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TEA Literary & Arts Magazine

Volume 27

Staff Editor In Chief: Chloe Grant Art Editors: Ella Kunzke Ayla Santos Art Staff: Mary Hanson Sari Homer Maggie Kiley Noie Prouty Alicia Steffy Poetry Editor: Jude Singleton Poetry Staff: Noah Anderson Leah Braxton Laura Collins Sofia Galvan Nikita Kohring Trent Long August Wilson Design Editors: Sarah Garfield Turner Toliuszis Design Staff: Jenna Bartkovsky Giuliana Leon-Velarde Meneses Laura Newman Hiral Shukla Prose Editor: Eluney Gonzalez

Prose Staff: Madison Diehl Sam Douglas Alex Fanaro Isabella Flores Victoria Kevers Ori Maron Nina Prouty Emma Rose Lely Truong Gabriel Velasquez Photography Editor: Sydney Hinton Photography Staff: Andrea Landa-Cruz Presley Lomel Julianne Mooney Alexa Palmieri

Cabinet President: Ian Jackson Vice President: Fabiola Vindas Treasurer: Mary Hanson Marketing Director: Sienna Carnochan Webmaster: Mary Hanson Events Staff: Nithya Kunta Isabella Zavaleta Sydnie Seibert

Prizes The Blackbird Prize for Poetry: “A Deepwater Octopus’s Expedition Through Davidson Seamount” by Grace Penza “Among the many outstanding entries in this year’s competition, ‘A Deepwater Octopus’s Expedition Through Davidson Seamount’ is distinguished by the vividness of its imagination, as well as the exquisite control of its diction, vocabulary, cadence. I felt, as I was reading, that I was literally descending into the ocean; each line is like the pan of a camera, and yet I always felt the warm presence of a speaker projecting their affection for the creatures of the deep while maintaining a courteous, respectful distance: one way, I suppose, to honor the sheer weirdness of the natural world without violating it. The whimsical metonym of the seamount being like a bed-and-breakfast also added the necessary touch of humor and playfulness. All in all, disparate elements are perfectly balanced: it’s a little masterpiece.” — Author and Distinguished Professor of Poetry Ange Mlinko

The Palmetto Prize for Prose: “The House Remembers” by Eluney González “A haunting and mysterious parable about ghosts, family, and memory.” — Author and Distinguished Professor of English David Leavitt

Prizes The Ghost Orchid Prize for Photography: “Koi No Yokan” by Delaney Lampinen “‘Koi No Yokan’ presents a striking interplay of light and shadow, where the intense red glow enveloping the young man’s hand creates a focal point, contrasting sharply with the dark, cool-toned background. This visual contrast suggests an internal struggle (maybe a revelation, suppressed emotion, or newfound power). The chains of the swing serve as both a literal and symbolic element, signifying restraint or a tether to the past (playground swing set), while his expression conveys deep introspection, reinforcing a psychological reading of uncertainty or transformation. The blurred figure in the foreground adds to the sense of psychological distance, possibly symbolizing the presence of an external force or an unresolved relationship. The overall composition, with its chiaroscuro lighting and emotive color scheme, suggests a moment of selfconfrontation, where the sitter grapples with an inner awakening or conflict. ‘Koi No Yokan’ is a powerful image that, to me, conveys a sense of self-discovery and vulnerability.” — 3rd Year MFA Candidate in Creative Photography Alex Abair The Autumn Blossom Prize for Art: “Not a girl” by Casey Vargas “I am delighted to write that I have selected Casey Vargas’s collage work– Not a Girl– to receive this year’s Autumn Blossom Prize for Art. While all the submissions were exceptional and wonderfully executed, Casey’s piece stood out for its depth, both conceptually and materially. Not a Girl works across its different components to tell a curiously ambiguous narrative. In consideration for a literary magazine’s prize -- it is my aesthetic opinion that it is the clear example of text, image, and meaning. Narrative can be hard to capture for an image, yet, the time lapse of the skater gives the image a forward propelling motion while the reserved words scattered throughout the composition urge contemplation. In this way, both mind and body are synergized.” — Student Engagement Manager at the Harn Museum Errol Nelson

Letter From The Editor Dear Readers, It is with all my pride that I invite you to enjoy Tea Literary & Arts Magazine’s 27th issue. With Tea XXVII, we celebrate the thirtieth year of Tea. Since its establishment in 1995, Tea has endured as the University of Florida’s foremost undergraduate literary and arts publication. For thirty years, Tea has remained steadfast in showcasing the power and capability of Gainesville artists, writers, and creatives. For thirty years, Tea has overcome challenges brought on by changes in UF administration and obstacles to funding. For thirty years, Tea has cultivated and nourished a culture of boldness, acceptance, and security. For thirty years, Tea has revelled in a community of artists motivated by possibility and determination. Looking back at my last three years in Tea, pride encapsulates so much of what I feel for this organization. As a writing staffer, Prose Editor, Vice-President, and Editor-in-Chief, I have contributed to Tea from every angle. From editing submissions, to producing events, to organizing the magazine—I know firsthand how much time and effort our staffers invest into Tea. I am so proud of this year’s Creative and Cabinet Staff, of our Genre Editors and Cabinet Leaders, and of our Executive Board. This issue of Tea XXVII in your hands exists because of their incredible combined efforts. My pride extends beyond Tea members and into a greater community of creatives. I am proud of UF’s student community for the volume and quality of submissions they contributed to this year’s issue. I am proud of the Gainesville community for their generous contributions to our magazine and collaborative efforts to advocate for the arts. I am proud of myself, my friends, and of every reader who has made it through the last year continuing to hold hope for—and work toward—the future of literary arts. It is my hope that you appreciate Tea XXVII for all it has to offer. With all of my love, Chloe Grant, Editor in Chief

Table of Contents Sto Sudando Chloe Grant

Koi No Yokan Delaney Lampinen

Vacancy 2 Sydney Hinton

Butterfly Effect Amber Hansen

Road Trip Alicia Steffy

A Deepwater Octopus’s... Grace Penza

Gussied 5 Delaney Bolstein

Funeral 22 Casey Vargas

You, the Wanderer Noah Anderson

Crocodile Tears 23 Malena Gonzalez Fernandez

Legs 7 Emily Drake

Intangible 26 Maria Avlonitis

My History With Boys... Laura Newman

Everywhere Abusers Die... 27 Trent Long

Lazy Afternoon Sari Homer

Wabi-Sabi 28 Delaney Lampinen

The Ladder Trent Long

Red Wine Vinegar Ian Gapinski

The Moment Amanda Werner

Panic Attack Sarah Clein

Not a girl Casey Vargas

Cormorant Fishing Noah Anderson

Jeri 15 Nathan Mei

Spotlight 32 Reid Castillo

Bardot 33 Ruby Freeman

Standing Ground Amber Hansen

Leah2049 35 Adriana Murphey

Gulosity 50 Noie Prouty

Whale Fall Annelise Zea

Nervous Nelly & Doomster... 51 Lisa Reichelson

Tiger 37 Emily Drake

Rhythm of Refuge Amber Hansen

American Magpie Grace Penza

The Captive Cockatoo Trent Long

Sean 39 Sydney Hinton

Georgia 57 Sarah Stander

Muscle 40 Reid Castillo

There Were Dogs, There... Aaron J. Connor

Me and __ Margaret Kiley

Newly Intimate Jillian Lugod

The Little Devil Nina Prouty

Character Creation Screen 61 Dorb

Todavia Te Amo Leia Ciociola

Night at Target Sarah Stander

Are These My Memories? Leia Ciociola

Vitamin C Microscopy Amber Hansen

The House Remembers Eluney González

A Question Answered Ori Maron

Sto Sudando Chloe Grant

Three Euros clinked in my palm as I snapped the overpriced hand fan open. The warm air pushed into my dampened face and neck offered a relief sweet enough for me to breathe grazie mille at the vendor who pocketed my twenty. Not even fifteen minutes into our trek around Piazza San Marco and I was melting into my sneakers. The shoes’ soles stuck to the Venetian pavement as I stepped my way around other tourists to catch up with the group. My tour group stood boiling outside the church’s main façade, the sun glaring overhead as the Basilica di San Marco guide spoke with security to validate our tickets. My mother squinted upward in awe, unbothered by the sweat pooling at her nape, prattling on about gothic architecture. My brother shot me a helpless look. His linen shirt clung to his torso, and he appeared as miserable as I felt. When I offered to share my fan inside the cathedral, he regarded me with a reverence that mirrored the pious gazes shared between the Catholics lining the ancient pews and overlooking Christs on stained glass crosses. “Patron Saint of being a fuckin’ real one,” he muttered loud enough to earn shushing from a wrinkled woman hunched over in prayer to our left. My mother gave us both pointed looks before returning to her marveling. I pushed my brother along as he fanned himself greedily. The sweat I had happily been staving off began dotting my forehead again. It dripped under my brow and stung my eyes as we walked under gilded ceilings. Through sparkling mosaics, saints and soldiers made of glass and gold scaled the walls. Dwarfed by their grandeur, I felt small and insignificant, but mainly hot. I wiped the sweat from my eyes. “L’amore di Cristo mi fa piangere anche,” the older woman croaked, standing next to me. I offered her a smile, and she patted the damp shawl covering my shoulders before shuffling back to the pews. My brother stifled a laugh. The love of Christ makes me cry too, she had said. Though I felt undeserving of her sympathy and sincerity, I did not correct her. Perhaps leaving the cathedral soaked to my Jewish bones would be reckoned a baptism by the overlooking marble and glass saints as my apology for the deceit.

Vacancy Sydney Hinton 2

Road Trip Oil on wood board Alicia Steffy 4

Gussied Delaney Bolstein

Seventeen hundred miles from Pepper Avenue, you pirouette under The luster and hunger of Château Masonier’s last glass chandelier. I dared you to stare into the lapels of all those greasy monsieurs. One more Viennese waltz until dusk, so now you must wait and stir, Embellished with a slipshod swipe of mascara and two pearls in your ears. Seventeen hundred miles from Pepper Avenue, you pirouette once more. We were nine and a half at the grocery store when you found the answer. A paper calling, Miss June’s lavender ribbon, one bus fare to nowhere near, I dared you to stare into the promises of all those Pensacola monsieurs. I said “I love you” dangling our feet over the dock. You turned. You dip your hand in. “I can’t leave anything here.” “Look at me dear.” Seventeen hundred miles from Pepper Avenue, you pirouette under. I watched you once at Audubon Hall, a reverie in monochrome blush. September, and the freckles had already drained from your cheeks. I dared you to stare into the checks of all those New Haven monsieurs. Drifted across the ocean and now you call Butterfly Weeds fleurs, But they take care of you well. Remember his rosy oh-so-hot ears? Seventeen hundred miles from Pepper Avenue, you pirouette, After I dared you to stare into the lapels of all those goddamn monsieurs.

You, the Wanderer Noah Anderson

You, the Wanderer may be lost, wondering how you boarded the plane behind the old married couple who chant during takeoff and spin your name into a lullaby. You might resist, at first, the spell-binding nature of their attentions, the in-flight honey roasted cashew sticks— 100% Whole Grain and Vegan, with a hint of cinnamon— and how the pressure popping your eardrums takes the rest of the cabin off mute; but within the first half-hour, you’ll have been lulled under by the couple’s dichotomous pull: National Geographic and pocket almonds, purse chocolates and family photographs. Remember: You are not related. Although your nickname is scribbled in the top right of the coloring page, and although the woman facing you from across the aisle, smiling, looks an awful lot like your mother; unlike your decade-younger doppelganger, your single-passenger Expedia booking means you’ll touch down alone.

Legs Colored pencils Emily Drake

My History With Boys Giving Me Their Jackets Laura Newman

I. {REDACTED 1} from Sophomore year of college. a. I was cold at Marston so he gave me his grey Under Armour sweatshirt and all my friends went fucking nuts. i. So I took it home with me and googled what to do when a guy gives you their jacket. ii. Someone said, “Spray your perfume on it slightly so they can smell your scent and get in their head.” iii. I sprayed a shit ton of perfume on it. iv. My roommates all smelled it and said it was too much perfume so I tried to air it out. v. The next day he asked to study with me ALONE. vi. I was very nervous. vii. When I got there, I gave him back his jacket. viii. He paused and sniffed it. ix. He asked, “Did you spray perfume on this?” x. I told him I had no idea what he was talking about. xi. He then paused awkwardly and suggested we go join our friends at another table. xii. And that was the last time I was alone with {REDACTED 1}. II. {REDACTED 2} also from Sophomore year of college. a. For reference, this is a story about my ex-boyfriend. But it took place before we dated. i. I was completely in love with this guy. ii. It was Halloween Sophomore year and I was dressed as a slutty fairy. iii. He was dressed as a goddamn founding father. iv. It was the most attractive thing I’d ever seen in my life. v. To this day I can’t even explain or justify that previous statement. vi. Anyway, my friend Katie was visiting from out of town. vii. Katie was sober so she offered to drive my roommates and me to McDonald’s after the Halloween party at our apartment. viii. When we were in the parking lot getting ready to leave, {RE DACTED 2} ran out to our car, seemingly drunk as hell, wanting to go with us. ix. He sat in the backseat with me. x. He asked me to touch his hair and fix it for him because his pow dered wig fucked it up. xi. He told me a deeply emotional story about how McDonald’s was 8

“triggering” for him that I now can’t remember. xii. We got to McDonald’s. xiii. We got out of the car. xiv. Katie and I started complaining about how cold it was. xv. {REDACTED 2} offered Katie his long colonial jacket. xvi. Katie told him to give it to me instead. xvii. He obliged. xviii. I told everyone the next day how chivalrous he was. III. {REDACTED 3} from Hinge, Junior year of college. a. We matched on Hinge in the fall of 2023. Three months post breakup with my aforementioned ex-boyfriend. i. Our first date was to an escape room, then dinner. ii. He told me he filmed a famous viral video from 2016 and showed it to me. iii. I’d never seen it before but when I showed my guy friends later, they all remembered it from middle school. iv. He mentioned all his friends’ names and said “you’ll meet them soon.” v. What the fuck am I doing? I thought to myself on the way home. I was still in love with {REDACTED 2}. vi. He asked me on another date. I said yes. vii. He took me to his friend’s farm and I prepared a picnic for us and brought him flowers. viii. At nightfall, he left for a minute to get us jackets from his car. ix. I sat on the blanket alone and looked at the stars, wondering what my ex was doing. x. {REDACTED 3} came back with two sweatshirts. xi. He handed me one. It was grey with the Waffle House logo on it. xii. He told me it was his favorite jacket. xiii. We lay there for a few more minutes before he said, “You know… this is the part of the movie where people normally kiss.” xiv. I tried not to throw up. xv. I said something about wanting to wait before anything physical happened between us. xvi. He then started to cry about how his Grandma really wanted him to bring home a girlfriend and that’s why he wanted to kiss me or some shit. xvii. I comforted him. xviii. We got in the car for him to drive me back to my apartment. xix. He asked what songs I wanted to listen to on the 30-minute drive back into town. xx. I said GUTS by Olivia Rodrigo. xxi. We’d talked about it before and he said he knew “every song” on it. xxii. When I first heard the album I cried about my ex so hard I threw up. 9

xxiii. He put it on. xxiv. We started to sing it together at first. xxv. Eventually, I realized I was the only one singing. xxvi.Very loudly. xxvii. In my real voice. xxviii. With full emotion. xxix. He looked uncomfortable. xxx. I didn’t give a fuck. xxxi. I love the sound of my own voice. xxxii. I kept singing until he dropped me off. xxxiii. I got out of the car and told him goodnight. xxxiv. He left and I realized I still had his Waffle House jacket. xxxv. I sent a flirty text saying “LOL I still have your jacket! Guess that means we will have to see each other again!” xxxvi. I never heard from him again. xxxvii. That weekend I visited a friend in Fort Lauderdale. xxxviii. I went to a psychic and she told me my ex was my twin flame and I needed to bathe my feet in salt water every night for three months to cleanse him from me. xxxix. I started crying and promised her I would break our “soul tie” and do everything she said. xl. She charged $90 for the reading. xli. I gave {REDACTED 3}’s jacket to my cousin. xlii. He still views my Instagram story to this day.

Lazy Afternoon Woodblock relief print Sari Homer

You

The Ladder Trent Long

were afraid and so you had me hold the ladder. At twelve I could not keep it from falling but I could just barely steady the wobble, the anxious back and forth. Really I did no such thing. I was bored and my hands were slack around the metal. Dad. What happened in ten years? You can hardly climb the ladder, but I would hold it if you asked. Steady your bad hip. Carry you up the rest of the way. And if I could reach back in time like descending rungs I’d hold tightly the ladder you climbed for my sake, trembling. I’m sorry. You spent so much of your life fetching lost balls and toys from the eavestrough, and I never once trembled for you. I should have. 12

THE MOMENT Marker, graphite, and colored pencil on paper Amanda Werner 13

Not a girl Collage Casey Vargas 14

Jeri Nathan Mei

I’m what I call a ‘gifted pretender.’ If you told me to go make a new friend, I’d come back with four. If you told me to ask a girl out, then as far as I’m concerned, I’m the smoothest seventeen-year-old in Brooklyn. And if you asked me to give you an A, I’d give you an A+ and a letter of recommendation from the teacher... Well, perhaps if I were new to Springs High and none of the teachers knew me already. Today Ms. Shaw was wigging on me again because I pied the blackboard. At least once a week, it’s some teacher that wants to stop me in the hallway or escort me out the classroom to talk some sort of grown-up business after I do something they personally don’t find amusing. “Jeri, you’re so smart, Jeri, you’re so talented, Jeri, if only you’d apply yourself, Jeri.” You know, I’m really not trying to hear all that. Apply myself for what? So I can go to preppy land? They’d tell me, “That’s right, Jeri, and why not, Jeri?” To which I’d reply, “College is for children who don’t know what they wanna be!” To which they’d reply, “And what do you want to be, Jeri?” To which I’d reply, “I want to live under the Brooklyn-Battery Tunnel and be a full-time graffiti artist like my friend, Marco.” 15

Then they’d give me what I call the good ol’ triple burger: first, it’s the “I’m so fed up with you Jeremiah!” and then the detention, and then the storm off. Gosh, it really crushes you when that’s the response you get after opening up about what you truly wanna be in life. What’s wrong with being homeless anyway? At least the homeless don’t parade around in Hugo Boss pretending like what they do means anything. They’re just trying to get to their next sandwich. Yesterday, when I was on my way to the bodega, I saw Narvins down the street taking a piss, so I called out, “Yo, Narv! Whatchu got goin’ on today?” You know what he told me? You wanna know what he said? “Nothin’, son! Nothin’.” See, homeless dudes keep it real. I respect that. Anyway, it was Friday, and thanks to Ms. Shaw, I was sitting in detention buggin’ out for two reasons. One—detention itself is cruel. We aren’t allowed to do anything except rot in our own thoughts. They don’t even let us do our homework; not that I would, but you get what I’m saying. And then you also have to watch Mr. Thompson, our substitute teacher and detention supervisor, sit at the front of the room and struggle with the school’s Commodore 64. Although, you can’t really blame him. I mean, putting something as ancient as Mr. Thompson next to a young piece of tech like the C64 is like bringing a

caveman into the NYSE. Reason number two why I was buggin’: I was about to miss Niyah’s track practice for the third day in a row, and I was seriously dreading the idea of spending the entire weekend doing defensive slides. More on that later. You should first know that my dad died when I was very young. They say fathers provide sons a sense of direction, but I honestly believe he’d’ve been exactly like me. Anyway, it’s just been me and my mom, Janice. She’s very confrontational, but it’s definitely because she coaches the women’s basketball team at Columbia and forgets to stop yelling when she comes home. She did everything she could to get me to play basketball growing up, and I tried—I really did. But one time in sixth grade, I stepped onto the court for a game and found myself gazing up at two bearded six-four titans who looked like they had five kids to feed. I retired that day. But even though I don’t play anymore, my mom still punishes me the same way she punishes her players. Either suicides or defensives slides up and down the block. And oh yes, our block. We own—well, my mom owns—a brownstone in Brooklyn Heights. Yeah, yeah, posh, posh, but I guarantee you you wouldn’t want to switch places with me. Why? Because next to 22 Hunts Lane is 24 Hunts Lane and there resides the snobbiest, brattiest dipstick in Brooklyn since said dipstick’s birth in 1969. She goes by Niyah. Famous people are always going on about how their childhood

next door neighbor was their big inspiration all along—all mine inspires me to do is take a nap under the 4 train. I have to meet Niyah after her track practices everyday because my mother likes to torture me. Nah, I’m playin’. To keep it real, my mother sort of let me loose after she realized I wasn’t going to be the next Magic Johnson. She really only gets on me about two things these days: one is my report cards, which, like I said, I never had a problem with. The second thing is getting Niyah from track. Niyah’s only way of getting home after track practice is the subway, and my mom is very overprotective of her, so she basically sends me as a chaperone. I just walk with her to Bergen St, get on the train, and sit with her until we get home. Yes, I know, treacherous work! Been doing it for six long years, thank you for asking. I’m worried, though; she might need a police escort when she gets to college. In all seriousness, I can sorta get behind my mother’s sentiment. I love homeless people and all, but some of them give me the creeps, and I’ll never get a chance to see Niyah be miserable later in life if she gets shanghaied by some subway crackhead. Back to detention. I was sitting there with my forehead on my desk, thinking about the things I just told you about—my mom, Niyah, what my mom was gonna do to me if—you get it. I was just hoping Niyah hadn’t run off again before I got to her. One more screw up and 16

it was surely going to be defensive slides from Mother Janice. Luckily, it seemed like Mr. Thompson had gotten very enamored with his lightup box. My window had arrived. I waited for it and boom, I was outta there. Too easy. God bless the PC. …. I told Niyah yesterday to wait for me if I wasn’t there right after practice; that if I wasn’t there right after practice; that if I wasn’t there, I was probably in detention. Clearly, she didn’t wanna listen. After I’d gotten to the track and realized she’d already left, I had to bust my ass to the station just to barely make it onto the train with her. The subway doors almost sliced my arm off, I swear. “I don’t need you here,” she’d said when I sat down next to her, panting. She wasn’t even looking at me as she spoke. I couldn’t tolerate this disrespect. “Yo ma, have some gratitude! I almost broke my damn neck three times trying to get ‘ere. And I skipped detention.” “Stop it with the ‘yo ma,’” she said, deepening her voice in mockery. “You ain’t gangster just because you’re in detention everyday.” “More gangsta’ than you, lil’ sis.” “Ain’tcha lil’ sis, ain’tcha nothin’.” Queen of Sass, this one. “Alright fine, you da man, Niyah, you da man. Hey look, it’s Jheri Curl Charlie!” Jheri Curl Charlie is this dude with massive Jheri curls who’s always on the subway. I’m pretty sure he’s homeless too, which makes me 17

so confused as to how he can even afford Jheri curls. And they’re always fresh as hell. He kinda actually looks like Michael Jackson. “That’s your brother,” I nudged Niyah. The kids in school like to call her Janet because apparently she looks like Janet Jackson, but I like to call her Road Runner from Looney Tunes because of the way her ponytail bobs at her track meets. “Shuddup,” she said. “Hey, when’s your next meet, huh?” “Tuesday.” I put my hands on my head sarcastically. “You have to win.” “And why is that?” She actually snapped her body around to face me this time, her deep brown eyes locking onto mine. Maybe she did look a bit like Janet. Anyway, I replied, “My mom coaches Columbia women’s hoops, right? And your dad is my mother’s boss, right? Making him the director of Columbia University Athletics, right? Which basically means you have to become the greatest athlete of all time, right? So, you gotta win!” “Psh, funny, funny, Jeri. You wish anyone had any sort of expectation for you.” God, what a duchess! “See, why you always gotta bring that up, huh?” I quickly spat back. “Always makin’ it hot! And people do expect things from me. My teachers do. I just don’t let that crap get to me. Why should I do stuff to impress people who’ll only ever see me as a list of ‘things’ on a piece of paper? But you,” I pointed my finger at Niyah’s nose, “You love that stuff. ‘Niyah Trent. Three time track captain. Senior class president. Math

team captain. Model Latina. Board member of the goddamn recycling club. Three time—soon to be four time—all-scholastic honors.’ You live for that bushwa. You’re a princess, you really are.” The subway screeched to our stop. She got up and I followed behind.

As we stepped onto the platform, she said, once again without looking at me, “You’ve also been all-scholastic three times. Quit being a crybaby.” Boy, was I ever inspired to take a nap under that 4 train.

Koi No Yokan Delaney Lampinen

Butterfly Effect Paper and paint Amber Hansen 19

A Deepwater Octopus’s Expedition Through Davidson Seamount Grace Penza

There are too many living there, but at once not enough: unlikely life bursts forth at the dark base of the seamount. Its vivid, shadowed rock face is a bed and breakfast for anxious pale wanderers, a brief, tepid reprieve. Like the haggard blanket thrown on a well-loved armchair, black coral creeps throughout dense, clammy shag-type carpeting. On a basalt balcony, periwinkle mucus matting crowns a sage balustrade crumbling into a wild garden. At check-out, the road winds between wilting bollards, yawning through smooth abyssal plains that proffer a benthic buffet. Enter sandy terrace: grenadiers crowd the mauve hedges of a minke whale’s ribcage, table full with tiny diners; a heritage rag-quilt of merlot boneworms feasts— moth-like, draining cracked calcium, crowding indiscriminately.

Little jötunn down deep, has your syrup-slow crawl served you? Is your breakfast fatty? Does the morning bustle please you? When your turn is over, you’ll settle on stock-still silt plains, swilling putrid currents and sucking up a broad fin-bone. Salt-driven rivers churn, a creeping blue brigade nudging piecemeal refuse away into a dismal shore until, in one swift foreclosure, this grand affair turns mere substrate— baleen menu cast off, leaving you snowfall on the rocks.

Funeral Collage Casey Vargas

Crocodile Tears Malena Gonzalez Fernandez

By the time June came around, most people who lived at Lake Ammit couldn’t tolerate sitting outside. During the day, the heat clung to your body, baby hairs plastered against your neck. At night, the heat settled over the water like a blanket and fat mosquitos lazed about drunk on the humidity. Sarah sat at the old patio table, her flip flops dangling off her small feet. She stared across the dimly lit water at two glowing yellow eyes. They were unsettling, perfectly still and unblinking, yet able to find her gaze in the night. She looked up at the creak of the old wooden door that led from the patio to the kitchen. Her grandmother walked out smiling and joined Sarah at the table. “What’s so interesting that it’s got you sitting out here? It’s hotter than blue blazes,” Sarah’s grandmother said, her Southern accent emphasized by her sickly-sweet smile. “Your mama’s almost done with dinner.” “I’m looking at the eyes in the water. They glow right at sunset,” Sarah responded. She lifted her hand and pointed across the water—the eyes still hadn’t moved since she’d come out. “You know that old croco23

dile’s been around here almost as long as I have. It was just a little thing when your Grandpa and I bought the house, and now it’s got to be at least six feet long. Your Grandpa used to say it reminded him of me, something about ‘crocodile tears,” Sarah’s grandmother said, laughing a little at the last part. Yet it sounded like she didn’t find it funny at all. “What are crocodile tears?” Sarah asked. She’d never seen her grandmother cry, and she didn’t think she looked like a crocodile at all. “Never mind that,” her grandmother responded, sliding her hands along the plastic arms of the chair as she stood up. “Let’s go help your mama set the table. And don’t get too close to the water; it’s dangerous to bother a beast like that.” Sarah followed her grandmother back into the kitchen, but not without stealing one last glance at those yellow eyes resting just above the water’s surface. … Mr. Riley was the gardener for all the lake houses. He drove a dying stick-shift truck and his cigarette stench burned Sarah’s nose. Right now, Mr. Riley was supposed to be getting started on mowing the lawn, but instead he was at the riverbank, just below where the grass sloped down and met the water, brandishing a stick. From the patio, Sarah watched curiously as he swung the branch against the water, splashing it around. “Hey there big fella,” Sarah heard Mr. Riley say as she noticed a

dark shadow making its way toward the man. Right as Mr. Riley moved back from the water, two dark eyes emerged. “Grandma said that he’s dangerous,” Sarah called out. “You shouldn’t mess with him.” “What does that old lady know about crocodiles anyway? Not like she’s ever gotten near it,” Mr. Riley said, his eyes never leaving the animal as he continued to taunt it with his stick. Sarah watched as the crocodile slowly opened its jaws, displaying long rows of sharp teeth. “She knows more than you do,” Sarah answered, irritated. “She remembers when it was still little.” “Yeah, well, now it’s big enough to eat little kids,” Mr. Riley shot back, casting an ugly grin towards Sarah. The child sat up straighter but refused to respond to Mr. Riley’s taunts. “Ugly beast,” he said, dumping the branch and walking back to his lawnmower. … Sarah was coloring at the kitchen table while her mom and grandmother did the dishes when Mr. Riley stomped into the house a few hours later. “My truck isn’t starting–goddamn thing is ancient,” he announced to the group. “I’m going to call someone to come and jump it.” “Alright, phone’s right over there,” Sarah’s mother said, sponge still in hand, pointing to the landline. “I know my way around. And Sally, get me a drink while I

wait. The heat is unbearable.” “Yes, Mr. Riley,” her mother answered again, straining the sponge while she stared into the sink. Her grandmother’s eyes followed Mr. Riley as he walked to the phone. Sarah’s colored pencils lay forgotten as she watched the scene unfold. The whole time, she felt like the grown-ups were all having some sort of secret, silent conversation she wasn’t invited to. … That night, Sarah woke up startled and confused when she looked around her room and saw only darkness. She was so sure she had heard someone scream, but the house was silent now. However, it wasn’t long before she heard a loud crash, followed by another sharp scream and then yelling–angry, and several octaves deeper than this house was used to. She tried to decipher the argument, but most of it was muffled, until the last part. “You ungrateful bitch!” was punctuated by the front door slamming and the sound of a car starting. “No, please!” came her mother’s voice, and then something that sounded like crying. Sarah thought again of how she’d never seen her grandmother cry. Getting up, she made her way to the window to see who was fleeing. All she caught was a set of taillights making their way around the lake and away from the house. In the dark, and so close to the water, they reminded her of the crocodile’s eyes. Except, where the animal’s eyes glowed amber, these were an angry,

violent red. … As June turned into July, Mr. Riley was back at their house, ignoring his job in favor of toying with the crocodile again. “Stop bothering it,” Sarah said with as stern a face as any eight-year-old could muster. Mr. Riley didn’t seem to care. “Everyone thinks you’re so scary, but you won’t even leave the water you big, dumb animal,” he said to the crocodile, punctuating each word with a swing of his stick. Sarah walked up to Mr. Riley and pulled on his shirt. “Stop trying to hit it, it’s not bothering anybody anyway,” she scolded. Mr. Riley turned to face Sarah. “What, are you scared of it?” he said with the same mean smile from the other day. “Is little Sarah scared of the big, bad crocodile?” “No!” Sarah replied, angered by his jeering. “I think she’s scared,” he said to the crocodile. Mr. Riley stepped down the sloped grass and tapped the animal with the stick. Sarah’s anger continued to boil; she hated when adults were mean like this. Suddenly, Mr. Riley’s body seemed to twist, and he wasn’t so much crouching on the grass as he was falling into the water. The crocodile’s jaws made an echoing noise as they clamped shut; Mr. Riley screamed almost loud enough to drown it out. “Fuck!” he yelled. Mr. Riley’s finger’s clawed at the grass. “Fucking

animal–Hey!” he looked up at Sarah, his eyes wide as golf balls. “Help me, you little bitch. Don’t just stare like a fucking idiot!” Sarah’s eyes were glued to Mr. Riley and the crocodile as she stepped away from the riverbank’s edge. After that, the crocodile quickly won, pulling Mr. Riley down into the water as his dirt-clogged nails failed to grasp the edge. Later that day, when Sarah’s mom asked her where Mr. Riley was, since she had noticed his truck was still outside, Sarah numbly replied that she didn’t know. He must be at a neighbor’s then, her mother commented, and Sarah was so sure her mother somehow knew that she had let Mr. Riley die. It wasn’t until a few days later, when one of the neighbors noticed something floating in the middle of the lake, that anyone realized what had happened. “Serves him right,” Sarah’s grandmother said. She held Sarah’s hand as they watched the police take what was left of Mr. Riley’s body away. “He was always bothering the poor thing.” … By the time June came around twenty years later, most people who lived at Lake Ammit still couldn’t tolerate sitting outside. Sarah, however, who had enjoyed her summers there since she was eight, didn’t mind the sun beating down on her back as she trimmed the grass of her mother’s old house. With sweat dripping down her neck, Sarah pushed the lawn-

mower and thought of Mr. Riley. Over the years, she’d picked up on little things–how her mother always wore long sleeves, even in the summer heat, and the way her grandma could tell who was in the house by their footsteps alone–that revealed the shared festering, ugly wound all the women in this house seemed to try and hide.

A quiet rippling sound pulled her from her thoughts, and she turned to face the water. Sarah stared at the animal, thinking of crocodile tears, angry headlights, and thrashing branches. The crocodile stared back, slowly blinked, and descended back into the darkness of the lake without a trace.

Intangible Charcoal and paper Maria Avlonitis

Everywhere Abusers Die Peacefully Trent Long

The lake was a pair of cupped hands; its shadows were fictions of fish. An old man’s words seeped through the water’s reed fingers. His language echoed like light through a prism, its sounds separated and reverberated, the English meaningless and drum-like. The tip of the lake—void of reeds—nurtured no weeds to catch a hook. There, creatures spoke to Grandpa, reusing words they must have learned from him: a drug-muddled gargle. The turtles, too, breached the surface, mimicking his desperate breaths. From his folding chair, Grandpa cast a line into the water: a gift regifted a hundred times. Though, that evening, the string remained. He matched the line’s twitch. His breathing unwound from its reel but not in. He rounded the lake on a Saturday but they found him on a Sunday—rod erect. Time of death: indeterminate, but he must have stared for some time into the dark of that water, eyes softening with the night, not quite sleeping but grasping at moonlit tides across the firmament. No one fussed at his memorial. Outside, over the water, there were fish jumping—cheering.

Wabi-Sabi Delaney Lampinen 27

Panic Attack

Ceramic Sarah Clein

Red Wine Vinegar Acrylic on Wood Ian Gapinski

Cormorant Fishing Noah Anderson Cormorants bound by snares dive for fish, are pulled to the surface, then are forced to cough up what they’ve caught. 1. The Retired Cormorant Sunning the storm from itself, the great cormorant pulled his feathers through with preen oil. It was May: the males flaunted their upper thighs, squares of white, and the depth of their throats— but the cormorant’s calls came out choked as though he were again bound to the dry man. Frantic for that old tether to unravel, the cormorant dove past tadpoles and minnow meant for swallowing whole, beyond the sweetfish that belonged to the man and his boat—but too soon, the cormorant’s feathers grew waterlogged, and he resurfaced with an open beak. 2. The Dry Man Tourists swarmed around the fisherman’s dock like shoal-forming fish in the river, battery-powered fans looped around their necks. They admired how he handled his bird and how he dressed: streamlined sunglasses, dry clothes, a white rag draped across his leg. The shoals observed him as he watched the rope drag farther under. “Who’s ready for a show?” Baited by his act, they cast for their phones.

3. The Sweetfish The sweetfish wished for cheese wire mercy— for the cormorant’s tether to slice through them both, or for lungs—anything to unpin the operculum from filament folds. As the sweetfish was hurled from gular pouch to deck, it took its first breath, and the last of the river water was expelled from its gills. On impact, the bony plate cracked, the tourists cheered, and the dry man grinned.

Spotlight Reid Castillo

Bardot Ruby Freeman

Bardot likes all the usual things. She likes coffee that’s mostly sugar and milk, and she likes to wake up very early in the morning to feel her skin burn a little at the first crack of dawn. She also enjoys the tang of B-positive even though it’s a grandma’s drink, and she gets away with this preference because she is gorgeous. When she takes the rollers out of her hair in the morning, she is fastidious and precise. Each little wave and curl of her hair is glossy and rigid. As of late, she is displeased with a little cowlick that she cannot tame. It’s been bothering her for the last month, and she’s considering whether she can be beautiful because of it. She of course has skin as white as snow, hair as black as ebony, and lips as red as blood—not just because she can afford the plastic surgery, and she absolutely can—so besides the hair, everything else is in place. She rose again with a face like milky quartz, wet eyes, and seemingly much more kissable lips than before. This is another point of usual delight. For instance: “Jeremy,” she says, pulling away from his face for a moment, “Would you like to take this back to my place?”

“Yes,” he says. So she peppers him with her lipstick until the nibbling at his ears turns to licking at his neck which turns to biting which turns to crunching, slurping, gorging. “AB-negative,” she says, disappointed. She tries to set up one of these every month or so as a little treat. She enjoys a good meal on someone else’s dime. On one such evening, she wears a little black dress—silk, not satin—kitten heels, a necklace, earrings, and two rings, both for her right hand’s middle finger. Missing the feeling of admiring herself in the mirror, she briefly thinks of removing one article of jewelry before she leaves, but the thought is dismissed before a moment has passed. Coco Chanel obviously didn’t have Bardot to consider when she gave this tasteless advice. As she calls a cab, she spritzes her neck and wrists with vanilla perfume, just in case the faintest whiff of cadaverine wants to make an appearance. When the car arrives, she opens the door and locks eyes with the driver. “May I?” she asks. “’Course, ma’am,” he says. “Where to?” She smiles, extends a porcelain leg, and shifts comfortably into the backseat. When she arrives, she relishes in the atmosphere she creates. Her dress shines in tasteful drapery against her figure. Onyx and marble.

Her heels click against the polished stone steps, then crunch lightly into carpeted floors as she passes through Martin’s swinging double doors. Soft orange neons catch the movement of her jewelry as she walks, and she is the center of the universe. Always, but especially now. She is appropriately early for the show, and so approaches the bar to peruse the drink menu. To her left, a couple chatting with an older man. Too much effort. To her right, three ladies laughing over cocktails and their dates, who are looking at her. Workable, but she’d prefer for everything to go down smoother; less fuss. “Miss?” There is a hand on the small of her back and she is on fire from the inside out. It is so perfect that she considers tearing right around and unhinging her jaw and clamping down on his jugular and ravaging every artery, vein, and capillary in his body that instant. But that would be indecent. She restrains herself, ever the class act. “Yes?” she replies, allowing him to circle around to face her. She revels in the faint, unresolved familiarity of his face, and in the not knowing or caring. She does notice his slightly bloodshot brown eyes and veiny hands. “I saw you walk in,” he says, putting his hands in his pockets. “Thought I might buy you a drink before the show starts.” Ecstasy. “By all means,”

she replies. Only the slightest, most attractive bit of a ravenous twitch escapes onto her face. “What’s your name?” she asks, statuesque at his side. She reapplies lipstick while eyeing the collar of his shirt, enjoying its slight shift to reveal more of his throat as he sits down. “Silas.” “What a pretty name,” she coos, letting a manicured hand brush his shoulder. “Cute, it’s cute, I like it.” “Thank you. What about yourself?” “Bardot.” “That makes sense.” He smiles and takes their drinks. She watches his hands as he does so, as his tendons flex just for her, just for her as she receives a glass of something. She sips it, not taking her eyes off him. If he turns out A-positive, she’ll be absolutely incensed. What a waste. She decides she’ll let herself get her hopes up. B-positive. Everything’s been going so well thus far; the evening owes it to her. It’s a glass of champagne, it turns out. At least if he’s sour she may nab a Rolex yet. The show takes far too long, as usual. Bardot cannot stand burlesque dancers—she finds them tasteless and unattractive—but she doesn’t mind if they perform at these shows. Spite works up her appetite. She is comforted that she has at least spent

the last two hours being still and beautiful. She does enjoy the live music portion, but is displeased with the abrasive choice of stage lighting, which is sure to reflect poorly on her complexion. When it’s over, she does not applaud. She feels his hand on her

Leah2049 Adriana Murphey

bare shoulder and at once imagines mutilating him. “Do you have any plans for this evening?” she asks, blinking at him once. “I was hoping they’d involve you,” he replies. “Well,” she says, “perfect.”

Whale Fall Annelise Zea A thud resounds across the frigid floor, followed by muffled stillness, the ocean’s quiet whispers. A closed door is wrenched open, a revolted glare. Flesh sags off the creature, its ribbed stomach, exposed, takes on a twinge of gray. It lays, silent, heavy, waiting, void of any life yet still pleading, begging for rest— to be consumed by the sea. In the scraps of the creature’s glazed eye, it views a blurred, whale-like figure beaming toward it’s decay, coming to its aid. Mother hears my cry. But it’s a one-sided argument, as if I’m not even there. A mother feeds off its remains, the carcass, fraying the strings of flesh, feasting off its entrails. Put me to rest. She suctions onto the rounded, mangled fins, the once navy skin now slathered with a rusted red. She ate it to the bone, leaving nothing but a coarse white sculpture in my place— ribs, vast enough for the sharks to swim through their case, no longer breathe life; they’re calcified, grown over by the algae. The door is slammed shut and we’re banished to forever reach for the sun’s light. Mother, you’ve wrung me dry— gnawed me to the bone while I was left to die. It has been years, yet in the right light, my bones appear whole again, letting off an onyx sheen, an echo— returning sunken fragments to what they used to be. 36

American Magpie Grace Penza Plate 357, John James Audubon’s Birds of America She poises her gunmetal head, heather irises aimed forward. They roam the blank skyline, searching— but not for gilded trinketry or rootlets stolen from saplings. The noonday sun illuminates her inky alula and straight-grain light sage and dandelion quills. Her scapulars are cloud balloons that float her off a poplar branch. Beyond her days of foraging for carrion on country roads, she knows the prize she’s looking for and sees it in spite of distance: hordes of ticks atop a bison herd, shimmering like summer static. She swoops in for a perfect perch as if she’d never left the branch— her ulna folds back whisper-like and she settles in for dinner. The moment flows like river currents and ends as quickly as it started. She dives back at the poplar branch, her polished beak a gentle curve; viridian rectrices drape above her falling silhouette, iridescence dripping, oil-slick, back into her lonely canvas.

Tiger Pen ink Emily Drake

Sean Sydney Hinton 39

Muscle Reid Castillo

Me and _ Graphite on Paper Margaret Kiley 41

The Little Devil Nina Prouty

Pavement. Fractured and stained, all there is for miles. The gray sheet of smog bleaches into a ruddy white and, as she walks, Esther notices something marring the concrete. It’s not just a dent; it’s an imprint of a maple leaf. Burned into the sidewalk, sullied by cracks, it was still recognizable. The sprig must have fallen while the cement was drying before the Cull. The dim light of the rising sun bleeds against the sidewalk, turning the stone leaves a pale yellowish orange, like the translucent spirit of what it used to be is briefly inhabiting the concrete. The devil that had made its home upon Esther’s shoulder when hell burst through the Earth’s crust begins to sneer. That’s you, Cappell. That’s all you ever were to your beloved Jack. Just a tiny mark on the great big road of the Montgomery heir’s illustrious life. What else would you be but a passing scorchmark?

“Shut up,” Esther whispers. A deep whirring noise hums in the distance, the buzz of something electronic: the trolley to Elysium. Do you really, truly believe he still thinks about you? “Of course,” she mumbles. She tries to move—the bus is close, now, in eyeshot. It might leave without her; it has no driver to call out to her anymore. “He loved me,” she says. “He was going to marry me.” Oh, don’t be so naïve, the little devil drawls. You’re nothing but a hick who knows her way around a horse. There are plenty more leaves in Elysium–– Esther smacks herself hard in the ear and the voice cuts out. Heat bleeds up her face, and she rushes to the trolley, which has slowed down by the abandoned bench stop. She fishes out her Elysium-issued ID card from her rucksack and taps it on the entrance device; its little green light blinks happily. Most of the seats are already filled with other masked people, whose cold, hard eyes suspiciously track every movement, and Esther is lucky to find an open bench by the window. The trolley, sensing the full load, starts again. Breathing hard, she rests her head on the glass. Her stomach is killing her. It’s too damn bad she didn’t find anything to eat yesterday. Her mother’s voice rings in her ear. The sun had long set by the time she’d gotten home last night, and Ma was already yelling before the door had even clicked shut.

“Esther Julia Cappell! Get your ass inside, you had me worried sick!” “Sorry, Ma,” Esther mumbled, stripping off her mask. In the frail light of a multicolored candle cobbled together with used wax and old crayons sat a frailer woman. Her hair hung in patches across her bony skull, and her cheeks were gaunt and twisted with her frown. “What took you so long?” Ma crossed her arms. “I was trying to find your pills,” Esther explained. “I had to go out to the city edge. We’ve already been through all the other stores.” “And did you find them? I bet not. I told you not to stay out past dark—you don’t know what could be out there! It’s not worth it.” “I said I’m sorry! What, you’d rather keel over and die than have me come back a couple hours late?” “I’m already on my way out!” Ma shook her head, pausing for a moment. Maybe she’d shocked herself by saying the thing they’d both been thinking for a long time. “Now get something to eat and sit down.” The bus jolts, and Esther blinks the haggard woman’s scowl away. She swallows a lump that had formed in her throat. Her mask still carries the stench hanging over their home, that particular must she knows deep down is death. And here she is, leaving Ma alone again. Every month, Esther insists she has to go to Elysium––the giant dome still needs repairs; Faust will hand the

maintenance workers their permits soon; she will get hers even sooner since she helps with the horses too. It’s always soon, never now, and Esther knows she is lying. The trip to Elysium has become less about work and food and more about spending one more day under blue skies, even if they are artificial. Even more, it means breathing the same clean air as him, her Jack, and the exhilarating possibility of catching a glimpse of him in his sweater vest and hornrimmed glasses on his beautiful black steed. That alone could feed her for the month until she could visit Faust’s great dome again. The trolley ride is a short one from town, and Esther has made the trip enough times over the last two years since the Cull to predict each pop of color in the gray outside world before it arrives. The peeling façade of a tattered billboard just beyond the town’s limits advertises ‘ELYSIUM: WHERE THERE IS NO SNOW, NOR STORM, NOR EVER RAIN! Home of Dr. Maurice Faust– units open for lease.’ The diagram of the massive lead dome flutters in the wind, scored and dulled by flying pellets of earth. The rendered sky inside a cross-section of the structure is still blue, though, and the clouds are fluffy and white like an angel’s wings, and the villas are sprawling and impossibly huge. The sight of it makes Esther’s heart pick up speed. “I hate that you have to keep going to that place, baby,” Ma had said last night. Phlegm was rattling in her lungs and her gossamer strands

of hair each caught the flickering candlelight like mothspun silk. “Faust preaches about being a businessman, but where’s your payment? Does he expect you and the others to waste away out here forever? We’re dying and he has you ‘helping with the horses’ so they can shoot fake birds in the empty land meant for us. He’s a greedy scumbag, just like all the rest of the snobs in that dome. I hate them all.” And Ma, ever strong and faithful, began to tremble. Her jaw jutted out and she buried her head in her hands to weep. Esther could only watch. Her own eyes remained dry. Esther shakes the memory away like an irritating gnat. The dusty windshield of the trolley has lit up a bright, brilliant white, and the dome is glowing in the sunless sky. Her tongue burns and she salivates at the sight: Elysium. The light wakes the little devil up, too, and it claws its way back into her ear. Jack’s waiting inside. Can you smell him, Esther? He’s put that cologne on just for you. Last night she said she hated Elysium too, but her lies had tasted as acrid as the dirt eternally caked on her tongue. Now, the scent of death in her mask makes way for leather, sandalwood, musk. “Yes,” Esther breathes. “I’m waiting for him, too.”

Todavia Te Amo Print Series Leia Ciociola

Are These My Memories? Print Series Leia Ciociola

The House Remembers Eluney González After she finished packing another box of memories, Alicia stretched, glancing up at the ceiling. She froze. “Cacho? Why are there statues hanging from the ceiling?” I paused, my face blank with practiced bewilderment as I thought of a way to explain. To other visitors, I would mimic their fascination with those life-sized statues dangling from the tall ceilings. Their existence, the artistry, the pure mystery of it all. I usually said, “My parents must have hung them up.” But that excuse wouldn’t work now; plus, she had endured too much with me to deserve a lie. “I grew up with them.” I took a break from stacking flowerpainted dishes, leaning against the green wooden countertop, dented in places from when I once cut onions and refused to use a cutting board. “I never really thought about it much. Just something the house does.” “The house?” She sat beside me on the counter. “You’re kidding me.” I shrugged. “I used to think it was my parents. Once, they left me alone for two days,” I said, the memory bringing a smile to my face. “The first morning, I found one over the toilet of me taking a shit.” She smirked, bumping her shoulder against mine. “I’m serious!” I said, laughing. 47

“I don’t know how I didn’t notice them earlier,” she mused, watching the statues. They were all ivory colored, nearly the same shade as the beige room around them. On a glimpse one might miss them, but occasionally a stray beam of sunlight made them glint. “Surely you’ve gone up there to see them up close?” The thought made my skin prickle. “God, no. They feel…” They felt invasive, as though someone was peeking in through a hidden hole in the attic, recreating scenes of life that felt too intimate. Frozen statues were baking empanadas over the kitchen, drinking mate above the porch, dancing tango in every hall. Their poses echoed the past. I didn’t have to remember anything; the statues preserved those moments worth remembering. Fights hung beside friendly dinners, bedroom intimacies alongside nights crying under the covers. I envied every moment I could never capture because the statues already had. So lifelike that they were the memories. Since my parents’ funerals, it took every bit of restraint not to grab the paintsplattered stepladder from the garage to climb up, to lose myself in that forest of memorious statues, desperate to feel the lingering traces they’d left behind unconsciously. “I’m afraid touching them might make them disappear,” I said.

Alicia looked again at the statues and the ropes holding them. She was quiet for a long moment, then jumped down from the countertop and resumed packing. “Maybe that’s for the best,” she said, and I nodded. …. Alicia placed her last box by the front door just as I finished up with the master bedroom. I flicked off the light, and lamplight from the street poured in through the windows, painting the boxes orange. She looked outside, then turned to me. “Are you coming home?” Alicia asked. I looked back through the house. It lay barren except for the couches, beds, and tables. We had stripped even these of their past, leaving only those hanging from the ceiling to remember. “I’ll stay here. Make sure no one robs anything,” I said, then chuckled hollowly. Her lip curled downward in a half-smile. “You’re not alone, Cachito.” “I know.” The house felt cold behind me, like a dark, cavernous mouth. As she closed the door, she glanced up. “Are you going to take them down?” I thought for a moment, then shook my head. Alicia nodded without verbal agreement. The door locked behind her with a snap. I sat on the worn couch resting my neck on the sofa back,

staring up at the statues. The ceiling seemed fuller than before; statues crowded each other, and I only caught glimpses of those higher up, like stars in a cloudy sky. The lower statues obscured the distant ones, though I could still see flashes of the past between them. Then a braided rope as thick as my arm floated down from above, and without thinking, I took hold and climbed. I rose through the house’s memories. Lower down, statues of Alicia and me packing boxes, then my mother shuffling aimlessly through the halls. High up, my father walked with his cane, then without it, his wrinkles smoothing as I climbed. I passed scenes I remembered—dinner parties with music that hummed in my ears. Others were vague, scenes of a play I’d seen but had long forgotten. At the top, dancing in the living room, were my parents: younger, but undeniably them. My father’s arm wrapped around my mother’s waist, his veins firm with marbled blood, her eyes piercing yet kind. A smile tugged at their lips like a photographer out of sight had told them a joke. I let go of the rope, reaching for them. As I pulled them close, my skin froze, hardening to match theirs. And together, we swayed like a pendulum in the air, caught in that eternal dance.

Standing Ground Gouache Amber Hansen

Gulosity Mixed media sculpture Noie Prouty

Nervous Nelly & Doomster Steve Lisa Reichelson Somewhere in the middle of rural suburbia, about 30 miles west of the city and exactly 25.3 feet underground, Danielle and Steven were in the midst of a very bad first date. Danielle, a fifty-something undiagnosed hypochondriac was, for once, not incorrect in her assumption that she had gotten herself into a very dangerous, possibly deadly, situation. She was standing as still as she could muster in the pitch black of her date’s doomsday shelter, listening to the rustlings of her date’s hand in his back pocket as he searched for his matchbook. She listened to three failed strikes of the match, watching each spark of fire drift away from the box with tipsy awe until it finally lit the wick of his blueberry-scented candle. Steven’s face was lit quite flatteringly by the single flame—but Danielle was focused on other things, like the particles of dust illuminated by the flame and the raised wart on Steven’s right pointer finger. “Listen,” Steven said. He reached out to Danielle with his wartfree hand but did not touch her. “I don’t hear anything,” Danielle said. The shelter was silent; the only sounds were the slight drip of condensation from the air vent on the shelter door, the crackling of the 51

flame, and her and Steven’s breathing. “Pull out your phone.” Danielle obliged, holding the thing out like an offering. “Turn it on.” Danielle and Steven did not have much in common, but they had bonded deeply over their shared hatred of everything 5G. Steven didn’t own any 5G-capable devices anymore, and had resorted to using public library computers for his online dating adventures. Danielle’s oddities, unlike Steven’s, focused on side effects rather than causes, so she had only just begun to distrust 5G networks, merely minimizing her exposure by turning off and unplugging every wifi-capable device she owned while not in use. Danielle turned on her phone. “Now listen,” Steven said. He was right, Danielle realized. The silence, previously stifling, was now comfortable. There was a slight radio static traveling through the air, one that she had long become accustomed to as the background noise of everyday life. Steven watched his date with a frightening intensity. Under normal circumstances, he would never have taken a chance on a girl like Danielle; she was, without a doubt, clinically insane. Her profile photo on Jdate

was at least twenty years old, and she was constantly complaining to Steven about her home, family, and the various ailments plaguing her throughout the day. She emailed him incessantly, almost religiously, and though her ‘good morning’ emails were almost poetic, they were never sent before three in the afternoon. They had met at a coffee shop earlier that day, and, had Steven been one of those supernatural doomsters, he would have thought she was a vampire. She was tall and unnaturally skinny in a way that pulled at her cheekbones and neck. She was unbelievably pale and wore a sunhat and sunglasses while outside. Steven, the gentleman that he was, pretended not to notice the gloves that she had stuffed into her purse on his approach. She was freakish, all around. This excited Steven; he had been rejected countless times for being a freak himself. He was also a romantic—why would he waste so much money and time building a nuclear fallout shelter if he didn’t have someone to share it with? “I’m going to turn it off now,” Danielle said. She wanted to experience the unfamiliar silence again. She hated the way the light of her phone illuminated the shelter, and she did not particularly want to look at Steven straight-on. Danielle shut her phone down completely before placing it back in her purse. The silence felt sturdier now, grounding. Danielle was scared. It excited her.

“I know it’s not exactly your style,” Steven said, motioning with his candle to the corners of the small room. “But it’s contained. No diseases or anything can get in here once we lock it up.” The walls were lined with shelves and filled with canned foods. There was a queen-size mattress directly on the floor in the furthest corner of the room from the entrance. Next to the entrance was a small toilet of some kind and a collection of alcohol bottles likely intended for disinfection. None of this appealed in the slightest to Danielle, who disdained clutter, processed foods, and small, dark spaces. Danielle lived in a bright little house in a gated neighborhood, furnished scarcely and entirely in plastic and wicker. She only drank water out of plastic bottles and washed her produce for at least fifteen minutes before eating it. She spent most of every day cleaning herself and her surroundings, and entertained herself with cable TV and online dating. She thought herself to have multiple kinds of cancer and all kinds of dermatological diseases, particularly the kind affecting areas she could not see, such as her buttocks or genital areas. She lived off of disability checks she still received for a pinched nerve in her back that had healed after a surgery many years ago, but her doctors had refused to treat her for any of her other disabilities, so that was the one she kept up with. She had probably spent a quarter of her life savings on

flashlights, mirrors, PPE, and online dating website monthly fees over the past ten years. Danielle had the slightest idea that there was a man out there somewhere who could fix her. He would be beautiful, strong, and probably wealthy, and he would wait at her feet like a little golden retriever, desperate for any scraps of love and affection that Danielle could spare him. She thought that man to be everyone she chatted with online at first, but the sight of a man’s unhygienic eating habits or unruly beard usually ruled that out immediately. Steven could definitely be that man, Danielle thought, pleased that the darkness of his shelter made it difficult for her to make out the features of his face. When they had met earlier at a local coffee shop, she had not found him particularly unattractive, though she hadn’t yet noticed his warty fingers. He brought her flowers, which was a first for Danielle. She gratefully accepted the gift, even though she found flowers to be unacceptably dirty and planned on throwing them into her backyard as soon as she got home. Steven appeared to have the inklings of a gentleman hidden within him, so, surprising herself, Danielle agreed when he offered to show her his underground shelter at his house, which was only across the street. He looked sweet when he offered, bashful, almost embarrassed, even, when he admitted that he was into nuclear preparations. Danielle knew

how it felt to not be believed; she had experienced the feeling countless times in the past ten or so years, in front of doctors, strangers, even her own family. A nuclear apocalypse didn’t even seem so farfetched, all things considered. She had thrown Steven a bone, and so, here they were. Two older singles, alone, locked inside a nuclear fallout shelter with nothing but a single flame to light the room. It was almost romantic. Danielle’s stomach growled. The sound carried in the quietness of the bunker. “Are you hungry?” Steven asked. “A little.” Steven took Danielle’s slight, timid smile as permission. He approached his food store with renewed unease. Many of his cans were filled with processed garbage that tasted great and would never expire. Great for the apocalypse; bad for first dates. He passed his hand over the back of the shelves, feeling for a hard plastic lid among the uniform rows of cold metal. He had placed his most desirable goods at the back as a kind of morbid surprise: just as Steven began to run out of food, he would take a can out from the second-to-last row to reveal something sweet and forgotten; a packet of ketchup, hidden underneath his last can of room-temperature meat, or, in this case, a large bottle of orange-blossom honey. “Danielle,” Steven said. “Yes?”

Danielle was sure this would be it, in the most definitive sense of the word. She didn’t like guns, but she knew Steven had at least one. They weren’t displayed proudly in the bunker like Danielle had expected. At first, that had a charming effect; perhaps this man, despite his obvious flaws, was actually a pacifist like herself! Now, the effect was rather dreary. Danielle was convinced not only that Steven had a gun, but that it was a small one, like a pistol, and that he had hidden it in the back of his food store so that he could lure unsuspecting girls into his bunker and shoot them. She closed her eyes, tucked her chin to her right shoulder, and braced herself. Steven turned around with his jar of honey, then recoiled. Danielle looked sickly, bent how she was. “Oh, my gosh, I didn’t mean to frighten you,” he said. “It’s just honey. I try to save the sweet stuff for later, you know, but the apocalypse hasn’t happened yet, so I thought maybe we could have some now?” Dainielle opened her eyes. She quite liked honey, and the bottle, to Steven’s credit, was unopened. She held out her hands, but they were shaking. Steven uncapped the bearshaped bottle with his wart hand, then ripped off the protective aluminum cover with his short, stubby nails. He replaced the lid and handed it to Danielle, who, to his surprise, accepted the offering. She made no move to

squeeze, pour, or otherwise consume the honey. Instead, she held it before herself, squinting at something indiscernible on the lid. The two of them stood there a moment too long, inaction quickly souring the heat of the previous moment. Danielle smiled a small, uncomfortable smile before lowering the container of honey to her side. As much as Danielle appreciated the effort, she had nothing to wash her hands with and her date hadn’t offered her any utensils. It wasn’t particularly dusty in the bunker, surprisingly, but she could see dust coating the backside of the bottle and she wasn’t even that hungry to begin with. Danielle looked around awkwardly, letting her eyes linger pointedly towards the exit. Steven held the candle below his face so they could make out each other’s features once more before he turned to the entrance of the shelter, unlatched the door, and pulled. Danielle took the opportunity to place the honey on the ground behind her. Light flooded in instantly, blinding them both. The intimate, quiet air of the shelter was gone, replaced by the ever-present radio static overlaying the sounds of nature and cars driving past on the nearby highway. “Thanks for, uh, checking out my shelter,” said Steven, motioning stiffly for Danielle to exit first. Danielle nodded politely, her eyes dragging on Steven’s finger wart as she made her way up the stairs and back into the safety of the natural world. Steven was definitely not her

guy, she decided, though she knew she would ache for the complete silence of his shelter for as long as she continued to live. “I had a nice time,” he said, continuing their momentum to Danielle’s car, which was parked nearby. “Oh, yeah, same,” said Danielle. She liked Steven and planned on emailing him for an indefinitely long period of time, though she had no plans on meeting

him in person again. Steven knew better than to try and hug someone like Danielle. Instead, he offered a pitiful wave as she got into her car. He watched as she grabbed a hand sanitizer from her middle console, applied it roughly, then put on a pair of worn latex gloves before driving off.

Rhythm of Refuge Acrylic paint and colored transparent glaze Amber Hansen

She repeats her orbit around the cage, clockwise then counterclockwise. She trudges along the steel floor. A pin feather—infected—aches as she reaches her shale beak behind her. A hot wind wafts over the cockatoo’s back. A mutt approaches, breathing hard. Around his feet, a length of metal chain. Nothing can live in this tenement without sharing their suffering. Their owner has made sure the cockatoo understands she is turning into an ugly bird. Like a child learning its first words, she struggles to speak aloud; the brume he coughs is already in her lungs. She cannot scream anything but his imprecations. She yearns for something: not even freedom—just brief escape. She yearns for something, anything but his imprecations. Trent Long She cannot scream: the brume he coughs is already in her lungs. She struggles to speak aloud like a child learning its first words: “She is turning into an ugly bird.” The cockatoo understands. Their owner has made sure (without sharing their suffering) nothing can live in this tenement. A length of metal chain hard around his feet, a mutt approaches, breathing: a hot wind wafts over the cockatoo’s back. She reaches her shale beak behind her. A pin feather—infected—aches as she trudges along the steel floor, clockwise then counterclockwise. She repeats her orbit around the cage.

The Captive Cockatoo

georgia Gouache on paper Sarah Stander

They Were Dogs, They Were Astronauts Aaron J. Connor

I While it chases its tail Inside, the capsule flies around the Moon, A gun filled up with gravity instead Of powder, ready with the hammer pulled To shoot the bullet into deeper space. And in the window it will see a big Blue ball and it will bark and it will start To wag its tail. II He removes the end cap So he can see out of the telescope. He peers into the eyepiece and adjusts positions, angles, settings, until he Can see a bullet flying past the Moon, And barking through the window is a dog. And later, he will go to sleep and dream Of astronauts.

newly intimate Mixed Media Jillian Lugod

Character Creation Screen Dorb You can choose positive or negative canthal tilts; shade your lips color-hex #75ff0e or #b78b70; correct the convex or concave cheeks; edit a slanted tip on a bulbous nose. You can allocate stat points to aid in a simulated world: increase dexterity to dismantle a demon-crafted trap; increase luck to turn the homunculus harlot’s head; increase strength to squish a sentient slime troop. You can be a vigilant vagabond or professed prophet; guard gargantuan gonads with a soldered talisman; file fizzy flasks that cure fear-afflicted feet; equip an excalibur to neutralize numen. You can’t, however, summon, or scavenge, or buff yourself with the PC’s white noise when the screen’s turned off. …

Yet, with the screen turned off and the PC droning, a black-bezeled mirror reveals an immersive existence. You could cosplay a vibrant veteran or nihilistic nun; gear up with a Beretta 92 or Roman missal; conceal rye whiskey in a duochrome canteen; wear a bulletproof vest underneath a black veil. You could combat a boring day with a bodybuilder twist: add ashwagandha powder to a cup of matcha; add a testosterone prescription to the grocery list; add a Hail Mary to your morning yoga. You could contour your nose with the help of a Miami surgeon; stain your cheeks with the lipstick from a one-night love; pierce your face with an amethyst monroe or dolphin; fill an empty socket with a sunburst glass eye.

night at target

Gouache graphite and colored pencil Sarah Stander 62

Vitamin C Microscopy Amber Hansen

A Question Answered Ori Maron

She asked me what I was afraid of when we were on our first date. We were sitting in a coffee shop in the middle of nowhere, sipping our drinks in tandem, and taking turns replying to each other’s little nothings. That was a hard one to answer. I sat there for a while, unsure how to respond. Only two things came to mind. There were, of course, the close fears. The now. Things that I want desperately to work, things that I have been dedicating my time towards to ensure they succeed. A job application here, an internship there. My schoolwork, piling on by the minute and ignored to sit here with her. More delicate things; friendships, acquaintances, loves and hates—all feeling like they’re slipping through my fingers. The desperate hope that I receive a response other than rejection from the dozen graduate schools I’ve applied to. The fear that I won’t be accepted on the first attempt, and that the hundreds of dollars in fees would go to waste. A worry that my depression would relapse again, that I would spiral if I let it go unattended. Tangible, little fears. The expected, small things that one gets over within a time frame they decide for themselves. But these weren’t the only ones I could name. There were more, deeper and longer ones. Ones that would not yield with the turning of the seasons and the passage of time. It stood over everything, under everything; every fear grew from its cold earth, stretching into the endless sky of doubt and folly. I knew from the start I was never good enough for it to be justified. Yet I worry that this is all there is to life. Waking up, bleeding my heart on a page, blinking, and waking up again. I worry that I do the things I do for the wrong reasons, that I write because I do not recognize myself when I stop. I worry that I am who I am because I fear what I was. One day, I will wake up deaf and blind and old, life having gone by without a single thing happening to me. I’ve already failed to seize on teen love and I worry this pattern will continue. It is a guttural fear, almost instinctual, a feeling that I have totally and utterly failed already, having chosen the wrong path in life years ago. Should I have gone in a different direction when I still had the chance to change the outcome? Would I, at the end of everything, make the same choices that brought me to that point? I told her I was afraid of hurricanes and sometimes heights. She told me she was afraid of the dark and clowns.

Special Thanks Ange Mlinko Michael Hofmann William Logan The Lynx The Playground Festival The SL8 Gallery The How Bazar David Dresner Elizabeth Grant Kira Zautcke Shahar, Abraham, and Naomy Almog Alanis Gonzalez

Alejandro Aguirre Alex Del Canal Brian & Jennifer Jackson Brianna Bates Charles Humes Darien Octave Denis Lazo-Torres Elijah Robinson Gary Jackson Gregory Charlestin Jupiter Jones Rudi Larken

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