa,” Mama said. “When my friends talk about their children and what they want to do, I say nothing. Claudia’s daughter wants to be an orthodontist. Did you know that? That’s what she told me.” Mama paused, remembering where she was. “Do you know what I tell them?

That you do not know yet, because you do not.

You can change your mind. I pray to God that you change your mind soon and choose something smart.”

“And I will pray that God gives me strength to

help me become a writer, Mama,” I said.

Finally, the tears had fallen onto my burning cheeks.

I threw my hands to my face, wiping tears off quickly. I will not cry, I thought. I will not.

“Are you crying?” my mother asked, stopping the iron from touching my hair. My eyes met hers and her lips curled.

“Is she crying again?” my father asked, chuckling because I could not contain my emotions.

I watched her reflection as she slowly rolled her eyes.

“Maybe I am ignorant. Maybe I do not know what you want.” My mother scowled.

“I am not crying,” I said.

My father laughed louder. I inhaled. “Ma, listen,” I said, “I know it’s a risky job.

I wish I was like everyone else who wants a stable job because that’s easy.

But if I did, I would be in an office all my life and jump out the window because I’d hate it. I want to write. I will fight for my chance to get my writing published, and I will not give up. I will become a writer.”

Tears fell onto my book, soaking into the pages.

“You have to fight for it?” she asked, pulling my hair from behind my ears and unknotting it with her fingers.

“No, Mama...You’re not – you’re not listening.”

“You are smart.”

I stood up from the chair, my hair warming the back of my neck. The book in my left hand seemed to weigh more than before. I wiped the remaining tears off with my right and glared at the reflection before me.

I forced myself to stop crying, forced my burning cheeks to cool and my vision to sharpen. For my mind to focus. I stood and walked into my room.

Through the vents, the effortless tapping of the keyboard – the song of my fingers, the beat of my heart.

“The book in my left hand seemed to weigh more than before, I wiped the remaining tears off with my right and glared at the reflection before me.”

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traveler’s tale

Uncharted / Voices

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Uncharted / Voices

“Bridge to My Heart,” photo by Anna Leach 20

Your Love & My World Cup Coffee in a

of

Anna Leach Scalding my tongue, the dark liquid reflects what was once -bright light from the sun that kept me warm but now rushes away and grows dark.

By nightfall, the bitter taste will imprint itself, cold in my mouth. The once-sweetness will fade like the faint glow of the moon, sinking behind the trees.

siren’s song

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Uncharted / Voices

“Winter Suburbia,” painting by Abigail Heeney

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As Daddy spoke, I closed my eyes and took in the smell of freshly brewed coffee and rubbed my cheek on the soft yarn of his creamy sweater.

O

Memories of a Cold Morning Megan Andrews

nce I was small enough to curl up onto my father’s lap where I would fall asleep listening to the steady rhythm of his heart and forget about everything going on around me. I used to wake up early when he would wake up and creep downstairs to cuddle into whatever oversized sweater he would be wearing that day.

I looked forward to those mornings, and I remember them well.

It was 6’oclock when I awoke to my dad’s footsteps as he descended the stairs. I shivered as I peeled off the layers of blankets to meet the chilly morning air. Creeping past my bed, I caught a glimpse of my disheveled hair in the mirror.

Absentmindedly, I attempted to comb out some of the larger rat’s nests with my fingers as I continued past my door frame, padding softly so to avoid waking up the rest of the household.

Wearing a large cream sweater, my father was relaxing on his favorite recliner, its aged green leather illuminated by the inviting glow of a lamp that occupied a space next to the fireplace. He was reading, as usual. He looked up and smiled as I stepped into the living room. I gave him a sleepy, toothless grin.

“Do you want to read with me?” he asked. I nodded and climbed onto his lap to the sound of rustling as he shifted so that I was perfectly cradled between him and the book.

He started to read then, and his soft melodic

words made his story come to life. I didn’t know it at the time, but he wasn’t actually reading to me.

Many of the books he read were about finance and economics, something that a seven-year-old would hardly understand. Instead, he created his own stories, designed to please a little girl whose head was full of the ideas of exploration and adventure.

This particular morning, he wove together the adventures of Puff-Ball Fuzzy Mittens, a tiny daredevil kitten that somehow got his paws on his very own pilot’s license.

As Daddy spoke, I closed my eyes and took in the smell of freshly brewed coffee and rubbed my cheek on the soft yarn of his creamy sweater. I tried to burrow as deep as possible into that coffee-scented sweater. I got lost in the smells and the cotton. I got lost in the words of my father’s story. So much, in fact, that I had begun to drift off. I dreamt of a flying white cat sailing above the clouds.

I miss being able to curl up on my father’s lap.

I miss being tucked away in the warm folds of his sweater, the aroma of coffee and fantasies floating around me. My father’s stories always made me happy, and those frosty mornings spent with him are why I love winter so much. His stories have grown in me a passion for fiction and fantasy.

The memories that I made with my dad are some of the best memories I hold, and those moments will never, ever go away.

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I shivered as I peeled off the

layers of blankets to meet the chilly morning air.

traveler’s tale

“Monticello Spring,” oil painting by Abigail Heeney 24

Uncharted / Voices

T

Buttercups Josh Cacciatore

he summer sun beats down on me through the sunroof of my dad’s Honda Pilot, slowly melting me like a chocolate bar stuck in a glovebox. While my parents sat in the front of the car bickering, I stared out the window at the patches of buttercups blooming from the cracks in the cement sidewalk and the crowds of cirrus clouds skimming the tops of the pines. How could my parents even think about arguing on a day like this?

“I don’t understand why we have to go see him,” my dad said, both eyebrows angled towards the tip of his nose.

“It’s good for the kids to see him while they still can. Also, you know he’d love to see us,” my mom whispered, in an attempt to stop me from hearing their conversation.

“I know...but it’s not like he’s going to remember us visiting anyways.”

“Nevertheless, it would make him so happy.”

“I guess so, but let’s not stay for too long.”

“Fine. I’d think you would want to visit your own father.”

The bickering ceased as we entered the unguarded gates of the hospice center. Through the fogged window of the car, I could see wrinkled old men and women rocking back and forth in the chairs at the entrance of the brick building. They wore frowns buried in flaps of old skin and pale eyes, the glow of long-abandoned youth dimmed – the exact opposite of my grandpa. He might have been the same age as those wrinkled rockers at the front of the hospice center, but he would never spend an entire day sitting in a rocking chair. When we visited him, he might be returning from one of his infamous dog walks around the neighborhood or standing in the kitchen beside my grandma while watching TV and eating candy by the handful. Then again, I hadn’t seen him since his dog had died, so I wasn’t sure what to expect.

Once my dad parked the car, we climbed out and stepped onto the asphalt, tinted light gray in the sun. I took in a deep breath of the summer breeze, hoping to smell the sweet scent of the sunny buttercups, but instead a powdery puff of smoke from the exhaust of a passing junker mingled with the faint aroma of decay from beyond the automatic doors of the hospice center.

“Come on gang. Let’s go inside,” my dad said with that cartoony fake excitement adults add to their voices to sound happier than

traveler’s tale

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“Creek Find,” photo by Anna Leach

they really are. We strolled by the old women in rocking chairs and through sliding glass doors toward the middleaged gatekeeper sitting at the front desk.

“Put your names and who y’all are visiting on the sheet,” she said without looking up from her book of sudoku. We scribbled down our names on the paper next to room number B112, Daniel Cacciatore’s room. Without even glancing at the sheet, she buzzed us in and the doors slowly opened, revealing a long windowless, white hallway littered with CPAP machines and empty IV bags. We walked farther down the hallway until we reached his room.

grandson,” my grandma said slowly, breaking the sentence down into digestible chunks like a momma bird feeding her young. He pushed the bridge of his glasses to the bridge of his nose in an attempt to see me better and continued.

“Oh...well how’s school, Josh?”

“It’s all right. Teachers give a lot more homework than last year.”

“What grade are you in now anyways?”

“I’m in 11th grade.”

“Wow, a junior...”

“Yeah, starting to look at colleges now ’cause I gotta start applying next year.”

“You can’t do that,” he chuckled.

His laughter dissipated as he stared into the white tiling in his room.

“You...can’t...do...that.”

The sky darkened, and rain began pelting the window. He threw his head into his hands, pushing his glasses off of his face and onto his wrinkled forehead.

He repeated that same phrase over and over again until he began to sob. Patches of white hair poked through his fingers, dampened by his tears.

“It’s okay, Grandpa...it was just a mistake,” I stammered.

“No...no...no, I should remember! Why can’t I remember?”

As he sobbed into his palms, I averted my gaze to the window, so as not to see the downfall of a happy man.

Outside the window, I saw buttercups slumped over in the cracks of the cement sidewalk, yellow petals now drowned in raindrops and sunken into the cement.

The sky darkened, and rain began pelting the window.

W

hen we walked in, my grandma was already there, helping my grandpa into his seat while he stared up at the television, where a WWII special was being broadcast on the History Channel. The neck of his Hanes sweatshirt, drenched from sweat, hung so low that his gray chest hair stuck out. His silver-rimmed spectacles dangled on the bridge of his nose, pointing toward the pair of sunglasses hanging off his neck.

Despite the disarray, a grin stretched across his wrinkled face, revealing two lone teeth dangling from his gums. He looked at me with his head cocked slightly to the left, as if trying to place my face.

“How’s it going, Tim?” “That’s not Tim – that’s Josh...your

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traveler’s tale

Uncharted / Voices

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Uncharted / Voices

“The Raven,” sketch by Madelyn Collins

Dear Loneliness Maggie Rosinski

At the empty cafeteria table you sit next to me and later in the broken desk in history class like the ghost of Poe dead in his gutter.

In silence you drag me through the halls, your darkness clouding my vision.

You chase away smiles and dampen laughter, invade my dreams and wake me in the morning.

A parasite, you feed on happiness silencing each whisper of hope.

Even now, you chain me to this chair, leaving me to wonder what could have been if only you’d left me, long ago at the bus stop, waving as you drive away in the summer rain.

siren’s song

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Uncharted / Voices

Two Worlds Sarah Wakefield

I stand at the boundary that separates two worlds The salty smell of the ocean tickles my nose One step forward The concrete transforms into beach The warm sand squeezes between my toes as I walk Water stretches as far as the eye can see And the seagulls, like seconds compared to centuries, Cannot compete with the vast ocean before my eyes Ten steps forward The cold water swallows my foot The coolness it offers refreshes me Twenty steps forward The water covers me from my chest to my toes I float on my back Waves moving me like a plastic bottle Which also doesn’t belong here

Kraken Taylor Cobb

Why do I torture myself with what I can’t have My only constant complaints I drag around a riptide sweeping dreams to the depths Interest is a word my brain discards the moment my task is interrupted by thoughts of you I am incapable of casting my gaze away 30

siren’s song

“Wash Away,” photo by Michael Marciniak 31

Uncharted / Voices

“Sunset Slips,� photo by Michael Marciniak

He sang his own songs, the polar opposite of her own, 32

the wild and rhythmic kind that belonged in a pub.

As the

A

Earth Pulls

on the

Claude Hejl

s the earth pulls on the moon, the moon pulls on the earth in turn, pushing great waves up and into the rocky coast. Salt hangs in the air, making the skin tacky. It leaves eyelashes damp

and heavy.

A girl stands on the rocky outcropping, slick beneath her feet. She breathes in the cold air and keeps it in her lungs. Sand tears at the delicate tissue.

The moon pulls on her, too. It tugs her molecules up and into the dark universe. Its song echoes in her ears, the melody a response to the waves, the same hum and rush. The moon yearns. It needs.

She tries to answer the call. Tilts her head back, breathes in more salt. She is so close to the home to which she can never return.

She wants – needs – her coat back so she can slip into the water’s icy grasp. She misses the sea like a limb. She’d cut her legs off in a heartbeat if it meant returning to its thrall. But if she walks into the sea, she’ll drown. Odd that what was once once her whole world would become her executioner.

She remembers that first morning, when he lured her aboard his boat with honeyed words.

One of his lines had caught in her fin. He had coaxed the hook out her flesh, and that night, coaxed her out of her pelt. He was so different than the humans she’d been warned about. His cottage, too, was unexpected - no massive knives waited to cut her up.

She hadn’t trusted him, not really. She hid her pelt while he tended the fire and stole away into the dark while he slept. Her mother had cautioned

Moon

her countless times. She wasn’t stupid.

And yet... she’d kept coming back. Her sisters warned her, said no human could love selflessly.

Humans had tamed their woodland cousins; what could stop them from claiming the selkie, too?

But she didn’t listen.

She would chant her hunting calls, bring up massive fish from the deep to deposit in his nets and lounge under the sun in his boat. He was funny with his strange voice. His red skin was so different from her own translucent hide hidden under her fur.

And every night, she’d let him bring her back to his timber cottage. Every dawn she fled before he would stir.

She’d been clever – too smart to be claimed by a human. He could love her, hold her and dote on her, but he could not keep her.

Even if she wanted to stay.

And then, one night, he’d fed her scallops and sweet wine. It was late – later than he usually stayed awake, as he had to get up early to check the nets. But the cottage was still so warm. He sang his own songs, the polar opposite of her own, the wild and rhythmic kind that belonged in a pub. And then she slept.

But... he did not.

It was only once, just one night, but he found her pelt buried out in the garden.

When she woke, he was standing next to the bed. He held the pelt like it was a dirty blanket.

Her heart seized; oxygen froze in her lungs.

“What -” “I know what it means when someone holds your skin. My grandmother told me stories.”

She could hardly move; it was impossible to

And every night, she’d let him bring her back to his timber cottage.

sailor’s story

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tear her eyes away from her coat. “Please–” “You can’t leave me, can’t disobey me, can’t steal it back,” he’d said. There had been a new edge to his voice, something half-crazed and dark. “You’ll love only me.”

She didn’t know what she was saying; her whole world had shrunk down to her pelt. “I love you already.”

“But not enough!” he’d shouted. “One day, I don’t know when, you’ll leave me for the sea. I can’t risk that. I need you. I can’t live without you.”

And so she’d stayed, letting him dress her in rough woolen skirts and thick sweaters. She trailed blankets around the cottage; she never seemed to keep warm, no matter how much he built up the fire each morning before he left. She wasn’t allowed in the boat anymore lest her sisters try to steal her away.

Instead, she watched the waves from the window. At the pub each night, he swore up and down that she was watching him, even if her eyes were empty. Every time he kissed her, beer thick in his mouth, she barely reacted. Her open eyes were as sightless as the surf smashing into the rocks below. e e e Tonight, he wakes to an empty bed and finds her down at the dock. Her toes are hanging off the edge of the last plank.

“Do you think,” she asks, “that it would hurt to drown?”

For a second, he thinks of the swollen bodies of fellow fishermen washed up, only recognizable by the weave of their sweaters. Flesh missing, their bodies were eaten by the very fish they had gone to catch. She looked like one of those bodies.

He shakes the thought away.

He focuses on this moment – by the water, her eyes are the most alive he has ever seen them. It is the most alive she has felt since he’d stolen her soul.

The stench of fish floats on the breeze.

“Come home,” he begs. He wants to reach out but is afraid to touch her. She is rotting away.

“Don’t do this to me - to us.”

But her voice has lost its melody; she hadn’t sung in months. He had stolen that from her, too. “I can’t do anything.”

“You can love me.” It’s his last-ditch effort – meaningless, even if his hands are shaking.

She scoffs. “I can’t imagine a worse fate.”

And now she steps forward. The water rushes up to meet her like an old friend.

He reaches for her, but her hair rushes through his fingers.

He holds only a handful of graying hair.

He wants to call her, but there is nothing to say. He can no longer remember her name. e e e Deep in the sea, her sisters mourn, for she is finally free.

He focuses on this moment – by the water, her eyes are the most alive he has ever seen them.

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sailor’s story

Uncharted / Voices

Catch

of

Day

“Sailor’s Sundown” photo by Michael Marciniak

the Taylor Cobb

I triumph over your cast net. Today will not be the day you snare my sympathies and drag me down 35

Uncharted / Voices

36

“Crab Grab,” photo by Michael Marciniak

Drowning Ava Pidhayny

you wrapped a weight around my ankle and here I go, slowly going down and there’s no way out I scream but you don’t hear me I don’t hear me bubbles run out of my mouth and rise to the top getting closer to you I imagine being those bubbles but wait you put this weight on me your sillouhette glows on the other side of the water your face getting more and more blurry my body has had enough of this suffocation water seeps in

siren’s song

and I can’t stop it I am now a broken phone hiding in your junk drawer but you don’t care enough to fix me why did you do this to me I want to be on the other side with you but my wants are not you’re needs you threw me in not to swim your carelessness is a plastic bag wrapped over my head ... your face has disappeared into a ripple the blue poison has reached my brain my body now numb

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Uncharted / Voices

“Sky in a Crystal Ball,” photo by Michael Marciniak

38

Seeing

S

into the

Anna Leach

he was a young girl on the side of 7th Avenue, a beggar fairly new to street life, given she wasn’t covered in sweat and grime like the others usually seen in alleys or streets of New York in September.

Seconds passed. People passed.

With no hope of aid, the light in Sera’s eyes faded. She hunched her shoulders and started to cry silently.

Just as she was questioning why she was even still alive, a hand appeared in front of the face she’d turned to the ground, as if asking for her hand.

She looked up, tears still falling from her hickory-colored eyes.

Sera saw a girl about her own age, with brown hair and subtle red lowlights. The girl had a double helix pierced in her right ear and the brightest smile Sera had seen for a long time – a real, genuine smile.

But what grabbed Sera’s attention were the eyes – a cosmos all on their own, yet they had seen pain. This girl, too, had gone through much.

sailor’s story

Shadows

Even so, Sera could see the stranger had the power to lift spirits.

Her eyes could have been part Canis Lupus, a bright amber, surrounded by the greens of Yellowstone forests. At one point those forests, too, had been dying and mistreated – this girl had known pain... until someone had taken an interest in the suffering she had tried to hide as she fought for survival. Who was it that had nurtured this strange girl back to life?

Behind the light in her eyes was an odd red freckle near the pupil of her right eye, as if reflecting previous pain. But her eyes also held the hope for something better, the hope for love and life.

“Hi, I’m Christina. What’s your name?”

The dot seemed to expand as Christina spoke, and then the dot spoke to Sera. The dot promised care, and hope, and life that Christina herself had received all those years ago.

Sera reached up for Christina’s outstretched hand.

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40

“Back Alley in a Beach Town after Rain,” photo by Michael Marciniak

The Asylum Miku Pitman

COVID-19 Pandemic, April 20, 2020 I’m in the asylum, wearing a strap jacket of panic feeling... trapped inside this pitty white room, where fear keeps flickering the lights and injecting me with anxieties.

I see a lonely window – the only antidote

siren’s song

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“Forest Fade,” pen & paint by Julian Radovanovic

Buy Me Some Peanuts

W

Alexandra Cardona

hen they managed to hit Ghulam with a peanut or two, they made noises that sounded like laughter. Even better, when Ghulam twitched or moaned unconsciously at the strike of a single peanut, they screamed in delight... like children.

Wait. Did children even sound like that? He couldn’t remember.

The twenty-eighth peanut passed the barrier and landed in Ghulam’s nostril. He felt like he was suffocating and jolted awake.

Sitting upright, he pressed a finger to a nostril, exhaled, and blew the peanut onto dry straw and soil that covered the ground. When he looked up, his eyes found what looked like a painted ceiling of blue with white, fluffy clouds. Ropes hung from the ceiling, reminding him of a ropes course. A strong unpleasant aroma wafted from one corner, and what looked like a small stream ran from the other corner of what appeared to be a room full of vibrant green bushes. When he stretched out his hand to touch the closest leaf, pain surged from his knuckles.

Giggles echoed.

“It’s a wall.”

Ghulam turned to face a girl with a nest of hair and dirt on her face. The girl licked her thin lips as Ghulam heard her stomach growl. He couldn’t stop staring at her fists, her knuckles plowed the ground as if they were being used for stability--as if she were accustomed to squatting.

Ghulam realized the plants and trees surround-

ing him were actually walls painted to look like a forest with ovenbirds sitting on branches and heads of deer peering from behind bushes. But one wall was different from the rest – it looked like an opaque window that appeared to glow.

The girl dropped to the floor to pick out the dirt in her fingernails. “It’s been a while since someone new came, after the last one –” she closed her eyes and made a gagging sound. “I thought I was going to be here by myself.”

Ghulam glanced at the ceiling and the three painted walls. He stood, took ten steps toward the glowing, opaque wall.

As soon as he reached it, waves of electricity crashed into him. Ghulam screamed and dropped to the floor, using his knuckles as support to crawl away.

He heard them again.

“Did you hear that?” he asked. He turned to the girl, who raised her bushy eyebrows and tilted her head. “Some kind of noise like laughter. Did you hear the laughing?”

She snorted. “Oh, that. Try to ignore them.”

“Them?”

“I call them them.”

A peanut flew into her hair, and they laughed again. e e e

“He screamed and dropped to

the floor, using his knuckles as support to crawl away.

sailor’s story

On the seventh day, Ghulam placed a leaf from one of the plants surrounding the stream between his cheek and gums, as if it would release nicotine like Red Man’s chewing tobacco.

Ghulam promptly spit it out because it tasted

43

like wax. They laughed.

“I told you it wouldn’t work.” The girl’s legs hung from the ropes and her body swung back and forth, her hair collecting the yellow straw. eanuts flew through the barrier, dropping beside the girl into a pile.

“While you were eating plastic, I was getting our dinner.”

Her cheeks were hollow and her ribs jutted through the thin blue dress she wore. She turned toward the opaque wall, gave them a bow, then dropped to the floor.

The girl wouldn’t tell him her name. Maybe it was because it would be easier if the time came when emotional distancing would be needed – when peanuts wouldn’t be enough.

Peanuts were already not enough.

“How long have you been here anyway?”

Ghulam asked nonchalantly. He wanted her to think he didn’t care.

“Long enough to know there’s no way out.” The girl shrugged. She put the peanuts into two piles. “With shells or without shells?” she asked and gestured toward the piles.

He sighed and picked up a shelled peanut.

Ghulam took his time cracking it open. With disgust, he placed it into his mouth, letting it settle on his tongue. He wanted to throw up or even eat more plastic instead. But peanuts were real food. The more he ate the worse they tasted.

He was hungry for anything other than peanuts.

“I was a doctor,” she said, studying the peanut inches away from her eye. “I remember small things, like the door of my house or the smell of my car. Information pops into my head – things I should have known come back to me. More than anything -- facts about peanuts.”

Ghulam stopped swirling the peanut in his mouth and noticed his thumb was involuntarily rubbing his ring finger. e e e

P

Maybe it was the twentieth or thirty-eighth day, when Hanine (she finally told him her name) ran her fingers through his hair and ever-growing beard to groom him. If she found peanut shells, she would eat them, but everything else went back onto the ground.

The horrible stench in the corner opposite to the stream was the bathroom – two holes, five feet deep. Ghulam and Hanine threw feces at the wall and ceiling.

Ghulam heard laughter beyond the barrier.

That’s what they wanted – tricks.

Sometimes Ghulam and Hanine threw feces at each other.

And they screamed with delight.

When the bathrooms were empty, Ghulam and Hanine were left with piles of peanuts for breakfast.

Though Ghulam was consumed with the thought of hunger, he also thought of having sex with Hanine. But when Hanine started talking, he rejected the idea. The longer he was stuck in there, the more she talked.

The only thing he wanted was get away from her, have a second to himself or have a second without seeing her face, but he was stuck in a cage that was twenty-two by fifteen feet – yes, he did count it himself, more than once. He was getting tired of her and sick of peanuts. h, how lucky the both of them were that neither of them hadn’t gotten Aflatoxin poisoning from the nuts yet, Hanine had said.

Sometimes Aspergillus flavus grew on peanuts that created aflatoxin: a mold that created liver damage or cancer in animals.

She always checked his eyes for yellow discoloration – jaundice she called it – or see if he had a loss of appetite. There were also antinutrients – oh, the horror – such as phytic acid that impairs absorption of nutrients and reduces nutritional value. Or anaphylaxis – Ghulam didn’t know what that meant, but that would be ...deadly. Hanine had said so more than once.

She had tried to get closer to him when they slept together. It was as if she tried to be

Ghulam heard laughter beyond the barrier.

44

O

sailer’s story

to trace the imprint of his ring finger, distracting his hunger. But then his stomach lurched and his mouth watered.

Hanine jumped towards the body, her knuckles leading the way. He knew what she was thinking – she was the doctor. Ghulam followed her steps, stretching his neck to get a better view of the body, his knuckles, too, leading the way.

“Anaphylaxis.” Hanine gulped. “She was the girl before you. I remember now.” hulam took it in: the swollen features of the girl’s eyes and tongue sticking out of her mouth, the paleness of her skin contrasting rashes and hives, her blue lips. He wasn’t a doctor – he couldn’t pinpoint what was wrong with the girl. He could tell from her face that she spent her last seconds trying to get her breath. The familiarity of the body struck him.

What flooded his thoughts was his hatred for peanuts. He was sick and tired of the way peanuts stuck to his fingertips and how bland they were in his mouth.

Pain hit him so hard in his body, he didn’t know if it was grief or hunger.

He remembered the remaining features that were still distinguishable from hazy memories that fogged his mind. He remembered humming and twirling, the night of their honeymoon, and her fear of peanuts.

It wasn’t until Hanine ripped the dead woman’s ring finger off her hand that Ghulam woke from his trance. Her ring finger had the same imprint that Ghulam had on his ring finger. It was surprising how slowly he put the pieces together, that once she was something to him, and maybe she still was.

Ghulam didn’t indulge in the idea. He threw the memories behind him like discarded peanut shells. The ring finger looked like a medium rare baby back rib covered in barbecue sauce. He smiled, longing to at last to quiet his rumbling stomach as he lifted her arm and bit into her palm like a hamburger.

Blood sprayed like ketchup on his shirt.

They – whoever they were or whatever they were beyond the barrier – threw peanuts. Ghulam heard what sounded like applause.

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Uncharted / Voices

the big spoon because she would have been the breadwinner. Afterall, Hanine had been a doctor, and he had been only a little league baseball coach.

Ghulam just rubbed the imprint on his ring finger, watching as a black silhouette of a woman sharpened in his memory, and he tried to remember the taste of a sirloin steak.

Brushing his ring finger with his thumb, once again Ghulam sighed.

“I’m hungry,” he said. He swung from the ropes, hands covered in dry feces.

Hanine immediately lifted one hand with a peanut ready for the catching as he spoke.

“I have had enough of these damn peanuts,” Ghulam pulled his arm back and slapped Hanine’s so the peanut hit the wall. His hand stung. “If I eat one more peanut...I–I–” He couldn’t say the words, but he knew he couldn’t take it anymore. He couldn’t.

They laughed.

The things he would do if he could open that barrier. Whatever they were, whoever they were, he would constantly pelt them with peanuts and make them eat peanuts for days.

He would watch them throw their feces for breakfast and make them do silly tricks on the ropes for their dinners. And he would watch them staring into the opaque barrier until they slowly went insane and suffocated from claustrophobia.

Sounds of turning gears cranked behind the hum of the barrier’s electricity. Both on their toes, Hanine and Ghulam glanced at each other before staring at the barrier. Ghulam wanted to reach for a weapon of some sort, but the most dangerous thing he had was his own feces. It smelled so bad even he would gag.

Though the glowing opaque wall had no change in its appearance, a body was flung through the barrier like a peanut. The body hit the ground, rolled across the dry straw and soil, crushed plastic greenery, and slammed into the wall of green lies. It was a female.

After a few seconds, the electricity came back to life like nothing had happened. Ghulam and Hanine waited minutes because the body might have been alive, but the sprawled body had twisted limbs that made it obvious there was no waking up.

In all that time, Ghulam’s thumb continued

G

7

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Uncharted / Voices

“The Performer,” acrylic by Elizabeth Hartman

Of the

Performer

from those who watch

U

Elizabeth Hartman

nderneath the spotlight’s spitting light, shines our performer, clad only in white, a set, a suit, dazzling in bright lights, his display dynamic upon the stage.

Even if we could not see, a voice so gorgeous as to command silence and yet reach through our crowded audience asks us, implores us, forces us to listen.

He sings of love, of passion, of the passage of time breaking over gentle horizons, and the fallibility of youth, the crooked facade of exploration.

He tells us we will be okay, we will survive ourselves and our troubles, and it is understood to be true because we have no reason to doubt.

The depth of loyalty which we hold for such a man as the one we watch is something so bodily, so understood, it need not be asked, but is given freely.

In his act, he reaches for us, he is extending himself and his soul to ourselves, and our souls, and in this exchange we will watch forever.

Within him is brightness, and within us is the same.

In the darkness of the venue, these lights glow like beacons.

siren’s songs

Of those

Who Watch

from the performer Elizabeth Hartman

I

will look out upon the sea, the gentle tides of watchers drawing in, in, in as my voice grows louder on the stage, and the tide draws out at the bridge.

In their faces I see only honesty, such a tragedy of realism I understand – that these people have lived, have seen, have struggled in the grips of sadness.

And there is within me a compassion, a guiding principle which tells me to fight, to stumble through rehearsals, and sing even when my voice is ragged, broken.

In the moment of my act, I will show them all their loyalty is not unfounded, and I will bleed myself upon this stage if it proves the truth of the performance.

They are so beautiful, in the way all human beings are, in the sense of their gentleness, their openness, their devotion and purity.

They will send me letters of their lives, the simplest things, of a dog running, a brother singing, of the tall pear tree towering over their back door.

And I see in this the simplicity of their existence, of the love they offer me – which comes with no conditions, and I can only hope to return.

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“Birdsong,� colored pencil drawing by Emma Friberg 48

T

Stop & Listen Maggie Rosinski

he theater lights darken as the spotlights shine on the orchestra. My heart flutters with anticipation as the conductor raises his baton and creates magic. Music echoes through the concert hall and gathers around me. The notes speak to me, a language of emotion, a language I understand. All without a single word.

I was surprised to learn that many people don’t get much out of instrumental music, that is, music that doesn’t have lyrics.

But I was raised by a musician, and in our house, learning about Wagner, Copeland, and Bach were just as important as knowing The Beatles or Queen.

When I turn on the radio, I switch to the classical station and ask my mom, “Can you guess the song?”

It takes only a few notes, five seconds maybe.

“The Swan, of course, by Saens.”

The Swan is .. my mother’s favorite song. It’s supposed to describe a swan, but it doesn’t tell you exactly how a swan looks or acts; the music shows it through emotion, and it’s beautiful. I used to think that my mom was crazy for being so obsessed with classical music, until I stopped and listened. I realized it was so much more than the stereotype some people made it out to be – that it was actually pretty great.

One of my favorite hobbies has always been listening to movie soundtracks. The surprising thing is that some of my favorite music was

composed for movies I haven’t even seen. Great movie scores convey the feeling of the story and the characters without a single word or image.

The instruments are the actors, and melody the dialogue. It’s a universal language that everyone can understand. You just have to listen.

My greatest childhood idol was not an actor or sports star, but a musician. You may not know who John Williams is, but you’ve certainly heard his music. Star Wars. Harry Potter. Indiana Jones.

The life of a musician is like that of most artists – a thankless job. But it is the joy that music brings that makes it all worth it.

The chance for your work to move someone, or to change a life. The chance that someone will listen to you.

Music mirrors life, in more ways than one. It rises and falls. It feels like life. And it can be found everywhere. In the voice of a child. In the song of the birds. It’s very easy to speed through life without stopping. To lose track of what’s meaningful. You don’t have to look far, though, to find it. Sometimes you need to just stop and listen.

Steven Spielberg once said,“Without (music), bikes don’t really fly, nor do brooms in Quidditch matches, nor do men in red capes. There is no Force, dinosaurs do not walk the Earth, we do not wonder, we do not weep, we do not believe.”

No matter what happens, no matter how bad life gets, something good will always remain. So stop and listen. Believe.

Great movie scores convey

the feeling of the story and the characters without a single word or image.

traveler’s tale

49

Interview with

Poet Anthony S. Abbott Josh Cacciatore

This interview was conducted as part of an author study by advanced creative writing students in the fall 2019 semester.

Author Bio: Winner of the 2015 NC Award for Literature from the State of North Carolina, Dr. Anthony S. Abbott is the author of seven books of poetry, two novels, and four books of literary criticism. His newest book, The Angel Dialogues, is the recipient of honorable mention in the 2015 Brockman-Campbell competition of the NC Poetry Society. His 2011 book of poems, If Words Could Save Us, was co-winner in the same competition in 2012. Dr. Abbott is currently the Charles A. Dana Professor of English Emeritus at Davidson College in North Carolina.

Q

Through your success in publishing poetry, is there anything that you think young writers should know before they begin their pursuit of publication?

The important thing is to write. Then send poems out to contests. Keep writing. You improve simply by doing it. Writing is like a sport.

You only get better by practicing it.

A

Q

One of my favorite pieces that you have written is, “What Do Men Want?” because of the purposefully misleading title and how it addresses the issue of toxic masculinity. Who do you think has the most to gain from this piece?

Everybody has something to gain. The poem represents what I want, as a man, but not what most men want. So men need to read it. Women 50

A

love it, because it describes the kind of man they would like to know. I think it is pretty universal. At least I hope so.

Q A

What is your research process like when writing a piece with heavy symbolism like shown in “The Girl In The Yellow Raincoat”?

I don’t really have a research process. Symbolism is always best when it occurs naturally, when it is moved by the spirit and not put in artificially.

Q A

If you could suggest any poets for writers wanting to learn more about poetry, who would you suggest?

Read a lot of different poets, and then when you find one you particularly like, one who writes in the way you would like to write, then read more of that poet. For free verse, I recommend Jane Kenyon and Mary Oliver. For formal poetry (with rhyme and meter), Yeats is the very best.

Q A

Do you find more joy in teaching or writing for publication?

I would take out the words “for publication.”

Writing is only as exciting as teaching when it comes from the soul, the heart, which it must do whether you write for publication or not. The particular joy of teaching for me is that I can always traveler’s tale

Uncharted / Voices

“Abandoned Mansion,” ink sketch by Kaleigh Rogers

do it, which I love. Sometimes I just can’t write, but teaching is always there for me.

Q

Do you have a particular teacher from your childhood that steered you toward a career in writing, or help you to develop your writing voice?

My story is different from most. Look on my website “anthonysabbott.com” and read my

A

essay in there on how I got into writing poetry. It wasn’t until my mid to late 30’s that I started writing poetry, and it was, as you will read, the sudden and unexpected death of my daughter that led me to writing poems for her and about her...

I had a number of teachers who got me interested in literature, in teaching English, but none who led me to poetry.

51

Interview with

Poet Ted Kooser Annamarie Yates

This interview was conducted as part of an author study by advanced creative writing students in the fall 2019 semester.

Author Bio: Born in Ames, Iowa in 1939, Ted Kooser is a professor in the English Department of the University of Nebraska-Lincoln. He has garnered numerous honors, including two NEA fellowships in poetry, a Pushcart Prize, the Stanley Kunitz Prize from Columbia, the Boatwright Prize from Shenandoah, the Pulitzer Prize, and an appointment as U. S. Poet Laureate.

He is also the author of numerous poetry collections, including Delights and Shadows, which won the 2004 Pulitzer Prize, Winter Morning Walks: One Hundred Postcards to Jim Harrison (2000), which won the 2001 Nebraska Book Award for poetry. His nonfiction books include The Poetry Home Repair Manual: Practical Advice for Beginning Poets (University of Nebraska Press, 2005) and Local Wonders.

Q A Q A

Are your poems normally based on real life experiences?

Yes, though I don’t hesitate to change small details.

What’s your writing process like?

I get up at 4:00 or 4:30, write in my journal, read a little poetry and then see what happens. I do a lot of sitting and waiting, and I try to 52

stay at my job for several hours.

Q A

How do you pick titles?

Titles are very good places to upload information out of the poem. Poems can go dead when there’s too much information being delivered. Rather than to begin a poem with “The other day I was walking downtown and came upon a dead robin in the gutter” I could entitle the poem Walking to Town I Find a Dead Robin

Q A

Why did you choose to name your book after the poem “Splitting an Order”?

It seemed to me that that particular poem exemplified what I try to do, which is to write about the most ordinary experiences and show that perhaps they’re not so ordinary after all.

Q A Q A

Why do you write?

Nothing makes me feel more alive, more in touch with the world.

What do your best poems have in common?

Clarity, simplicity, depth. traveler’s tale

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Q A Q A Q A Q A

“Blue Arches,” ink sketch by Abigail Heeney

What do your worst poems have in common?

Wordiness, wittiness, cleverness

What is your favorite part about writing poetry?

The moment when something surprising pops into my mind while I’m writing.

About how long does it take you to completely finish a poem?

Several days, perhaps twenty or thirty revisions.

What authors have influenced your writing?

Far too many to try to list them.

Q A

How old were you when you started writing?

I started in second grade but didn’t really get serious about it until I was about 16. By 20 writing was about all that I cared to do.

Q A Q A

What’s the most difficult part about writing for you?

Trying to avoid being critical of what I’m doing.

What advice can you give me to help me become a better writer?

Read, read, read. I tell my students they should read 100 poems for every one they try to write. All poems that fail fail because the poet hasn’t read enough poetry.

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Review: Ad Astra

An Introspective, But Inconsistent, Final Frontier

I

Connor Brandenburg

n the deep recesses of space, the only wall between a man and himself is space itself– the stars, the planets, everything. But once each passing thought becomes overwhelming, a man has no choice but to confront inner demons. James Gray’s “Ad Astra” exemplifies this concept with an inconsistent depth.

Roy Mcbride (Brad Pitt), son of legendary astronaut, Clifford Mcbride (Tommy Lee Jones), lives in complete isolation from the rest of the world.

His career, space exploration, takes him from his homeland into deeper isolation and an indifferent environment that keeps him emotionally stable. In fact, for Roy to continue his duties, he’s instructed to force down his feelings, and his repetitive mandatory psych exams show how difficult that task can be.

Roy’s emotionless lifestyle stems primarily from his father’s shadow, which looms over him.

Devoted only to his work, Roy’s father neglected him, and when his father disappeared, Roy similarly devoted himself to his work in an attempt to escape his own emotional baggage resulting from abandonment.

Roy’s solitude on Earth crumbles when he’s given the mission to track down specific antimatter that’s threatening the balance of the universe, which supposedly comes from the ship from which his father disappeared. With the possibility of his father’s possible survival, suppressed emotions resurface within Roy, and what begins as an 54

epic, universal odyssey, soon becomes an impactful introspection.

To portray a character as dynamic as Roy, Brad Pitt’s subtle performance is necessary, and he improves even the weaker parts of the script. Roy’s narration (which accompanies each self discovery) unnecessarily provides a black and white interpretation of the film’s themes, but Pitt’s voiceover performance makes it slightly more bearable.

Without narration, the subtleties in Pitt’s performance would have driven the same points home – it almost feels edited in post production to adapt to the broad audience that an $80 million budget requires.

With the immense budget, “Ad Astra” boasts spectacular visuals, and with Hoyte Van Hoytema at the helm of the cinematography (the cinematographer of “Dunkirk” and “Interstellar”), there was never doubt that the beauty of space would be perfectly photographed. The lighting is especially fascinating as it feels natural in the interstellar cinematography. There’s one scene in particular that features Roy crawling through a tunnel on Mars, and the lighting highlights his silhouette in mesmerizing fashion.

The score by Max Richter captures the cosmic atmosphere of the environment perfectly, providing an immersive experience when paired with the visual wonder. “To the Stars” is an excellent representation of Richter’s composition, and the emotional moments with this track are

Despite the film’s intriguing theme of toxic masculinity,

the execution lacks because

of the director’s insistence on explaining every direction the script takes.

traveler’s tale

“Apollo 11,” 2 D paper & acrylic by Melody Leach

especially moving.

However, James Gray fails to initially capture the audience’s attention, and Roy’s silent stoicism isn’t necessarily interesting until the second act when his emotions finally emerge.

Despite the film’s intriguing theme of toxic masculinity, the execution lacks because of the director’s insistence on explaining every direction the script takes. “They’re all at ease. I wonder what that’s like,” Roy says while observing his astronaut coworkers. Describing his emotions to this extent should be shown, not told.

What’s so strange about “Ad Astra” is that the film fully understands the show-don’t-tell concept, exemplified in a shot in which two characters’ faces are lined up perfectly to express their growing similarities, but James Gray didn’t universalize this precision to the entire film, resulting in a mixed experience with impressive visuals, an immersive atmospheric score, interesting themes, and great performances -- but also an inconsistent execution that taints a theatrical journey that asks its audience to look deep within, discover themselves, and create their own futures.

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“Purple Persona,” ink and paint by Taryn Samons

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A

Persona Elizabeth Hartman

ccording to psychologist Carl Jung, the persona is the version of oneself which an individual presents to the world. He believes it is both the impression a person makes upon others, as well as a mask one wears to hide the true self.

This is why I write. Writing, I think, is basically the act of creating my own persona.

As anyone reads my work, I am not standing beside them. They do not judge my character by how I look, or how I act, or how I move my arms when I speak.

Instead, they judge my character by the words I’ve put down, and by the stories I’ve created. I write so that I can be understood. My collected work is ultimately a culmination of my persona. It’s eccentric, in some ways. It’s unreliable. It’s confusing.

It’s expressive. It’s a little bit strange.

I write what I write because I want to show you something. Whoever you are, it’s vastly different from who I am. I write so that someone will read my words and think to themselves that I’m just a tad bit

unhinged, maybe. I want someone to feel something when they read my work. I want there to be a moment when an invisible string of understanding threads between us, and just for that second, we understand each other just a bit more. I want us both to feel just a bit more human, maybe a bit more naked, because something in these words strips away at our skin and jabs into our ribs like a knife. In my writing, I give you what I am.

This is my persona, my collection of thoughts and drabbles and strings of consciousness that slide their way through my brain.

My work is the mask that I’m choosing for myself, because it is only in situations like this where I am given the option to do so.

No one is allowed to read my writing and say they dislike it because of my height or my hair color or my accent or my music taste or whatever else they feel they want to judge me on.

The only things I choose to give here are my words.

I make my own persona, and that’s why I choose to write.

I write so that someone will read my words and think to

themselves that I’m just a tad bit unhinged, maybe.

traveler’s tale

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Uncharted / Voices

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“Around We Go,” photo by Yasmin Awan, edited in Photoshop

I Am Not Four Anymore Annamarie Yates At four I was Princess Jasmine or Cinderella. My dad played the Prince.

I was Hannah Montana when my hands clasped a fake microphone, and my parents came to my concerts. An Olympic figure skater when I wore socks, gliding on the laminate flooring. I was a mom of four, vacationing in China when I sat on the airplane (basement couch) with my dolls.

I was anyone I wanted to be.

siren’s song

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Uncharted / Voices

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“Taxidermy Trio” ink blot by Jenna Fereno

Stinkbugs Annamarie Yates

On my windowsill a stinkbug at rest notices my curiosity and dips his head when I lift my hand, thinking I will swat him away as nothing. But I caress the space between us because I know what it is to be nothing.

The

Aquarium Zion Payne

Introducing the brand new New Orleans Aquarium Bringing all sorts of fish from the Gulf of Mexico Fun for the whole family We will bring the aquarium right to you Destroying your homes Ruining your hopes and dreams Returning your American dream back to a dream Coming to New Orleans 2005 ​

sirens’ songs

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Explorer Overweight Planet of an

Alexandra Cardona

Map

It’s been said there ‘s nothing left to explore but my geography is still unknown I have been asked to invest in mortality – hypertension, type 2 diabetes, coronary heart disease, mental illness, and pain I take my thick fingers and search eternal terrain – I follow a cascade of tears to the hills of cysts, climb the mountains of fat, fall into valleys of cellulite, fault lines of double chins, sail to the mythical island of baby fat, hike volcanoes of black heads and canyons of calluses, a peninsula of pimples, swim oceans of stubble to glaciers of muffin tops and islands of eczema, trek a desert of acne, caress tectonic plates of wrinkles, the dunes of scars, and wander plains of tarnished skin I have stopped looking at the sun and examine palmistry for a diagnosis that will make me happy about my discoveries and expeditions beneath this planet’s crust of protection, the mantle of blood and clogged veins, molten outer core of perspective – the solid inner core of soul

of the

Soul

Elizabeth Hartman Once I drew a map of a place that I could only ever imagine.

Every cliff and valley, every plain and lake and river was printed onto my paper, hung out to dry.

And only when I stepped back did I recognize the twists and turns of rivers slithering like veins, and the slopes the same angle as bent knees and pointy elbows.

The oceans spiraled like a wide expanse of stomach, and the trees sprouted up like fingers off a palm.

Only when I stepped back did I realize the map looked just like me, and I had made it so beautiful.

At this point in my journey, I have not fulfilled my obligations – tornadoes ravage, Global Warming threatens, volcanoes vomit, glaciers weep, pesticides poison, viruses host, people over-populate I reach into the mouth with two fingers following a map into an uninvaded inner core to purge my trouble-carrying capacity, a spill into the universe 62

sirens’ songs

Uncharted / Voices

“The World Revolves Around Rock n’ Roll,” painting on canvas by Grace Janzen 63

Uncharted / Voices

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“Sea Grass Gold,” photo by Michael Marciniak

Prarie Taylor Nixon

Green waves roll over the earth Leaves waltz with the wind A lone tree sways to the whistle of birds Squirrels gamboling up and down its trunk Bees prance from one bobbing flower to the next Swift foxes weave their way between grasses Deer frolick with companions A snake glides to its next meal Milky clouds drift across the sky Ferrets caper across open fields The bison march across an expansive meadow Hares bound to their burrows Rye careens, the grain flittering off the stalk The sun’s rays warming the land

siren’s song

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Uncharted / Voices

“Journey into Tomorrow,” painting by Lizzie Gale

Promises Claire Mattes

You have already promised me too much Nights in Paris, tucked tight under the covers as crisp air sashays through the open window to stroke my bare skin And afternoons in the Thailand sunlight shopping for cocoa and pineapples in the street market below yellow stone buildings with black balcony railings the world around us heavily salted with the faint scent of mango You promised me our own orphanage in Uganda dust lingering in the air while we kick a soccer ball with the small child who just arrived his smile the most jarring and desperate reminder of love You promised morning drives through Virginia’s mountains the whale-gray clouds in the distance lit by the streetlights of nearby valley towns the emerald shrubs and rock faces flooding my vision You promised a drive to the West Coast in an old Volkswagen bus plastered with gaudy stickers and riding in the console the old coffee cups you bought for me last summer on your annual family trip to Edisto Island And if I’m not mistaken I have been promised a night in the California forest near a cliff that drops off into wild waves breaking against the basalt like liquid crystals me in my off-the-shoulder yellow sundress with daises splattered across the worn chiffon and you in that Hurley tee I gave you for your 17th birthday both of us barefoot and holding hands our friends lounging in hammocks behind us And one final promise ... this time in the form of a vow prologue

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“In the Slip,” painting by Abigail Heeney

V

Colophon

oices is produced by the literary magazine staff of Nation Ford High School. Due to the novel corona virus epidemic, the magazine was first distributed electronically on issuu.com, and then 100 copies were printed on 80# Matte text paper by Blurb.com at a cost of $1,169. The fonts used in the magazine are: Sinhala MN regular 11 point body type and photography and art credits, the folio lines are Zapfino 12 point; titles (48 pt), bylines (18 pt), pull quotes (18 pt), and drop caps are Big Calson. Page numers are Big Calson 14 regular. The magazine features poetry, fiction, nonfiction, artwork, and photography. The layout was created in Adobe inDesign CC 15.02. The editors, assisted by several staff members, executed the layout and design. The theme Uncharted was inspired by Claire Mattes’ prologue poem of the same name. With a release date of May 20, 2020, this magazine is distributed to the student body of Nation Ford High School, their families, and members of the Fort Mill community.

Thank you for reading Voices.

Patrons

Steve Blair 68

Sincere thanks to our Lifetime Patrons Rick Solt Beth Swann Chuck Walker Pioneering Software, Inc. colophon & patrons

“A life’s work is ... like an ocean crossing where there is no path, only a heading, a direction, which, of itself, is in conversation with the elements.”

– David Whyte, Crossing the Unknown Sea: Work as a Pilgrimage of Identity