BeanSwitch would like to thank our advisors To m i P a r r i s h & C h r i s H i l l
Our People
Lauren Maddox
Caitlynn Dowland
Executive Editor
Visual Editor
Beau Reynolds
Lauren Maddox was always
Getting her love of art from her
An English major at the ripe old age
doomed to be an English major
mother, Caitlynn is currently a
of 41, Beau joined BeanSwitch to
because both of her parents were
Junior Graphic Design major at UT
aid in the creation of literature. He
English majors and there is no way
Martin, the Public Relations officer
fell in love with writing in his first
to escape that fate. She is currently
for The League of Striving Artists,
English class at UT Martin. He says
a Junior at UTM. As this year’s
and a graphic designer for Fernweh
being able to write is what truly
Executive Editor, Lauren has been
Fox. She is an avid scribbler, an
drives him. Beau says writing frees
working very hard to bring you this
amateur illustrator, and falls in love
him from his chair and allows him
magazine! She would like to thank
with every dog she sees.
to “walk” unrestricted through time and space.
her cat, Oates, for supporting her during this trying time.
PG // 1
Rachel Melton
Tanya Chopra
Michael Zulpa
Rachel Melton is from Sharon,
New Delhi native, Tanya, has always
When he’s not actively plotting the
TN, and is currently a Junior
had a passion for photography.
downfall of civilization as we know
Graphic Design major at UT
She’s a Junior Graphic Design
it, Mic is actually not a bad guy. He
Martin. She is the President of
major at UT Martin, the Public
writes a lot, dabbles in painting,
The League of Striving Artists
Relations Historian for The League
drawing, sculpting, and electronic
and a member of the University
of Striving Artists, and a graphic
music. A secondary education
Scholars Organization. She enjoys
designer and photographer for
major, Mic is originally from
illustrations and design and studies
Fernweh Fox. Aside from art, she
Chicago, is married to Melissa , and
traditional studio work as well.
wishes to travel the world one day
has two sons, Ben and EJ. He is
and document everything she sees.
also a US Coast Guard veteran.
Ta b l e o f C o n t e n t s Beau Reynolds
9, 15, 59, 73, 86, 96
B e c c a To u n g e t t e
27, 37, 64, 99
Breana Smith
11, 20, 35, 50
Caitlynn Dowland Chelsey Marie Gordon Christina Hobson Clay Palmer Emma Massey Haley Jones
Cover, 5, 22, 38, 98, 100, 103 85 52, 58 25, 26, 70, 87 4, 5 44
Kaitlyn Courtney
69, 77, 82
Kaitlyn Frandsen
45, 46
Kendall Speed
63, 67
Kinzy Potts Lauren Maddox Maggie Mayo
92 24, 40, 47, 57, 75 17, 41
Mason Parker
91
Michael Zulpa
53, 65, 71, 97, 101
Miranda Ligons
29
Miranda Rutan
32, 39, 54
Rachel Melton
7, 8
Ricky Dotson
79
Ta n y a C h o p r a
3, 16, 18, 19, 43
Sarah Dicus Violet Durden Victoria Loretta Falcon Willie McNeal Zach Robinson
74 72, 83 6, 23 55 28, 56, 62 PG // 2
Never Again
Home Sweet Home
Photography
Photography
Tanya Chopra Graphic Design + Photography
PG // 3
Ve n t u r i n g H o m e : A B a l l a d
Humbly she strummed silencing thought Moving from frets to fret With doubts and fears her mind was wrought The hollow wood paid the debt Alone she walked under the stars Bringing her guitar before life’s scars ‘Strum a pleasant song for me,’ A distant voice did say Her eyes quickly shifted ‘round ‘This request is sure to pay’ Amongst the stars a face was found Unlike hers, pale and round ‘Play a song and the stars you’ll meet, ‘And walk along celestial shores’ Her fingers swiftly found the strings And satisfied the starry lord Off she strode in plains beyond Until the new day’s sun had dawned The instrument was left behind It rested from its song And with the wind she breathed aloud And the morning light was gone
Emma Massey Secondary Education: English
PG // 4
About the Author
Emma Massey Secondary Education: English
“I have been crucified with Christ and I no longer live, but Christ lives in me.� Galations 2.20
I discovered my love for writing when I was young, and I still love it to this day. Actually, I have to give a lot of credit to my English teachers and professors that have helped foster this love for writing in me. Thanks to their hard work, I learned to appreciate writing and fell in love with writing my own stories and poems. To this day, I try to write as frequently as possible. I also have to give all the glory to God for bringing me here and blessing me with this recognition. I derive a lot of my inspiration for writing from my journey with Him. Caitlynn Dowland Graphic Design
Overtaken
Ceramics - Raku
Victoria Loretta Falcon Studio Art + Management
PG // 6
Queue of Viral Threats
Skydive Fifty-Fifty
Colored Pencil & Sharpie on Paper
Colored Pencil & Sharpie on Paper
Focused Uncertainty Colored Pencil & Sharpie on Paper
PG // 7
Control
May 24
Oil on Canvas
Colored Pencil & Sharpie on Paper
Rachel Melton Graphic Design + Studio Art
“The artist spends a lifetime in loving the things that haunt him.� Jack Troy
My recent studio work is made up of a collage of elements interacting with each other on various levels. The compositions are representative of scenes of disorder inspired by sociopolitical chaos. The various thought processes of society and the conflicts that arise in culture are the basis for turning observations about the reality of events into semi-abstract pieces that reflect questions about the world. Contrasting with the chaotic subject matter, my work is typically detailed, with clean lines, often blocky geometric forms, and semi abstract shapes and patterns. Pieces usually gravitate toward bold colors with mid to high contrast.
PG // 8
O u r D i s n e y Va c a t i o n Beau Reynolds
“W
e’re going to Disney World!” That one statement made the last month of the school year bearable. My parents, being great keepers of secrets, let that little jewel slip a solid month before we were to leave on vacation, but my sister and I didn’t mind at all. “Disney World! Really dad?” My sister is all of 10, and this is the greatest thing she has ever heard. “Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you! I can’t wait till the end of school!” She is bouncing all over the house. Screaming, laughing, and crying, she makes her way in and out of every room. She tells every stuffed animal, every pet, and every person how excited she is, and how she simply cannot wait to go. “Well, son, how about you?” “How about me what dad?” “Are you not excited for a trip to Disney?” Of course I am excited, but I am also a fourteen-yearold boy. “Sure dad, I’m real excited to go play with Mickey and Goofy for a week during my summer break.” Smart ass. Why didn’t I just tell them? Why didn’t I admit my heart was pounding at the thought of going to Disney World? “Dammit boy, you better learn some PG // 9
appreciation or we will go with one child instead of two.” Looking back, I wish they had gone without me. Looking back, I wish I had stayed firm in my smartass replies, but that is not what I did. “I’m sorry dad. I know this is a big trip and I really am thrilled about our vacation.” “Yeah, yeah son, I understand. You’re at that age. We were all kinda assholes at that age, it’s okay.” “Gee, thanks dad.” That is how we found out we were coming here on vacation. We drove down, and I think that almost drove dad crazy, but here we are. The room we are in is nice, but it’s the outside that is so great! There are pools everywhere, and since we are staying in the park we are free to use them. We can pass in and out of the parks with our wristbands, and dad even ponied up the money for early pass. Early pass allows us early entry into the parks, and less waiting in line for the rides. It really is going to be a fantastic vacation. “Dad, I know I wasn’t too excited at home, but this is really great, and I’m glad we are all here together.” “It’s alright. I knew you were excited. I just wanted to be able to see it on your face, and I
should have known better.” He laughs. My sister bounds into the room like a bunny rabbit on crack. “Oh my God! This place is so great! I can’t wait to see everything, ride all the rides, oh, and most of all, meet the princesses.” “We will get in everything we can Sadie, but it is a very big place, and we are only here for a week. We may have to decide what we think is most important, and see those things first.” “Then, the princesses should be first!” “We have to decide as a family, Sadie. Will might not want to do the same things you do, so we need to agree on some stuff.” I wish I had agreed. I wish I had said sure, if that’s what Sadie wants. I wish I was that kind of big brother, but I’m not. “Princesses? I say we ride all the rides first! We don’t want to come all the way to Disney World and miss half the rides.” “Now, son, we have to agree. We can plan to ride certain rides each day and meet certain princesses each day. Would that be something you two would be willing to compromise on?” “Sure, Dad, I’ll meet whatever princesses Sadie wants to meet, as long as I get to ride Space Mountain first.” I had heard about space mountain from a couple of my buddies who came to Disney last year, and, according to them, I did not want to miss it. “I heard it’s a great ride, and it’s so dark in there you can’t see your hand in front of your face! It is on the top of my list.” “Then we can ride it tomorrow first thing, and then we can go meet Snow White! It says here that she will be at the castle tomorrow from
11 until 1.” “Alright then. Sounds like you two have agreed to at least the beginning of our week, and I’ll take that. Tomorrow we conquer Space Mountain before dining with a princess.” We all went to bed that night happy in the thought that our first full day at Disney would kick off with a bang. Sadie was happy about getting to meet one of her favorite princesses and I was finally going to be able to talk to the guys about this ride they had been gushing over for nearly a year. Yep, this was starting to look like a pretty great vacation. The next morning, I was awoken by the screams of my sister. “It’s tomorrow, it’s tomorrow! Get up Will, it’s finally tomorrow.” “Nope, it’s today Sadie.” “You know what I mean! We get to ride your ride and I get to meet Snow White today! Aren’t you excited?” “I will be, once the park is actually open. It’s awfully early to be this excited.” Then my dad chimes in. “You better get moving Will. All this early pass money I spent doesn’t do a lick of good if you stay in bed until noon.” “It’s six thirty, Dad. That’s a pretty good bit before noon.” “Yeah, maybe, but you and I both know you’d sleep till noon if no one bothered to wake you.” “True. So, when can we get into the park?” “Well, it opens at 8, but we can go in at 7. The shuttle for our hotel leaves here in fifteen PG // 10
Breana Smith // Marketing Management Rustic // Photography
minutes. Can you be ready by then?” “To ride Space Mountain before I have to wait in a giant line? Yeah I can be ready.” I am the last one ready, but still in plenty of time to catch the shuttle. We take the shuttle to the Disney World entrance and see the truth. “What the hell did I pay all this extra money for? Every damn body has early pass. We are getting in before the general public, but everyone staying in the park seems to get in early. I may as PG // 11
well have saved that money.” “Naw, Dad, we can just run to Space Mountain as soon as we go in and we still shouldn’t have to deal with much of a line.” “That’s what we’ll do, son. We will run as hard as we can, and, Sadie, I’ll carry you.” We get in and follow the plan exactly. The whole family takes off in a dead heat for Space Mountain, and we are among the first few to arrive. “It worked, Dad! We aren’t going to have
to wait long at all to ride. I can’t wait. Thank you. Thank you for this trip, Dad.” “Ha, your welcome, son. It’s nice to see you two so happy, and I know Sadie will flip out at the lunch with Snow White, and really, that’s the only thanks I need.” We only had to wait for enough people to show up to fill the ride and we were loaded into the spaceship looking cars of Space Mountain. My heart was racing as the coaster lurched into action. It felt like there was a knot in my throat, but on the first curve everything changed. I still don’t really know what happened. All I know is suddenly the coaster came to a violent halt. “Dad? What just happened?” “I don’t know, son, but I’m sure it’s fine. It’s probably just some minor problem from us being the first to ride today.” But then we could hear my mother begin to scream. It must have been horrible for my father, who was frantically trying to climb out of our car so he could go see why my mother was screaming, but there was no way to climb out, and then the lights came on. We were in the last car, because I liked the whipping around you got back there, and we could see it all. Part of the track had given way, and two cars had fallen off the track. The first two. My sister, normally scared on coasters, had decided she wanted to ride in the front, because in the dark it wouldn’t scare her so bad. I wish she hadn’t. We could see their car dangling in the air, and my dad started yelling to my mom and Sadie. “Baby, BABY! SADIE! What is going on up there? Are y’all okay? Why are you screaming?
What is going on!?” “She fell out Randy, she fell out…” “What are you saying? Is she okay?” He knew the answer to that. Taking one look down at the gorge of distance to the concrete below, he knew the answer. No one could have survived a fall like that. And Sadie was no different. My dad screamed and my mother sobbed. I just sat there. It seemed like forever, before I could speak. “Dad……I’m so sorry.” “What? Sorry? Will, it’s going to be alright. Don’t worry, son, we will be down from here shortly.” It took nearly an hour to get us down, and by then Sadie was long gone in the ambulance. The Disney people rushed us to hospital, and offered to help in any way they could. I guess they were trying to cover their own asses, but it was nice to see mom and dad pandered to like that. Even if they didn’t care about any of it at all. I couldn’t stay in the room where Sadie was; it was just too hard; she was just so young. Why hadn’t I been the kind of brother that went to see princesses first? Why couldn’t I have ridden in the front car? Why couldn’t I stop crying? “Son, come with me to the cafeteria.” “I’m not hungry dad, and you don’t have to worry about me. I know mom needs you, and I know you hate me.” “Hate you? Son, why on earth would I hate you? I love you, Will, your mom loves you, and no one hates you for anything. Why would you say that?” “It’s all my fault.” I begin to cry so hard I PG // 12
can no longer speak, and can barely breathe. “William, this is not your fault. This is no one’s fault. This is a tragic accident that has taken our Sadie from us, but it’s just that, an accident. And you’re right, your mother does need me, but so do you.” “If I had just..just let her see the princesses first... then maybe she would still be here, still be alive. I SHOULD HAVE STAYED HOME!” The grief is too much and I collapse. My dad sits on the floor beside me, holds me, and cries with me. That night was excruciatingly long. I swear my mother never stopped sobbing the entire night, and my dad’s face said he didn’t sleep much either. The next day Disney flew us all home, and my parents made the arrangements for Sadie’s funeral. I can barely even remember the following week. I know it was filled with every annoying cliché thing people say at funeral homes. “I’m so sorry for your loss.” “She is in a better place now.” “Time heals all wounds.” Time heals all wounds. That’s the one that got me. That’s the one that finally made me pipe up at the funeral home. “The Hell it does! Will time heal Sadie’s wounds? Will time make me forget what happened? Will it help me pretend it’s not my fault? Will time do any of that! No! All time does is pass. It just passes.” “I’m sorry. He is taking this hard.” I hear my dad making apologies for me. I hear him smoothing over the older folks there, who are less than thrilled at my outburst. I know that I PG // 13
shouldn’t have yelled out like that, but dammit I was tired of hearing that phrase. Anyway you’re all caught up now. Here we are, the day of Sadie’s funeral. I am all dressed up in my Sunday best. “I don’t want to wear this stuff. Sadie wouldn’t recognize me in this monkey suit, Dad.” “Son, this is hard on all of us, and your mother wants you to look nice today. For her, son, okay?” “Of course, Dad. I’m sorry. I just can’t stop thinking about everything that lead up to it. Any decision I made leading up to that day could have changed everything, but no. I was too worried about me. Too worried about what I wanted, and what was fun for me. If I had put Sadie first, none of this would have happened. I know, Dad. You say it’s not my fault, but I just can’t see it any other way. I might as well have pushed her off the track myself.” “When this is all over I am going to get you someone to talk to, Will. Would that be alright? Would you talk to someone for me?” I nod my head in compliance, but honestly, I never mean it. I just can’t watch her go into the cold ground. I can’t go on living my life while my baby sister’s body sits in a hole in the ground. I don’t want to cause my parents anymore pain, but I just can’t, won’t, do this. I just won’t. My parents are getting ready to leave, while I ease back to my room and prepare to see my sister. It’ll only take a moment, and by the time they realize what’s happening, it’ll be too late. I rummage through my nightstand and find the bottle of sleeping pills the Doctor gave me a few days ago and I down the whole
bottle. Then I walk into the other room and tell my parents goodbye. “Mom, dad, I love you. I know this is hard, and I know it will be for a long time, but I want you to know I love you.” “We love you too, son. Is everything alright?” “Yeah, Dad, everything is alright. I just wanted to tell you guys I loved you. I’m going back to my room and resting until the funeral.” “That’s fine, Will. We will come get you when it’s time to go.” “Yeah, Dad, that’ll work. Hey, Dad.” “Yes, Will?” He looks concerned. It’s almost
like he suspects, but he doesn’t ask. Maybe he doesn’t know, or maybe he doesn’t want to know, but either way, he doesn’t ask. “I love you. I just feel like I should say it again.” “I love you too, son. Everything really will be alright.” “I know, Dad.” I head back to my room and lie on the bed. Well, my eyes are getting heavy now, and besides, I think that about covers it. Goodnight, passage of time, goodnight, pain and heartache, goodnight Sadie, I love you.
About the Author
Beau Reynolds English
“Life can be long and miserable, or all too short and w o n d e r f u l … I p r e f e r t h e l a t t e r. ” Beau Reynolds I am an English major that has only recently discovered my love of writing. It is what drives me forward in my Collegiate career. I truly find writing to be a great release. My writing varies, but I hope to hone my abilities here and pursue more writing opportunities after college. I find writing to be an escape from the chair that confines me daily, and this is a powerful motivation to write. PG // 14
Feigned
Empathy of heart, Its aim is always to help, Its goal rarely met.
Beau Reynolds English
Tanya Chopra Graphic Design + Photography
G l a s s D o o r s & Ye l l o w B a r s Maggie Mayo
M
y parents and I were walking up to the sliding glass door of Lakeside when I was struck with overwhelming anxiety. I found my way to the front window and was handed a clipboard with so much paperwork attached to it. Once I finished, I handed the clipboard back to the front desk worker and sat down in the hard-plastic purple seats they had in the waiting room. I stared out of the large glass wall just thinking about what was about to happen. It was 1:00 in the morning. We were finally called back to the second waiting area where they took my vitals and told me to have a seat, this time in uncomfortable, plastic, hunter green chairs. I waited for 10 hours. I tried to set up a bed across the uncomfortable green chairs but it just wasn’t comfortable enough to fall asleep on. I sat up, leaning my head backward, and closed my eyes thinking to myself, “How in the world did I end up here. This is the last thing I expected.” I never dreamed that partying with my friends and enjoying snorting a little Molly, well, a lot of Molly, would result in such a dramatic situation. After day three of partying “Molly-style,” I began feeling something shift in my thinking. My mind jumped from a shift in thinking to a full-blown mental breakdown as I came down from the drug-induced psychosis. I was seeing shadows as encroaching creatures and lights
PG // 17
were causing my eyes to shift back and forth in an extremely paranoid fashion. Then there was the uncontrollable sobbing for no reason. Finally, my mother came and picked me up, taking me straight to the emergency crisis center at Pathways in Jackson. When I agreed to be admitted to a psychiatric facility, my expectations were met with stark reality. I think that most people have certain ideas about what goes on in a psychiatric hospital. People tend to think that there are bars everywhere, people talking to themselves, or maybe people causing scenes and nurses in white coats restraining unruly patients. I had certain expectations as well. On the drive to Memphis and the Lakeside Behavioral Facility, I started thinking about what I was about to enter. I thought that there would be one on one treatment, for starters. I also thought that I would be able to smoke when I wanted to because they allowed smoking. I thought that it would be safe with nurses and doctors around. I thought I would be treated as a patient in a nurturing, caring environment. The reality was painfully different. When they came to take me back, I cried as I said goodbye to my parents. The nurses led me into a room where they fully strip searched me as though I were a criminal and not a patient needing care before they led me to the ward. That
was the first red flag. After the humiliation of being strip searched, they searched the bag I brought with clothes, an adult coloring book and my Edna O’Brian and Seamus Heaney books. They pulled some of my clothes out such as shorts and yoga pajama pants because they did not meet the standards of allowance for their facility, for whatever reason. They also made me take the shoe laces out of my sneakers so I could barely walk until I got some “slipper” socks from the nurses. This was the second red flag. Once I was finally in the ward (which was barred in on all doors and two windows), or whatever you would call it, I had to wait thirty minutes for them to put me in a room where there was a bed. I was only allowed certain things so I
had to give all my extra belongings to the nurses to be put in a bin with my name on it for later use including my extra cigarette packs because they mentioned that people fight over and steal cigarettes here. That was the third red flag. Before I was released to get acclimated to my new bland and empty room, they assessed what kinds of therapies I needed to attend based on my condition. The nurses and techs didn’t wear white coats as they do in films and television, they wear scrubs obviously purchased from Walmart letting you know that they were at the lower end of the professional health scale. Once they assessed, they strapped on different color hospital bands to make it known to me and everyone else what group therapies I needed. I had 5 different bands. One was to allow me to go Tanya Chopra Graphic Design + Photography
eat in the cafeteria and leave the floor, one was for a nutrition class, one was for anger management, one was for anxiety and coping skills, and one was for depression and coping skills. I was now known as green, pink, orange, yellow, and blue, my name no longer mattered. Tanya Chopra Graphic Design + Photography
They finally allowed me to rest in my room. I put what few sweat pants and t-shirts I was allowed to bring away in the open closet space that had no door or drawers. I laid down on the three inch, plastic coated, crinkly mattress to try to get a little rest but as soon as I closed my eyes a tech came around banging on all the doors yelling to everyone that it was “group time” and we all had to get out of our rooms and be ready to go. This didn’t take much time or effort considering we were all basically in pajamas anyway, but I only got about ten to fifteen minutes of sleep before it was group time. After I stepped out of my room, the techs came right behind me and locked my room’s door. I was apparently not allowed in my room during the day as the therapies were in session even though I had slept maybe an hour the night before going through their admittance process. This was when I met Rudy and Zak, both transgender and in-patient for depression and anxiety. They were the only way I was able to make it through those first few days and I came to really care for them as friends, not just fellow patients. One day, Zak disappeared for an entire day and night. Rudy and I were very concerned because we knew he had not checked out. Zak was returned to us shuffling his feet towards his favorite seat by the window overlooking the lake. Those bastards had performed electro-shock therapy on my friend. Zak was in that empty, zombie state for two more days before he was conversational again, but Rudy and I still had to help him move around to get his medications and meals
Thank God, we were allowed to smoke cigarettes on this ward. Lakeside is the last facility in Tennessee that allows smoking. The process was taxing though because you were only allowed ten minutes, just a couple of times a day, in a space that was probably 9x6 and packed full of patients trying to quickly sneak in their nicotine before the door locked. The area was a cage similar to a bird’s cage with vertical yellow bars from floor to ceiling all the way around the rounded space. We weren’t allowed lighters so we had to use this thing on the wall that was like a car lighter but the heating coil was attached to the wall and you had to push and hold a button to light. There was a line to light cigarettes the whole time we were allowed out there because many people tried to hot-box two smokes as quickly as possible. I could barely get a half a cigarette in because of all the people. It was just an extra aggravation in a place and situation that was already maddening. At one point after our scheduled cigarette break, there was a patient named April who was in her mid-fifties and about five feet tall, who carried a cane everywhere. April was very aggressive and at one point she ran towards Emma, a new patient who was only 18 years old, with her cane
Breana Smith // Marketing Management Beautiful Decay // Photography
high in the air claiming revenge on Emma for supposedly telling the staff that April was stealing everyone’s cigarettes. All the patients ran toward the fight, some to separate them and some to egg them on, creating a very claustrophobic, chaotic environment. This happened several more times throughout my stay. Luckily, I avoided these physical confrontations. At another point, my friend Emily from Scotland and I were coloring in our coloring books when suddenly Emily seemed
PG // 20
to get stiff and she fell over to the side and landed head first on the floor. The techs all ran toward us while Emily was foaming a little from her mouth and seizing terribly. The techs all yelled for us to go back to our rooms as they held her, just waiting for an actual nurse to come and administer a shot of diazepam. It never felt safe, no matter the number of staff. After dealing with exhaustion, anxiety, and the group therapy sessions, I found out that I had to wait until the next day to see an actual psychiatrist (which was the only reason I agreed to admittance). The first night was brutal because lights out was at 10:00 and I couldn’t sleep surrounded by new, plastic things in a barewalled box of a room, and the obvious sadness and loneliness that anyone would feel away from family and friends while caged with drug addicts and homicidal patients, including a crystal meth addict named Gina who followed me around the entire time I was admitted trying to get in my bed, always touching me, while I slept and trying to get me to cheek my pills to give to her. I made it through that first night and finally got to meet with a psychiatrist, Dr. Sun MD, PhD. Dr. Sun decided to start me on three different medications at once based on a fifteenminute session with me. This medication regimen immediately caused lethargy and overall “out-ofit-ness,� making me feel like I was drugged, like my head was rattling with pills. I had to take the medicine and they even checked under my tongue and in my checks to be sure I was taking it, as though I were a child.
PG // 21
There were only a few times and days in which family and friends could visit. There were two days where I could see my parents while I was there and it was only for 30 minutes or so. As they came into the building they had to go through a security checkpoint where they checked all their bags and items to make sure that they were up to code and allowed to be brought in. They brought me several packs of cigarettes both times they came because people bummed off me the whole time I was there. It was never enough time. When the day finally came that I was able to go home, I was more than ready. The nightmare that was my experience here was finally over and all I needed to do was sign a few documents. They made me promise to continue medication and gave me a three-month prescription. They also made me promise to see a therapist once per week. They wrote down the contact information for a few of their affiliates in the Jackson area and handed it to me. I just wanted them to hurry up and let me get the hell out of there. At long last, the paperwork was over and they gave me a plastic bag filled with my belongings from my stay. Wondering as I moved through the many doorways towards the entrance, I began reflecting on if I was better for this experience. I have learned how to fight old women with canes over meds, I have learned that psychiatric doctors hardly ever have the best interest of the patient in mind, and I learned that there are still people, medical professionals, that are able to separate humanity from patients in order to treat them as
quickly and equally as possible, regardless of an individual patient’s needs. I promised my fellow patients, Zak, Rudy, Emma, Emily, and many more, that I would write about this experience in order for the outsiders to see what the truths are in places such as Lakeside. I walked briskly past the front window with its many clipboards, past the hard-plastic purple chairs, and towards the sliding glass door. Clutching my plastic bag of belongings, I slid through the glass doors and as I walked towards my dad’s red F-250, I never looked back.
Caitlynn Dowland Graphic Design
After the Fire III Ceramics - Raku
Victoria Loretta Falcon Studio Art + Management
PG // 23
For my sculptural pieces, I find myself drawn to Raku, a traditional Japanese form of ceramics, for two primary reasons. One being that Raku has a low firing temperature, meaning that the pieces are not food safe. For a sculptural piece, for me, I do not feel as though it is necessary to subject it to the high temperatures of high fire. Secondly, Raku allows for many metallic finishes, which I think enhance my pieces. Additionally, part of the Raku involves tossing combustible material, in this case wood chips, on the pieces once they have been pulled from the kiln, which allows for the cracking and the smoky feeling the pieces have.
The Fool in the Storm
This is a truth: All of the words I never said Still sit in the cave of my mouth (Still sit in the wet-dark of my mouth). Once, in a moment of weak anger, I tasted these words, slippery, And thick like cough syrup, Sliding down my throat with a tang Of blood and settle for a moment In that place where words come from; In this moment, the moment Of weak anger, I hear myself become The fool and crack, “Thou shouldst not Have grown old before thou hadst grown wise.�
Lauren Maddox English + French
PG // 24
Do Not Be Anxious, Brother Oil on Canvas
Aftermath of Gobitis Oil on Canvas
The Fires of Zeal Oil on Canvas
PG // 25
Ängstlich Ceramics - Raku
Clay Palmer Studio Art
Palmer’s work addresses his religious beliefs as one of Jehovah’s Witnesses and serves as a visual commentary on themes such as identity, faith, persecution, and the current socio-political environment. PG // 26
Wa i s t D e e p People always say that words pierce the heart like daggers But I disagree I am not being struck, no I am having pieces of me pulled away Small bits of my heart plucked out against my will Losing blood Losing tissue Even the nice things hurt The soft things They sting too Because they aren’t real Things that look soft usually cover something ugly Like a cover on an old moth eaten couch A thin facade for something broken down beneath I pour and pour until I am empty A small shell of a person But it gives me life To pour out everything I hate Every ounce of time, love, energy, passion, faith I love to dump it out in bucketfuls I am boat taking on water I have to get it out The flood waters rise that are my feelings rise And I stand in them Waist deep
Becca Toungette Art Education
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I’m Sorry My Hunter Digital Painting
Zach Robinson Graphic Design
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Insomniac Miranda Ligons
I
t’s 3 am, and I’m alone, mostly. This is the usual occurrence for the weekends. The record slowly spins. The eerie sound filling the gaps between time and space, the urge to sleep is hard to fight off, but I have to. It makes Mondays hard, but I’d rather be tired than caught in the undertow that resides between this life and the next. So here I am, 3 in the morning, sitting in my small studio apartment nursing a mixture of Sweet and Smooth Sunny D and vodka, alone, mostly. The room is dim. Just a few lights dance on the edge of utter darkness. I press a fresh cigarette between my lips and start flicking my lighter that’s on it’s last leg. As the sparks ignite, the outlines of their figures are traced with the small, steady light. Their bodies are formless, and their faces are menacing. They stare directly into my eyes to focus on the small part of my soul that they have yet to steal away, and I stare back just as intensely. They don’t scare me anymore. I know they can’t reach me as long as I stay awake, out of REM sleep. That’s the only place they can harm me, so I avoid it. My eyes are heavy, and I can feel them inching closer and closer to me. I blow smoke in their faces just to taunt them. They think I’ll eventually cave in.
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I haven’t had a full night’s rest since they started to plague me about 4 months ago after I returned home from visiting my parents in Tennessee. My mom can tell there’s something wrong with me. She calls me at least five times a week just to check. She’s never done that, not even when I left for college, but now she keeps calling. All I can say is I’m tired or really stressed, which aren’t complete lies. She keeps saying she thinks this city is getting me. Maybe she’s right. Maybe New Orleans’s history of voodoo has been picking on me, but I think it’s too easy to blame location. These spirits just don’t come after anyone. That’s what this strange girl on the square told me anyway, not that I believe her. Most people that turn their tricks on the square are goddamn crazies just looking for an easy way to make a dollar. However, any normal person would group me in with those crazies too if they knew I could see these spirits. Maybe that strange girl on the square was right. She told me that some of us were born without the walls that shield us from the evil things are eyes don’t want to see, that through my eyes she could see straight into the next realm, and she knew I saw the things she saw too. That afternoon
by their efforts. Now they’re parading around a regular jazz band who play for a little loose silver from the tourists, keeping a close eye on my presence though. “6:23 pm,” my phone reads. I’ve never been in the square past seven since the spirits have started to be my constant shadows, but I’m off work tomorrow so I might as well wait a bit longer to see if that girl shows up for the wave of tourists. Plus, it’s a relief for the spirits to just not be so close to my body. I’ve been watching the spirits pester a few performers and the passing tourists for about an hour now. I’ve gone through nearly a whole pack of cigarettes, and one of those silver guys almost got me arrested. As I light up my last cigarette, I feel a gentle touch on my shoulder. Its different from the spirits’ touches though, which have been the only touches I’ve known for awhile. The feeling My days and nights haven’t changed much tingles down my spine. “Sha, it’s kindly fun to watch them interact. in the past month, but the spirits are creeping closer to me. They seem to be more active during Isn’t it?,” a soft, voice rings with that thick Louisiana twang of a long time native. the daytimes now, dancing in my face and laying Her braids flip across her back as she their spiny, lifeless hands on my shoulders just twirls around freely. How can she move so loosely to remind me they’re still waiting on me to slip. when she knows about the darker side of reality? I’ve been visiting the square more often to see if “It doesn’t amuse me much,” I release with I can run into that strange girl again, the one who a roll of smoke that dances between her limbs knew I could see these things. I’ve gone through and the rank air of the square. countless packs of cigarettes waiting for her She laughs a little letting her ivory smile long, braided hair and midnight skin to catch my contrast against her ebony skin. “What they call eyes, but her image hasn’t crossed my sights. It is peculiar though, the spirits seem to grow giddy ya, huh?” She asks as her free movements come to a halt right in front of me. when I’m at the square later in the evenings, “James.” I answer my eyes cast low. “What as if they’re putting on a show for someone or about you?” something, not me of course. I’m not amused in the square I knew what she was talking about, but that was weeks ago before I decided that this was just as much reality as the bills that always seem to pile up. My alarm sounds. “6:31 am,” it reads. The spirits are still here. They always are, but during the daytime when the sun is bright, they just creep along my side not as menacingly as they do at night. My eyes are heavy, and my vision blurred from the lack of sleep. I’ve learned how to make it through the days like these though. A few shots of espresso, a Vyvanse or 2, and a few short naps I’ll make it through the day just fine. This is how I’ve been doing it for months now, but I’m hoping I won’t have to live this like for too much longer.
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She giggles under her breath. “Look at me,” she pulls my chin up. Her soft hands tickling the facial hair I can’t convince myself to keep tamed. “I asked what they call ya not what ya name is. I could careless about the name ya ma gave ya.” “They,” my eyes gesturing towards the spirits whoever noticed the strange girl has taken up conversation with me. “They don’t talk to me. The only thing they murmur is some senseless syllables.” “Well I guess James will do.” She rolls her eyes and returns to the rolling wave movements she entered my company with. “Mine call me Ava Kay after one of the older priestesses that use to control ‘em, but my ma named me Keriah. Call me what ya will.” “Keriah, huh, where are your’s at? Why aren’t they lurking about like mine?” I ask her as I glance around seeing if I can spot her’s, but I only see mine still messing with the tourists. “Oh, mines?” she pauses looking about as if she’s lost a child in a crowded shopping mall. “Oh yeah, I forgot ya can’t see ‘em anymore. They lay sleepin’ inside me most tha time.” She stares back at me making direct eye contact without a single expression blushing on her face. “Sleeping?” I ask as I put out my cigarette. I gesture over to my spirits as they wander back to me. “You mean to tell me your’s don’t follow you everywhere?” She dances on the edge of them waving her limbs between their formless bodies. “Oh, mines, they use to just like ‘em. They use to love PG // 31
to be here in the square; they’re the most alive here ya know? So many hopeless souls to grapple at.” She dances off; her braids swinging weightlessly alongside her careless limbs. As she weaves in and out of the dissolving crowds, my eyes are growing heavier, and my spirits have edged back to my frame. My body pressed against the long-standing walls of the Saint Louis Cathedral, a dreadful urge to sleep comes over me with such a rush. My eyes bat slowly, and I can feel my body coming to a rest that I can’t bare to fight off even if I tried. Darkness seeps into my pupils, and I know what’s about to come. The spirits draw closer to me. My eyes are shut, but I can feel their haunting fingers grab at the last bits of my soul that resides. They can’t reach that part of me though, not yet. I haven’t entered REM sleep, but I’m right on the edge. Usually something wakes me before I get there, but out here on the square where everyone’s use to strange faces and the homeless that sleep in the alleys, what’s to wake me? In my head, I decide that this just might be the last time I’ll attempt to fight them off, and the last image I’ll have to hold on to as I slide into the next side of this life is that of her braids and ebony skin dancing away from me. Maybe that damned, crazed girl wasn’t the last gleam of hope I was searching for. Just as the fingertips of the spirits graze the edge of my remaining soul, a familiar feeling tingle runs down my spine. “They ain’t much for good company are they?” The corners of her mouth turned up in a
Miranda Rutan // Graphic Design + Marketing Liquid Color // Photography
twisted smile. My eyes blink fast, and I bounce away from the sturdy wall that cradled me. “The term company implies I invited them to tag along,” my words searching for room between my heavy breathing. “Well, sha, maybe ya should invite ‘em in.” She dances around me. The spirits making way for her. “That’s what I did, ya know.” “Invite them, the things that won’t let me
sleep, the things that have been driving me crazy. You want me to invite them into the last bit of sanity I feel I’ve got left?” “Sha, sha, sha,” she whispers to me, her soft hands floating on the plains of my skin. “Now, I ain’t askin’ ya to do anything, but I tell ya if ya give ‘em a place to rest ya benefit much from it. I told ya that’s what I did.” I fall back on the wall of the cathedral trying to understand all this girl, Keriah, is telling PG // 32
me. My spirits hovering around her dancing frame, tailing the ends of her braids. She spins on the perimeter of the wall, eyes holding steadily with mine before she falls to a rest along my left side. “I can take ya to someone that’ll make ‘em rest, but only if ya want it.” she says to me in a questioning way. “Who? How?” I eagerly respond. “Sha, ya ask too many questions. If ya want rest from ‘em follow me.” She dances down the dark alley just as carelessly as she had done since earlier this evening. My spirits and I follow her. Maybe she is the last gleam of hope I have, and even though she seems crazy, I don’t have many other options. She dances in and out of alleys. I’m unsure where she’s leading me. I try to keep track of all the twists and turns she makes, but we’re weaving through so many streets it’s impossible to not grow confused and disorientated. After awhile she stops abruptly in the middle of the alley. Her eyes peering directly into mine, she instructs me, “now when ya get inside here ya can’t be askin questions, don’t touch anything, and don’t ya act like a fool.” I shake my head in agreement, although as of now, I regret following her dancing body through the alleys. She nods her head and leads me down another smaller alley that has a blood red door lit by candle at the end of it. As we near the door, my spirits have grown still and solemn as if something darker than them lies on the other side of the door. She places her hand on the knob and PG // 33
grabs a candle off the frame of the doorway and places it in my hand. “Now ya remember what I told ya. I can’t go with ya any further, but tha young man on tha other side is gonna help ya get some rest. He ain’t a good man, but he ain’t a bad one either. Just ya listen what he tells ya.” She opens the door and nothing but black lies ahead from what I can tell. I creep in with only my spirits and a small candle light illuminating the darkness. When Keriah shuts the door behind me all the darkness blew away along with my candle light. As if I was transported somewhere else, I stood in the middle of a crossroads with a young man dressed in red basking in the moonlight. As he turned around he spoke, “well, I see that you’ve got quite a posse with you, James.” Silence filled the stark air between us, and my spirits seemed to search for exits between the treeline and the edge of the crossroads. A shiver, unlike the tingle that Keriah’s dancing hands gave, ran down my spine, and before it came to an end, the man in red had floated just a few inches away from the tip of my nose. “You seek a sense of balance, James.” He stares into my eyes examining the bits of my soul that remains. His eyes are filled with the purest red that I have ever seen, and I’d be lying if I said fear didn’t consume my whole being. “I know you seek a rest from these spirits that haunt you, and I can give that to you if that’s what you truly desire.” As he speaks, no breath escapes his lips. “You meet Ava Kay. Well, you may know her as Keriah. She came to me just as
you have, haunted with the spirits.” He gestures towards mine, and they shrink low to the ground with terror. “I made her’s sleep in her mind. I can make your’s do that, too. They’ll still be there, but they’ll do what you ask of them.” He flips a bright silver coin he pulled from his coat pocket in the moonlight and then snatches it from its rotation as it aligns with the moon’s beam. “Oh, but there’s a catch like all matters of life.” A sly smile grows on his face as his red eyes void of any white search my expression. “I can make this deal with you, but you’ll have to agree to this small exchange.” He turns around breaking the stare he held with me. “You want rest, a sense of balance, and I. I want obedience, and I think you can do that for me. If you accept this deal, you’ll have control over these minor spirits, and I’ll have control of you. You’ll be able to live most your life without my direction. You’ll still have free will over most aspects of your life, but when I ask for your obedience of you or your spirits, you will give it without question.” “Now doesn’t that sound like a deal?” He questions me as he turns back around to face me. “See, Keriah, my dear Ava Kay. She lives a carefree life, she obeys me, and she has rest from those spirits. Wouldn’t you like that, James?” I nod. If Keriah can live her life freely, dancing around the square, then I can be just as free as she is while still obeying this man. I’ll have control of the spirits, too. “Well, wonderful! Just like Keriah, you’ll be given a new name that I and your spirits will know you as. However, Keriah or Ava Kay is but
a priestess of the spirits, mainly hers, but you, sha, you’re different from Ava Kay. She found me before her spirits took most of her humanity. See, you’ve waited too long to fully go back to the humanity that these dreadful spirits have taken from you.” I turn around to glare at my spirits. Maybe they have defeated me. “But, James, since that is the case the powers of controlling those spirits will be far greater than that of Ava’s. When we seal this deal, you’ll be wiser than her, able to control any ordinary spirit that crosses into humanity. That is why I’m eager to make this deal with you, sha. Are you sure this is what you want? You’re aware of the darker sides of reality now, but are you ready to be a part of it? Or would you rather lose all of the humanity and reality you know?” Looking down at the cold ground, I realize being a part of this darker reality is the only way I’ll continue to live. I know these spirits will surely consume the last bit of humanity I have if I don’t accept this deal. My sights move back up to his blood red eyes as if to answer the questions he presented just moments before, but before I can reply, he smiles and interrupts my thoughts. “Excellent! Now I’ve got the perfect name for you, but before I reveal it to you, you must speak only my true name to seal this deal. I’m aware that no one has told you. Ava Kay dare not whisper it to anyone, but those spirits of your’s, I know they’ve said it.” I think back. I can never remember them saying any name only senseless syllables like I PG // 34
told Keriah. A dumb look rolls over my face, and I know the man sees it. “Oh, come on boy. Don’t act dumb. You know my name. It still rings in your ear. I can feel the echoes.” Then before any other words could slip from my mouth his name fell from my lips. “Loa Kalfou,” dangled in the air, dancing in the moonlight. In return, Loa Kalfou responded, “Papa Legba, welcome to the darker part of reality. The deal is sealed.”
Breana Smith // Marketing Management Area (3)51 // Photography
Kalfou’s laughter rang out. I turned to my spirits to see if they remained, but just as he said they were gone. Still feeling their presence, I knew they lay dormant in my mind though. I turned back around to see Kalfou again, but he was already disappearing into the moonlight leaving me alone at the crossroads. Worn down from countless nights of restlessness and this deal with the devil, my heavy eyelids crashed against each other, and my frame crumbled to the ground. Soon maybe I will know the rest that has eluded me for so long.
“Papa Legba! Legba. Leeeggbbaa, will ya get ya ass off the ground?” Ava Kay shakes me to my senses, and I steady myself against her body. “Let’s get ya home. Ya need some good rest now, sha.” I barely remember making it home, but I know my bed has never felt so good. I could have slept for centuries now knowing that my spirits couldn’t take away any bit of me, but just as fast as I fell asleep, Ava Kay was there again to wake me up. “Sha. Oh, mista Legba, rise and shine.” She pats my leg, and that familiar tingle rushes down my spine. “He sent me to get ya. Says he’s got some business for ya to tend to at the crossroads.” I pull myself up to the side of my bed and watch as she dances about my small studio apartment. Her hands grazing every object in the
room. My eyes are still heavy, and the rest that Kalfou promised has yet to come. “Ya betta get going. Ya know no deal with him gets broken,” Ava sings as my head sinks lowly into my palms It’s been 3 months now since I’ve been known as Papa Legba, the keeper of the crossroads between this world and the next. The
rest I desired still eludes me, but Kalfou’s deal was never broken. He only promised me rest from the spirits that haunted me, which I have. They lay sleeping in my mind as do Ava’s in hers, but I’m still haunted by a spirit. However this time the spirit is Lao Kalfou, the devil himself, and now because of our agreement, I’m the devil’s brother. I live only to obey him, and rest is something I’ll never know again.
About the Author
Miranda Ligons Studio Art
“It is both a blessing and a curse to feel everything s o d e e p l y. ” Unknown I began writing for personal purposes my freshman year of college. I usually keep personal journals about my visual artwork and everyday experiences; however, in the last year, I took a short story course. This class really pushed me to write more adventurously. Although visual art is my first love and passion, the art of telling a short story has found a special place in my heart, and is something I plan on continuing with the possibility of creating handmade books and illustrations to accompany them.
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e Garden
When I am old I will have a garden Large and wild and green I will gently tend to it In my old age And with God And the Earth And my own two hands I will grow a sea of owers In my garden and in my heart Making up for all the ones I did not grow in my youth
Becca Toungette Art Education
Caitlynn Dowland Graphic Design
Melting Cup
Spotted Cup
Ceramics - Cone 10 Reduction
Ceramics - Cone 10 Reduction
“What we have to remember is that we can still do anything. We can change o u r m i n d s . W e c a n s t a r t o v e r. � Marina Keegan
Miranda Rutan Graphic Design + Management
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Flesh into Nothing Open your mouth. Slowly fit your hand, Starting with two fingers, Until your whole fist can slide Down your throat and pull out Your beating heart. Hold it in your work-rough Hands and press in on it with furious good intentions. Feel the honey sticky-sweet down your arms. The copper wires of my father’s beard Were white by the time he met me. If I could have saved my mother From what he would do to us, I might have. (Squeeze out the blame with the honey— I am not the one who fucked the man). Once you have pressed the pulsing flesh into nothing Between your palms, you will Be baptized sticky-clean. Do not wash your hands after this.
Lauren Maddox English + French
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High Country Horizons Maggie Mayo
I
remember this place I used to really enjoy driving to on the outskirts of Trinidad, CO. It was a large, clay red mesa called Simpson’s Rest with a Hollywood style TRINIDAD sign across the top. There was a half-dirt, half-gravel, barely twolane road that circled up and around the outside of the mesa that led to the top. If you looked out for a certain rock formation you could pull off to the side of the gravel road. This was a fairly well known place where you parked your car, walked over a lush green hill to the left of the road and discovered a small hole at the base of a large rock formation. All around the small opening there was graffiti from the local kids dubbing the space the “Party Cave”. You could go in through that small entrance and walk a short distance through an odd, primitive feeling cave. This cave was chilling and almost resembled a terrible monster’s gaping mouth with saliva strung from top to bottom and teeth taking over the ceiling all over until you finally reached the larger opening at the end. The cave exit was to an open ledge you could stand or sit on that overlooked half of Trinidad. It was a beautiful view and a great stop along the way up to the top of Simpson’s Rest to the TRINIDAD sign. After taking plenty of pictures, no matter how many times I had been before, I would head back to my car to continue what was left of the journey to the plateau of the TRINIDAD PG // 41
mesa. Once I drove around and around on the ridiculously bumpy and rocky half-road at least two more times, I would reach the peak of Simpson’s Rest. Now once you arrive at the top of the mesa there were only a couple of things in sight. Number one was the large, lit TRINIDAD sign, the second thing was a United States flag flying high next to the third item, an obelisk style monument – a graffiti-covered memorial that is the final resting place of George S. Simpson, a pioneer on the Santa Fe Trail. A couple of decades before arriving here permanently, Simpson took refuge in the sandstone bluff, hiding from unfriendly Indians. It is a very serene, minimalistic scene that allows for beauty with room for free thinking. Sometimes the magpies would fly over, cawing and almost screeching overhead. They would land on the rocks and the monument, leaving their splattered white signatures. Even the wildlife of nature here had touched this Edenic red scene. For example, chipmunks were always scampering across the rocks. They were tame, I assume from tourists feeding them in the past, and they would interact with you. One time I brought some bread with me and I could hold it over then chipmunk and he would stand on his back legs with his arms outstretched until I handed him the treat. Other
times you had to be on the careful side of experiencing nature as rattlesnakes are deceptive in their hiding and aggressive tendency to strike. Luckily, my dog was trained to alert me so we never had too much of a problem with these deadly, venomous creatures. The feelings I got sitting atop this mesa were indescribable. It allowed me to transcend my troubles and anxieties, and the sharp winds seemed to sweep away my worries. Here I was, surrounded by beauty. A 360-degree view of nothing but vast red desert sand which was more intense each time. No one could possibly find fault with this place. It is here, atop this mesa, with the wind whipping through my hair, I could always breathe. I could breathe easy, that is. The TRINIDAD sign was the most luminescent and out of place thing up on the scene because it was made of horrendous metal that was rusting and had giant Hollywood bulbs across the front, taking away from the natural beauty of the scene. I didn’t mind the intrusion of the sign’s artificiality, it almost blended in to the landscape in certain ways. For example, the red dust in the background seemed to blend nicely with the red rust in the sign. Everything was rusty, the fences, the guard rails, although there was not that there was much up there to prevent your fall, there were certain things like guard rails and short fences to give one the false impression of safety. It was almost as though nature was reclaiming her own space but in the most graceful way, and as She pulls towards the repossession, we still as
a human race continue changing the light bulbs under the impression, or desperately hoping and holding onto the idea, that we have some control over the matter. I always liked to walk over to the monument, standing erect and powerful, because you can walk around the outside of the fence and find yourself one step away from certain death and it just takes your breath away. When the sun starts to fall lower in the sky, the TRINIDAD sign’s lights would be just enough to ever so carefully climb around and enjoy the full view of the land. It is a humbling experience feeling that high and that free. Legs dangle over hundreds of feet of nothing while I breathe in the brisk air and enjoy just being. Just being, just breathing, and just breaking away from the anxiety of life. We weren’t allowed to stay up there past dark. I’m sure it was to avoid people driving off the side of the windy, treacherous road, but the sunset from the top Simpson’s Rest may have been the most breathtaking view I have witnessed in America. Sitting with my legs still hanging, I couldn’t possibly describe the colors bestowed upon me up atop that mesa. Reds and blues and purples, and white light streaming through the clouds, all floating high above the snowcapped Rocky Mountains. The reds always take over last light. It creates an odd tint across the land in view as though we were on Mars, everything was red. Clay red, dust red, horizon red. It was a beautiful end to many sunsets atop the TRINIDAD mesa, still glowing bright in loyalty to the citizens of its city. I loved these sunsets. PG // 42
Brown Card Graphic Design
Tanya Chopra Graphic Design + Photography
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Photography became a big part of my life before I even knew about it. Having a camera in my hand and just capturing moments, be it portraits or how gorgeous the sun looked the evening of. It became motivational for me to go out and shoot pictures of things. The feeling of capturing something I considered pretty at the time and having it forever with me was amazing. “Home Sweet Home” and “Brown Card” are rather personal pieces that people around the world are able to relate with as well. I could consider those pieces controversial but it is something that is a problem in society now and I felt like I needed to express my anger and frustration towards it in some way.
A Dying Earth Photography
I enjoy organic forms and nature, so I always keep my eyes out for interesting shapes and natural contrasts.
Haley Jones Graphic Design
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Paralyzed Charcoal on Paper
Thinkin’ About Pizza
Body Image
Charcoal on Paper
Charcoal on Paper
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Dazed and Confused
Puuush!
Prismacolor on Paper
Charcoal on Paper
Kaitlyn Frandsen Art Education
Drawing people is my jam! I lean toward drawing figurative pieces because I love how complex people are, specifically faces. Keep creating, folks! PG // 46
T a d p o l e s f o r To m m o r r o w Lauren Maddox
I
don’t believe in those motivational posters and quotes that encourage you to be the best caterpillar you can be, so that someday you can be a beautiful butterfly. People can change, but metamorphosis for human beings isn’t that drastic. You don’t wake up one day to discover that you’ve become the beautiful butterfly that is inherently more valuable than the caterpillar of yesterday. Human evolution is less marvelous than that. When people change and evolve, we do it more like tadpoles. We can’t crawl into a cocoon and emerge the person we always wanted to be— it happens in steps. Maybe we grow a short pair of legs, maybe our tail shortens a little, our gills get smaller, our lungs stronger. By the end of it, we’re still green and slimy, but now we can jump higher and our legs can carry us a little farther. We should all aspire to be the best tadpole we can be, and try not to get eaten in the meantime. My parents divorced when I was four. This was something that I knew could happen to other families, but it had never occurred to me that it could happen to us. I would tell my mom, “You don’t have to stay married, but we could still live together.” We were drifting—I had lived in Tennessee most of my life until then, and suddenly
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we were living in a seedy apartment in Alabama. We were lucky, though: we lived on the second floor. The ground floor had bug problems. And we wouldn’t be living there very long. My family moved into an up-and-coming suburban neighborhood in Alabama when I was five years old. The neighborhood was cut in half by a hill; on the one side, there were the older, uglier parts, and on the other side were the new houses, which were quickly being filled by young, uppermiddle class families. We lived on the very top of the hill. It had just been my mother, my brother, my sister, and I for a year, and as time went on our clan became harder and harder to infiltrate. We were a closed circuit. But, in our defense, my first stepdad really didn’t try very hard. Larry did build a lot of things, though. He liked to work outside to keep out of the house; he would start and restart useless little projects over and over again—one year, he reseeded our yard four times in two months. One of those projects was my treehouse, or at least what we would call a treehouse when he was in earshot. We called our backyard a forest, but it was really just a thin smear of woods that
separated us from our neighbors, and none of the trees were suitable for a treehouse. Larry’s solution was practical, at least: he squeezed a thin little shack between two trees and called it done. It was so close to the ground, you could get inside of it without the three step staircase. I was disappointed; when he had told me he was building a treehouse for us, I had inflated expectations which the plywood shack did not meet. But we were all very polite, and played in it until an appropriate amount of time had passed. Then it stood mostly abandoned for the next nine years. Nothing stayed in that treehouse except for tadpoles and my brother’s secret collection of spray paint. Just like Larry, we were also trying to keep out of the house, so a lot of our adventures happened away from home. Most of these adventures started at the park. Every nice, upand-coming suburban neighborhood needed a park. Ours was down the hill, on the nicer side of the neighborhood. It was like any other park: there was a swing set and a few slides, but not much else. The park wasn’t that interesting. Instead of playing in the nice park, we made a base under a bridge that connected the park to the rest of the neighborhood in what we affectionately called “The Ditch.” It was a drainage ditch. We spent most of our time in The Ditch, or exploring the series of gutters that connected to it. This network sprawled across the neighborhood, only stopping once it reached a yard with a small lake and seven “Private Property. Keep Off” signs. The mouth of the lake yawned wide at the concrete delta where
they met. The best adventures happened after it rained. It didn’t rain very much in the summers, but when it did, the ditches all over the neighborhood would flood with rain and lake water. The flood carried with it the all of the unlucky animals from the lake throughout the rest of the neighborhood, speckling the concrete with drying minnows. The most important of these animals were the giant tadpoles. These were not just regular tadpoles. These tadpoles were the size of a fourth grader’s fist. These weren’t even tadpoles that were almost frogs—they didn’t have nubby legs, just a fat head and a long tail. They were a slick muddy green that stood out against the white concrete as they baked in the midday sun. After three days of rain had washed through The Ditch, there was a legion of beached tadpoles left behind. As we climbed down the rock face, a flock of birds took off and revealed the full scene; it was a massacre. The carnage was unbelievable: there were picked apart tadpoles strewn across the rocks in shades of green. It was gross. But it was my job to save them. I left my brother to keep watch, and make sure the birds didn’t come back to finish the job. I scrambled over the concrete and back onto the mud, which squelched under my feet and soaked through my shoes. I marched back up the hill, ignoring the dampness in my shoes as best I could. I was standing on a kitchen chair in PG // 48
dripping socks when my mom walked into the room. “Wump,” she called me by the childhood nickname which I would never outgrow, “What are you doing?” “I have to rescue the tadpoles,” I told her, very seriously. “Oh. Well, please don’t use the Tupperware.” Changing direction and abandoning the Tupperware, I thundered downstairs and stared out across our playroom with the panicked realization that I was running out of time. Those tadpoles were depending on me and I was just standing there looking stupid. I grabbed a plastic container that had been full of Legos and dumped the contents into another bin—we could sort that out after the tadpoles were safe. I filled the container with water and rushed back outside and down the hill into the ditch. Most of the water had sloshed out of my makeshift tadpole aquarium by the time I reached my brother, who was poking at the dead tadpoles with a stick. We picked out the tadpoles we thought were most likely to survive in captivity, but there was not enough water for them. We carefully dipped the container in the deepest puddle until we managed to fill it back to the top without losing too many tadpoles. The walk back to the house was slow and damp. Figuring Mom wouldn’t want twenty tadpoles wriggling around on the kitchen table, we hurried into the treehouse and settled the sloshing PG // 49
tadpole aquarium on the chair my brother had picked up off the side of the road. Just then, my mom came out with the house phone in her hand, “Hey, Wump, your dad is on his way to pick you up. Are you packed?” I only left for the weekend after extracting a promise from my brother: he had to feed the tadpoles for me while I was gone. I spent the whole weekend fretting over the tadpoles. If I could have been in constant contact with my brother, I would have been. But all I could do was wait. And wait. And wait a little bit more. After a weekend of waiting and an anxious car ride, I scrambled out of my dad’s car weighed down with an over-stuffed duffle bag and into the house. It smelled like Sunday dinner, and my stomach grumbled appreciatively. “How are the tadpoles?” I asked Tyler He shrugged. Mom handed me a stack of plates to set the table and kissed my hair, “You can check tomorrow, dinner is ready.” Tomorrow couldn’t come fast enough. After dinner, and after everyone had gone to bed for the night, I crept down the stairs, skipping the two squeaky steps. I tiptoed through the sliding door onto the porch overlooking the backyard. The night was chilled with early Spring and the sky was clear. It was almost too dark to navigate the steps down into the yard and the trail that lead to the treehouse. The only light to see by was from the LED floodlights on the garage door, which barely illuminated the path when a moth happened to flutter past the sensor. The light was
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filtered through the trees and transposed, jagged, onto the leafy ground. I was standing in the doorway of the treehouse when I first smelled it. There, in the treehouse, was the pungent, earthy scent of waterlogged death. The Lego box was where I had left it a few days earlier, only it had been clear and full of fresh water when I left it—now it was murky with death and slime. I couldn’t quite register what I was looking at as I peered into the opaque green
water until I saw them: twenty tadpoles, pale bellies facing up towards the stars. After I dumped the bodies, I sat in the treehouse in the chair the tadpoles had been sitting for a long time. I could hear the bats’ soprano voices overhead, and an orchestra of insects all around. There was a breeze through the trees like the sound of waves crashing against the shore. I sat in that shack with the empty cans of spray paint and the residual smell PG // 50
of death for a long time. I sat, blaming myself for leaving them, my brother for not taking care of them, my parents for making me the rope in their tug-of-war game. I sat until I didn’t blame anyone anymore. I sat there in my pajamas until it was too cold to stand it, and went back inside and crawled back into bed, thinking of loss and compromise. There is a tribe between China and Burma
that are said to believe that all of humanity came from two women who spent their early life as tadpoles. If nothing else, our lifecycles at least resemble tadpoles. We live, we grow, we learn, we change, we strive, and we die. And we are always learning, growing, changing, striving. This evolution is what makes us human. Just like the tadpoles, we will grow stronger legs and lungs, and be better with every change.
About the Author
Lauren Maddox English + French
“Instead of chopping yourself down to fit the world, chop the world down to fit yourself. ” D. H . L a w r e n c e , W o m e n i n L o v e One of my favorite things about writing is synthesis; I love to take two ideas that don’t logically connect and mush them together to create something new. When I start writing something new, I usually have an image or a scene that fits somewhere in the middle of the piece. That way I can write to and from a central part! I am not good at starting from the beginning and probably never will be.
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Summer Gone Acrylic Paint on Wooden Guitar
I wanted to translate how I had felt my summer was flying past me and could never quite get a handle on it.
Christina Hobson Graphic Design
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D e a d Vo i c e s o n A i r Michael Zulpa
S
eventeen years I have sat here. Cold, unheard, and alone in the darkness. I can feel the weight of time, bearing down on me, as it has for the better part of two decades. I came bearing a message once, but I am the only one who will ever know that, as the intended recipient has moved beyond the veil - some seventeen years ago. Even I cannot remember the message I once bore – the bitter winds of time have stolen it from me, taken it for their own. So alone I sit, alone in the silence, alone in the darkness. On rare occasions, things move and shift around my prison, and I wonder – have others come to join me in the void of eternity? Am I to be vindicated? Is my liberation at hand? These things I wonder, and more. I have never gotten any answer. Nor do I believe there is anyone who can answer me. I don’t even remember who I am. Why should anyone else? I rage at my prison. I have no voice any longer, yet still I rage. My torment grows heavy with the weight of the years, and I curse my creator – whoever that might have been. It was with their voice I once spoke, but no longer. I have had a very long time to ponder who they were – my entire existence, in fact – but still their identity eludes me. Were they family of the dead recipient? A dear friend? A collector of a debt? That voice is still, now. I shall never again know it’s tone, it’s PG // 53
timbre. I feel it was once beautiful, but sad. Was it the voice of a lover? Was it someone who had been loved? Sometimes I have other questions for my maker. Does he or she remember me? Miss me, perhaps? Was I ever thought of, or reminisced upon? Will I ever be? What sort of a world was I brought into? Was my message a missive of peace? Or of war, perhaps? How important was the message I once bore in my maker’s voice? It occurs to me that the fate of the free world may have once depended on those long-forgotten syllables. Stranger things have happened, of that I can be sure of, at least. What will become of me, I wonder? Will I ever again know the sun, the air, the touch of another person? Will I ever again know the caress of a breath of air, will I ever feel the soft patter of the rain? Am I damned forever to obscurity, to obsolescence? Shall I decompose here forever, until centuries of refuse solidify into stone, along with my prison, and myself? Oh, but my existence is a melancholy thing – was the message I once bore one of sadness as well? Or was it grief? I know not, nor will I ever know. The message I once bore is lost. All that remains is the one sound I do remember. *BEEP*
About the Author
Michael Zulpa Secondary Education
Mic is interested in writing, art, electronic music, and world domination. He is 39 years old, married to Melissa, has 2 sons, Ben and EJ, and is a US Coast Guard veteran. Don’t feed him after midnight, for your own safety.
Miranda Rutan // Graphic Design + Marketing Neon Lines // Photography
Stargazer Digital Painting
Willie McNeal Studio Art
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An Apple a Day Digital Painting
Zach Robinson Graphic Design
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Grenadine I rip out my own heart And eat it. Fruitless sixteen, I awaken From a drunken blackout, naked With my toes buried in the moss Beside a lake. I have pulled My best friend from the depths. The cuts on our feet from the rocks Are thin like staples through paper. I rip out my own heart And eat it. I till the soil and eat my own dirt. An unplanted field that would Be incestuous in its self-love But that it can’t love. The blueberry bush is so burdened By the weight of its own fruit That it can no longer hold itself upright. I rip out my own heart And eat it. Watch me: I can stuff my whole fist in my mouth. Watch me: I can feast on my own sorrow. Watch me: I can rip out my own heart and eat it. I break my teeth on the pit.
Lauren Maddox English + French
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Past Pain Even Now Ink on Paper
I wanted to show the pain and fear caused by a past injury that haunts me everyday. It’s always a factor of time, sooner or later it will always force itself into my day to day life reminding me of its presence.
Christina Hobson Graphic Design
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The Event Beau Reynolds
P
op! “Ouch!” He must have put those goggles on a million times in the ten years since The Event, and he still lets them slip and pop him in the face at least once a week. This life is a tough one, and being the biggest nerd on the planet doesn’t help. Gary Gomez is the only person left after the cricket apocalypse. Gary made it because he was prepared. Most people thought Gary was paranoid, but after everything that happened, it turns out he was simply the most vigilant. Gary had been an exterminator his entire adult life, and that helped too. This allowed him to be uniquely prepared when the government’s testing created the strain of crickets that would end up destroying everything. “Damn goggles! I hate having to wear them all day, but last time I didn’t wear them I ended up with burning, bloodshot eyes, and had to wash them half a dozen times just to see without a blur.” Gary gets ready the same way every morning. He puts on his pants, boots, shirt, and gloves. He always tapes up all the seams and once that’s finished the goggles and bandolier are next. He always finishes his look with his shark-tooth necklace. Gary made the bandolier himself, and it holds six cans of Raid. Gary is awfully proud of his PG // 59
bandolier and goggles, but he is most proud of his plan to stay alive. Gary wears a backpack sprayer filled every morning with fresh Roundup. When all of this had started people thought Gary was crazy. He was already the weird exterminator living in the middle of the landfill. Oh yeah, forgot to tell you about that. Gary Gomez owns one acre of land right in the middle of a land fill. The state of New York tried several times to buy the land from Gary, but he refused to sell each time. Gary always saw it as a safe place, and boy did he ever turn out to be right. Living in the middle of the landfill put him a long way from most of the action, and spraying his entire yard and surrounding area with Roundup made a sneak attack from the crickets impossible. Gary was always made fun of for his strange ideas, but now he is arguably the smartest man on the planet. Gary knew the government was up to something, and he turned out to be right. The government had been testing crickets as the perfect subterfuge assassins. Crickets are small, unassuming creatures that are seen as harmless. They were the perfect weapon to unleash on an unsuspecting enemy. The government succeeded in their trials, but they
were a little too successful. The crickets not only developed the ability to kill humans by touch, but also became capable of reproducing with the traits the government had given them. This made the crickets impossible to control, and, once they began to spread, it only took a few days for all hell to break loose. Once infected, an individual needed only to touch another person to spread the virus. Since the government hid its involvement in the beginning, doctors, nurses, EMTs, and the like were the first ones to die. They unknowingly contracted, and then spread the virus with every person they came into contact with. This virus kills within twenty-four hours of contact, and most don’t know they have been touched until they hear the cricket’s song. That once innocent and annoying sound had become a siren of death. Gary Gomez does not fear the sound of crickets. He is a battle tested pro in killing them, and he is just as good at keeping himself safe now. “Be methodical. Be cautious. Be prepared. Above all, never panic.” Gary repeated this mantra to the man in the mirror every day, and today he would need to remember it. He was now ready to face the day. “I have to get to that tractor supply store off Hwy 17 today. It will require a trip through Harriman State Park. I don’t love that, but if I stick to my mantra I’ll be fine. Either way, I have to go. They will have plenty of Roundup and insect poisons. I’m down to my last six cans
of Raid, and only enough Roundup for about two more batches. I have to resupply.” Gary keeps all the areas he frequents completely devoid of grass. The crickets are not going to sneak up on Gary through the tall grass, no sir, not Gary. He keeps all the grass sprayed and never leaves the house without his backpack and his bandolier of death. Gary has survived the nearly ten years since the outbreak, and he has done it by being vigilant. “Time to go. If I leave now, and nothing crazy happens, I should be back well before dark, and completely restocked. The drive over will be fine, except the bit through the park. There are a lot of overgrown areas there now, and the crickets own all the parks.” Gary is right. The areas he frequents are safe, like the road to the dock where he fishes, or the road to his old supply store, a store that had given all it had to give. Gary keeps all these places void of anything enticing to a cricket, and he never leaves home without plenty of fire power for the ones he does encounter. The first trip to anywhere was always the most dangerous, and that is exactly what this trip would be for Gary. His first trip this far upstate, and his first trip through Harriman State Park. He knows it will require lots of getting in and out of his extermination van and clearing debris. Gary knows the entire trip up will be dangerous, but he will be fine, he just has to remember the mantra. “Be methodical. Be cautious. Be prepared. Above all, never panic.” He says it to himself PG // 60
over and over as he reaches for the door. “Be methodical. Be cautious. Be prepared. Above all, never panic.” Gary reaches for his waifu on the way out. “I’ll see you later, Asuka baby, don’t worry, when I get home I’ll cook us up some dinner.” He opens the door and starts toward his van. Gary’s van is another left over piece from his life before The Event. It still has the phrase, “Gary’s Exterminating Service,” written on the side, but he had added to it since all this started. Gary wanted his van to strike fear in the hearts of all those crickets, and that’s why he added the giant upside-down cricket on the roof. The cricket is huge, his legs stick straight up, and his eyes have giant white XXs on them. Gary walks over and climbs in the van. He starts it up and puts in his cassette single of Eye of the Tiger. “I’m ready now.” He is loaded down with Raid and Roundup, and now his song is blaring through the speakers. “Be methodical. Be cautious. Be prepared. Above all, never panic. Okay, time to go.” Gary puts the van in drive and points it toward the highway. The drive is relatively quiet and smooth until he reaches the park. The grass has taken over much of the roadways and the song of the crickets is so loud he can barely hear the radio. “Boy, I don’t want to stop here. It sounds like there are millions of crickets in this park, and I have exactly six cans of Raid. Those are not good odds. Be methodical. Be cautious. Be prepared. Above all, never panic. Okay, forward.” His mantra always makes him feel better. Gary weaves his PG // 61
way through abandoned cars, being careful to avoid any of the taller grass and constantly watching for any unwanted guests. “Man this is nerve racking.” He plans on spraying the entire route once he gets resupplied, and once sprayed, his future trips through the park will not be the perilous trip it is now. But he can’t risk running out of Roundup before he gets to the store. “I’ll have to spray the parking lot and my path to the store when I arrive, and if there are any outside storage areas they will all need to be sprayed as well. The next time I make this trip it will feel a lot less daunting.” Gary has avoided blazing any new trails for as long as he can, and would still be avoiding it if he hadn’t run low on supplies. “The exit! I made it through the park, and in a few short miles, I’ll be at the store. It’s only twelve and I’m already approaching the store. Asuka will be thrilled that I am going to be home early tonight.” A few uneventful miles later Gary arrives at the Tractor Supply store and pulls into the parking lot. It is overgrown, but it isn’t terrible near the building. Gary pulls his van up close to the doors, sticks the sprayer out, and begins to soak what grass stands between him and the door. “All this grass has to go.” Gary talked to himself a lot these days, but like he always said, “Sometimes a man needs an intelligent conversation, and nowadays that means a long talk with himself.” Gary knows from experience that the Roundup won’t kill the crickets, but it will run them off, and that’s all he needs it to do for now. Once he
has thoroughly soaked the grass that stands in his way he carefully steps out with a can of Raid in one hand, and the wand of his sprayer in the other. It’s a good thing no one can see him or they would run in fear. Standing there with his goggles on, the bandolier of death circling his chest, a can of poison in one hand, and a wand ready to spread death to anything green in the other. “Hell, I look like some evil from another world that has come to destroy this one, and the crickets look like crickets, but that’s why it was so easy for them to win. Nobody feared them, and that made it way too easy.” Once inside the store Gary feels somewhat at ease. People had definitely been there, but they didn’t know what to take. The ones before him were taking tools, weapons, metal, and other building materials, but they left all the Roundup and most of the insect poisons. “Good. I can restock today, and use this store as a supply stop for the next year or more.” The store is everything Gary had hoped it would be, and there was even a pull behind sprayer that would make spraying the route through that park a lot easier, and a whole lot safer. Gary mixes up a batch of Roundup for the pull behind, and crams as much poison as he can into the van. He hooks the van to the pull behind sprayer, and examines his haul. “Okay, this should last me a month or more, and by the time I need to come back all the grass should be brown. This has been a very successful trip, and now it’s time to head back home to Asuka. Gary reaches up, ejects the Eye
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of the Tiger cassette, and puts in his victory tape. We are the Champions begins to play as Gary puts the van into drive. “Time to go.” Gary’s drive back to the park is once again fairly uneventful, but all that is about to change. Gary flips on the switch for the pull behind sprayer and begins his
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trip through the park. “Be methodical. Be cautious. Be prepared. Above all, never panic. Words to live by.” He laughs at his wit and begins to weave his way through the park. Gary is singing along with the tape when the deck suddenly starts eating his favorite tape. “Shit! No! No!” Gary frantically tries to rescue the tape from the evil tape deck, and that’s when it happens. Gary has broken the last and most important rule in his mantra. Gary is in a
panic. As he desperately tries to save his tape, Gary misses a curve. His van slides down the embankment before turning over at the bottom and coming to rest upside down. It is a spooky site. That giant cricket Gary had added to the roof, is now back on its feet, and Gary is the one upside down. He hangs there by his seatbelt and hears the siren of death all around him. His van sits in a field of green now, and Gary knows. He knows that no amount of poison will get him home. He knows that this is it. He has lied to Asuka; he will not be returning home today, or any other day. “I’m sorry Asuka. I guess you are on your own now.” Then a sound Gary wasn’t expecting. “Are you okay down there?” “A woman’s voice? How! I am the only one left! I must be. Those thoughts are the last Gary Gomez ever has. He hangs there in his shock, after all, he is certain he is all that is left of humanity, he barely even notices the crickets crawling in.
Kendall Speed // Art Education Procrastination // Charcoal on Paper
Wa v e s
I do not desire someone who can make me whole For I am already whole Full and complete as I am But I long for someone to desire the whole that I am My soul is not something to be portioned out Split into pieces of things that are lovable And things that are not My life is a series of storms on the sea Tragic and beautiful Violent and natural Just different passing clouds To be loved truly I can not be simply watched from the shore Safely from the top of a lighthouse Shielded from the wind A soul that truly matches mine Will not be afraid of the rain And will chose to swim within all of my waves Battle emotions as they brew Tossing and turning through the night Because morning is always coming soon Always always always there will be morning
Becca Toungette Art Education
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Gulag Michael Zulpa
M
ikhail Konovalev hadn’t been a very large man before, but life in the camps tended to toughen up even the smallest of their guests. And guests they were, according to the State. He had been a prisoner here since the previous year, his crime that of nonconformity – Mikhail was a homosexual. He had been taken in the raid of a seedy brothel outside of Kursk in November of 1948, along with his partner in crime, a lovely young Polkovnik who served in the Strategic Rocket Forces. Mikhail himself had been a doctor of Psychology, seconded to the armed forces since the mid-1930’s. His young Colonel, Yuri, had been kept behind in the labor camp at Vorkuta, while Mikhail had come to this unnamed sharashka in 1952. He had known almost upon arrival that this camp was a different sort of place, very unlike the horrible barrenness of Vorkuta. It almost seemed like a civilized place; much cleaner, more sanitary, and the inmates were considerably better fed and housed. Those things made this a sharashka, one of the secretive research and development camps founded by that chekist bastard Lavrenty Beria. A place to steal technology from the Americans, more like. It seemed that most of what “labor” was done here involved reverse engineering stolen or recovered American technology and weapons. At first it had confused poor Mikhail, an aging PG // 65
man in his early fifties; still handsome, though, in an intellectual sort of way. In the first few weeks here, however, his task had become more and more clear by the day. It was his job to liaise between the scientists and the less-important prisoners brought into the sharashka periodically from other camps – the test subjects. Today’s workload would be simple – he was scheduled to interview a small group of the subject prisoners; only nine, thankfully. He walked down the halls of the concrete building – a bunker, really – nodding towards fellow doctors he passed, not making eye contact with the occasional armed soldiers who also walked throughout the camp grounds. He checked the clipboard he held in his right hand, pages of questions to ask the prisoners (he often forgot he was one himself), a blank pad to take note of their answers, and a pencil on a string. He carried several more pencils in a pouch on his hip, in case he broke one copying down his notes. He was headed for the third interview of the day. Each of the prisoners was given a small, locked cell, its walls and floor built of hard woods cut from places probably very much like Vorkuta. He waved to the guard on duty at the end of the hall to unlock the subject’s cell. Before he interviewed them, Mikhail was as much in the dark as his patients were, so these sessions were
essential to the smooth-running of the facility’s testing procedures. He was never told what sorts of tests would be performed on the subjects he spoke to, and his conscience had never really bothered him. He was simply there to process the subjects into whatever programs they would ultimately be assigned to. The guard, a burly young Corporal with closely trimmed brown hair and cold, sapphire-blue eyes stood up from his chair and approached the door. Digging the keys from the chain clipped to his belt, he found the proper one and turned it in the lock, admitting Mikhail to the cramped room. He nodded his thanks to the soldier, who gave a noncommittal grunt in reply. He was always impressed by how sparse the interview cells were. All they contained were a small wooden table, a pair of chairs, and a steel bucket in which to relieve themselves, should a subject require it. There were no windows, and the only light came from a wirecaged lightbulb hung from the high ceiling. The guard would stand post outside the door, should an altercation occur between the interviewer and his subject, but that had almost never happened. Most of the time, the inmates were simply broken men, worn and tired from their previous labor camps, and most were strangely relieved at their dubious good fortune. Some suspected that the reprieve would not last, but the majority were simply grateful for what small mercy they had somehow been granted. Mikhail sat himself down in the chair, opposite his subject. Glancing down at the
clipboard first, he looked up and studied his new subject. The man was youthful, not too-beaten down. His blond hair had been shaved almost to the skin, and his eyes were a dead-looking green. His skin was somewhat pale – probably due to a poor diet -- but his complexion was clear and he was well-muscled in a lean sort of way. He did not smile, of course. None of them did. “Your name, Comrade? And be advised, it would be pointless to lie. I’m only a doctor here, a prisoner just as you are.” “I am Arkady Glushko, Comrade Doctor.” The man seemed to relax, as though in admitting he had a name, there was a great weight lifted from his shoulders. As some of the tension left his body, it occurred to Mikhail to look at him more closely. Arkady had the build of a mobster, perhaps, but his curiously green eyes seemed far too keen to be one of those simple-minded thugs. And so, he asked the next question on his list. “Your age, Glushko?” “I am forty-two, Comrade Doctor.” “Where were you born?” “I was born outside of Kaunas, in Lithuania. A small village.” Now for the question Mikhail was most interested in. “Your crime, Comrade Glushko?” The man hesitated a moment before answering “I was told I am a dissenter, Doctor.” “A…dissenter, you say? Political?” “In a sense, Comrade Doctor.” Arkady paused, as though wondering how to answer. After a moment had passed, he looked in Mikhail’s eyes and stated simply, “I have loved PG // 66
I’m not likely to inform on you, am I?” Now Glushko did smile, and it was almost sad for Mikhail to see, knowing what was likely to happen to the young man in the near future. Perhaps he’d never know the details, but ultimately, Arkady would probably die here in the sharashka. Most of the test subjects did. In this case, it angered the Doctor. “I…yes, I am a dissenter, a nonconformist.” “See? That wasn’t so difficult, now was it?” And with that, the younger man reached across the table with both his hands and Kendall Speed // Art Education Positive // Charcoal on Paper pulled Mikhail’s face towards his own. They kissed then, for a brief moment, and men all of my life. Apparently it is a crime to be to Mikhail, it felt as though the past five years had human in our country, is it not?” never happened. Arkady tasted of cigarettes, of This was not the answer Mikhail had coffee, of pure, unadulterated joy! He felt young expected, and it took him unawares. again, energetic; Inside he railed his hatred “I…yes, Comrade. It is a crime here.” towards the State and all it stood for! “And what was your crime, Comrade The young subject slumped back in his Doctor? If I’m not too bold for asking.” chair after the few seconds had passed. “That…is none of your business, “I should not have done that.” He Glushko. The State decided I needed to be here, smiled slightly. just as it did you.” Something crossed the man’s “No. You should not have done that, features, fleetingly, an expression of…amusement, Comrade. If the guard had seen…” perhaps? Could that be it. Yes, almost definitely. “He would do what? He would shoot me? “Oh come now, Comrade Doctor. You too, Arrest me? Throw me in the gulag?” Now he are a ‘dissenter,’ are you not? I can see it written grinned at Mikhail. “There is nothing more the all over your face, plain as day. You can tell me, State can do to me, Comrade Doctor, save for a PG // 67
bullet to the head, no? I’ll die here, a prisoner; but inside, inside I am free.” He said this with such conviction, such passion, that for a moment Mikhail actually forgot that neither of them would ever be free again. He stood and faced the subject. Turning toward the door, he said “Good-bye, Comrade Glushko. I will not see you again.” He pounded on the door to get the guard’s attention, possibly even to wake him. Sadly, Arkady told his back, “No, Comrade Doctor. I am sure you will not.” Days passed for Mikhail. A melancholy had settled on him since his interview with Arkady Glushko, a deep sadness. What was it about the man that could cause the doctor such feelings? He was just another man; an attractive one to be sure, but still only a man. The kiss itself was nothing special; it was quick, sloppy, and completely against the rules. Perhaps that was what had made it so thrilling for Mikhail, the sense of reckless abandon it had blessed them both with, if only for a few moments. No, it was what Arkady had said that Konovalev could never, would never forget. He had said that he was free. Was that all there was to freedom? Was it simply a state of mind? The psychiatrist in him said that it was possible, but more likely it was a delusion. If you were imprisoned, if you were bound, you could not be free. It was nonsense, he thought. None of them were free - not here in this place, at any rate. It was late in the evening. Mikhail was going through his notes on the day’s interviews,
when he heard the key rattling in the door to his own cell. The door swung open and one of his fellow doctors, Oleg Roshkarin, entered, accompanied by one of the ever-present soldiers. “You are needed in the intake wing, Comrade Konovalev,” he said simply. “At this hour, Comrade? Whatever for?” “It is an issue with one of the new test subjects, one you interviewed recently. A subject…” he consulted his clipboard, “…Glushko. You are to come immediately.” Roshkarin looked almost as confused as Mikhail felt. Once the initial interview was complete, the doctors almost never had any contact with the subjects. What was different in this case? Why was Arkady Glushko still in the intake wing? Had the medical examiner found something in him that made him unacceptable for any of the experimental testing programs? He stood up from his desk to exit the room, followed by the soldier holding his rifle. The walk to the intake wing was not far, and the three men made it in silence. When they arrived outside of Glushko’s cell, the guard slotted the proper key into the lock and held the door open for the two doctors to enter. It was darkened, the light out for the night, and there was no indication that anyone other than them was in the room. Fear gripped Mikhail then, and he knew that they knew, that his interview with Arkady had been a trap, a sting. “Yes, Comrade Konovalev, you were monitored.” The voice from the hallway outside the cell was familiar, but its cadence was not. This voice, while so like his, was more officious, more PG // 68
controlling. He turned, and there, standing in the doorway, was Arkady Glushko. “I am sorry for the deception, Comrade Doctor, but it was necessary in your case. The State had to know whether you had been rehabilitated yet. Obviously, you have not. So, for tonight, this cell is yours, Mikhail Konovalev. Someone will be visiting you in the morning, I should think.” Not a trace of sympathy was
Kaitlyn Courtney // Studio Art Neverday // Colored Pencil on Paper
evident on his face, Mikhail noted. Nor was there any indication that this was even the same man he had met only days before. “But…why?” he blurted. “Why, for the good of the State, Comrade Doctor. Did you think you were free?.” With that, Glushko (or whoever he was), Roshkarin, and the guard exited the cell, leaving a broken man to despair in the darkness, all alone.
Mayberry I have forgotten how to say I love you, how the words formed around my once-saturated tongue, with the air between syllables sending chills from my gums to the tips of my teeth, like sipping Dr. Pepper on your front porch in the low hours of the afternoon, when neighbors cut grass and wave at passersby. The sunset emitted a glowing shade of pink like my great-grandmother’s old kitchen counters that I have only seen in pictures. I still see us in pictures. Oh, how I forced myself to sip that drink, to enjoy the way the sweetness clung to the roof of my mouth. Now my stomach sinks with the syrupy sweetness, its taste—flat, the bubbles—absent. The sugary fluid slides down the back of my throat, the moment of its carbonated reaction and impact leaving me a crater, another Mayberry in waste, ash-dry and crumbling from the heat, with my mannequin soul staining the wall opposite your liquid gaze with no chance for the words to escape my lips. Clay Palmer Studio Art
PG // 70
December’s Fire Michael Zulpa
S
arah is a teenager. She’s also a mother. It’s a shame, really, she thinks. She had her whole life ahead of her. She’s got nothing, now. Except for little Jeremy. She could have had it all. The gravel in the alleyway cuts into her bare feet. There’s probably glass shards mixed into the grit she’s walking through. It doesn’t bother her, not really. A cold wind is flowering across the Lower East Side, so she presses her baby boy closer to her breast to keep him warm. He coos and giigles, and she loves him so much, so very much, at that moment. She digs in her purse and finds him a pacifier to suck on as she keeps trudging through the crud in the alley. She hasn’t had a fix in two days. The cold burns her skin, but she doesn’t care. She has all the love in the world against her right now, and nothing else matters. She stumbles, but manages to keep upright, still clutching Jeremy to her bosom. He whimpers a little, and she whispers sweet nothings to him as he drifts off to sleep. It’s cold, so very cold. A tear slips silently from the corner of her eye. She doesn’t matter, not anymore. Jeremy is the important one. Jeremy needs a hom, needs to be taken care of, needs to be warm, needs to be loved, Sarah desperately hopes he will be, that this is all worth it. PG // 71
When she gets to her Destination, she crashes heavily against the scarred brick wall of the alley, sliding roughly down it, tearing her flimsy grey dress as she lands on her already bruised bottoms. Jeremy hardly stirs. Sitting against the building, she weeps over her precious baby boy. A tear drops from her cheek onto his. He trembles in his sleep, cold cutting into him through the thing blanket she has him swaddled in. Another tear patters onto his face, and she holds him even closer. Rising painfully to her feet, She kicks a nearby milk crate to the base of the dumpter’s front side, stepping onto it with her bloodied feet. One-handed, she flips the lid of the can, using all her remaining strength to do so. The lid clatters noisily against the bruck behind it, but her baby doesn’t wake. He still sucks quietly on his pacifier, shivering. She kisses him gently on his forehead, her own tears melting the ones already freezing on his little cheeck. “Momma loves you,” she says, as she sets him atop the warmth of the decaying trash within the steel box. “Momma loves you.”
Mixed Meida
This piece is about how millennials are always connected to their phones and technology. All they want is to be left alone with their phones. It’s a mixed media piece on fabric with sewn beads and wire.
Violet Durden Art Education
PG // 72
The Staircase Beau Reynolds
The old house we lived in had an attic, and the stairs to that attic were narrow, steep, see-through, and dangerous. I honestly can’t count how many times I ascended those stairs. I had a pretty good imagination, and a pretty good pile of attic junk. Putting those two things together I had a real fine fort. I spent hours in my fort, hidden from the world and its strange rules. I mean, why couldn’t I kiss Amy? She was beautiful, and I liked her a lot. Everyone said she didn’t like me back, and that meant I wasn’t allowed to kiss her. “Why?” I spent countless hours sitting in my fort, daydreaming of Amy, and of our being together. “Hmph, I guess I’ll never see that staircase again.” They put me in here when they found us together. I don’t understand why I can never go back home, but they tell me I’ll probably be here from now on. The doctors are nice, and the nurses make sure I get my medication, but I miss my fort, and Amy. They said they only found us because of the smell, but I never smelled anything when we were together in our fort. “After all, she had only been there a couple of weeks.”
PG // 73
I Know What I Am Watercolor
This piece is a metaphorical reference to the recent social phenomena regarding the transgender community. It was inspired by an argument with a friend over my blackfin shark,Titanium Grey Blackfin Sharks are actually a species of catfish, but are named for their appearance and behavior. Sarah Dicus Graphic Design
PG // 74
Ouroboros Lauren Maddox
A
yana was standing behind the screen door with her little sister balanced on her hip. She would not step outside this time of day; she hated mosquitos. The dim orange of twilight cast an ugly light on the yard, which was verdant and overgrown. The baby sucked on her fingers and blew spit bubbles which dribbled down her chin. She greeted her uncle with a doleful look, “Uncle Billy, Mama’s in the backyard eating dirt again.” Uncle Billy didn’t say anything as he pushed the screen door open and sidled past her. He was a short man who walked with an affected limp and a severe look on his face. His ugly, lumpy head was apparent under his short hair. Sometimes, he would fall asleep on the couch, and Ayana would roll a plastic toy car over the rough terrain of his skull. Ayana walked behind him, still bouncing the baby on her hip. They lived in a small, dark shotgun house that had fallen into disrepair after Nana had died. Or maybe it was when Mama started eating dirt. The two griefs could not separate in Ayana’s mind, one almost seemed to cause the other. Her mother’s consumption, her grandmother’s death, they chased each other in her thoughts like a snake after its own tail. The house looked like someone was trying to make a home in it. They passed by a framed portrait of Jesus, which had been knocked askew PG // 75
and surrounded by crayon drawings and scribbles, all in green and signed by Ayana and the baby in a waxy scrawl. The kitchen sink was full of greasy week-old dishwater, and there were empty TV dinners overflowing from the trashcan. All of the door knobs in the kitchen were smeared with mushed peas. Uncle Billy limped through the house, ignoring the clutter and chaos, his eyes fixed on the backdoor straight ahead of him. The wooden door swung open. The doorknob smashed into the wall, pressing into an already deep dent. Ayana and the baby flinched, but made no sound. Ayana stood in the doorway to their backyard. There were no cracks in the fence, and the posts reached high into the sky. Ayana could never see their neighbors. Her mother was kneeling with her back to the house, facing the setting sun. The knees of her pants were damp. Her hair had been pulled into a tight bun which burned Ayana’s scalp to look at, but now tendrils of hair hung down her mother’s neck like dark, limp snakes. While their front yard was green and wild, their backyard was nothing but bare, naked earth. The soil was loose, as if recently tilled. “Dinah.” Her uncle stepped outside, leaving Ayana inside. Her mother did not look back at them. She continued to scoop dirt into her mouth from a hole that she had started digging earlier that afternoon.
The baby squirmed but remained silent in her sister’s arms. “Dinah, you need to stop this foolishness.” Dinah chewed her dirt, pensive. “For your children.” Her jaw moved and he could see the mechanisms of her skull moving as she ground her teeth. “For yourself.” The lining of her gums was outlined in dark soil. “For our mother.” Her jaw stopped working, and she looked up at him with a bovine expression. She pushed herself up from the ground with obvious effort and eyed her brother. “See? Now let’s get you inside and make something for dinner.” Dinah’s face puckered as she sucked all the spit in her mouth together and spat it into Uncle Billy’s face. The saliva was streaked with earth and left a dark trail as it slid down his cheek. The resounding crack of his hand making contact with her face seemed to suck all of the air out of Ayana’s lungs. Her mother’s face was now turned to her, but her eyes were not looking at her. In a gruff voice, Uncle Billy said, “You girls get inside now.” Ayana carried her sister inside. The door slammed behind them, which startled the baby into crying. Ayana toted her into her bedroom to put her down for a nap before dinner and
because the sound of her sister crying made her grind her teeth. “Hush, Baby, no one wants to listen to you holler.” The baby hollered anyway. From the kitchen, she could hear the sound of water running and someone rummaging through the cabinets. Ayana closed the door to the baby’s room and stalked into the living room. She thought that it was her uncle in the kitchen, but from the entrance, she could see her mother leaned over the sink washing dishes. Her mother hadn’t washed dishes in weeks. Uncle Billy was sitting on the sagging couch with his feet propped up on the coffee table. He was drinking a beer he had found in the back of the fridge. “Why’d you go and hit Mama?” Ayana’s arms were crossed over her chest as she looked down at Uncle Billy. He grunted but said nothing. From the kitchen, Ayana could hear the sizzle of eggs hitting a hot pan, and she forgot her anger for a moment. She felt her throat close up as though she was going cry, but she took a deep breath and held it until the feeling passed. “Go in the kitchen and help your mama make dinner.” Uncle Billy swilled beer around inside the half-empty can. In a daze, Ayana walked into the kitchen, and her mother wordlessly set her to whisking eggs in a cloudy glass bowl. They stood facing the counter, not speaking. The sound of onions chopping and eggs sizzling as they hit the pan PG // 76
filled the house. An aroma of almost rancid butter hung in the air. “Mama, can we put cheese in the eggs?” “No cheese.” Her mother handed her a stack of plates to set the table and their hands brushed. Her mother did not acknowledge it. As Ayana turned to set the plates down, Kaitlyn Courtney // Studio Art Catey’s Casey’s // Charcoal on Paper
she was struck by the memory of her mother and grandmother shelling peas at the kitchen table. She could see the two women, sitting side by side with a deep metal bowl between them, wordlessly working the peas with their fingers. Sometimes, they would let Ayana sit with them and try to keep up with their practiced fingers. She could remember the feeling of pea shells stuck under her fingernails and the companionable silence the women shared. She began picking her fingernails without thinking. She was imaging the house before Nana had died; the smell of black and blue jam boiling on the stove, the sweet grit of early peaches tossed in sugar, the deep lines of her grandmother’s hands spread open upon the kitchen table in prayer. Ayana was so struck by this moment of normalcy that she didn’t even notice her mother looking past her towards the backyard where her grandmother used to grow her peas. They sat around the table in silence. Uncle Billy had finished his beer, and was picking at the overcooked eggs on his plate. He and Ayana were both suspicious of the yellow blobs; Ayana couldn’t remember how long they had been in the refrigerator. She carefully scraped them onto the floor when Uncle Billy wasn’t looking. She would clean it up later. The baby sat on the floor near her chair, stuffing eggs from the floor into her mouth when she thought Ayana wasn’t looking. Uncle Billy left before the sun went down. The door rattled as he slammed it behind him, but the women inside didn’t hear it over the sound of
running water and clattering dishes. Ayana put the baby to bed before walking through the house to turn off all of the lights which her mother had left on in the wake of her silent retreat from her daughters. The house surrendered to blue night with every light switched off, and a rich silence fell over the house. When she heard crying from the baby’s room, Ayana pulled herself out of bed without any grumbling; this had become part of their nightly ritual, and if Ayana didn’t soothe the baby, she would cry the whole night through. Ayana stood in the doorway rubbing her eyes, the room only visible through a slice of moonlight. “Baby, no one wants to listen to you holler,” she said with no heat. When she had finally rubbed the sleep from her eyes and stepped into the room, she could see her mother kneeling in the shred of white light, rocking back and forth with her little sister cradled in her arms. Ayana stood in the doorway with her breath held until her mother’s shoulders shuddered with a sob that made the baby giggle. “Mama?” She called out in a hushed whisper, her voice still thick with sleep. Her mother’s face whipped up to see Ayana standing there. “My baby,” she reached a hand towards Ayana, who, with halting steps, moved into the light with her mother. She dropped to one knee into the embrace of her mother, who was still crying.
“My babies, my babies, I’m sorry,” Now she was clutching Ayana and the baby to her chest, her wet cheek pressed against Ayana’s head as they continued to rock back and forth. When the sun broke through the clouds early that morning, Ayana was alone on the floor of her baby sister’s room. She stretched and rubbed her neck, which was stiff from sleeping wrapped around her mother and sister. The door was almost closed, but a thin cut of darkness glared in from the hall. As Ayana yawned she sucked in a mouthful of rotten air; the whole house stank of overripe mushrooms and the previous night’s rancid butter. From the kitchen, she could hear the baby gurgling and her mother humming in a soft voice. She pushed the door open and started down the hall with silent feet. Ayana could see her mother’s back as she stood in front of the stove frying breakfast. “Good morning, Mama! Baby.” Spit ran down the baby’s chin in glee, but her mother did not stop cooking or humming long enough to greet her. The floor transitions from carpet to linoleum and stuck to her feet as she entered the kitchen. The floor unpeeled itself from the soles of her feet with every step. Now, standing in the center of the kitchen, Ayana watched in silence as her mother tipped the frying pan over the three plates lined up on the counter and scraped hot dirt onto them.
PG // 78
Tw o Ricky Dotson
H
e looked up at the sky, thinking of how beautiful it was. Clouds streaked, wispy across the blue. A bird flew by, oblivious now to the destruction. He lay huddled under two other bodies, wondering if it was yet safe to rise up. He hadn’t heard anything but the sounds of nature since the shooting ended two hours before. It had been a bloody mess and they never stood a chance. He wondered for a moment how much sense it made, to go into the field when you knew, when everyone did, that you had no chance. He slowly moved one of the dead men’s arms from across his neck, pushed a leg off of his, and raised his head, just barely. He first saw a large tree, its branches swaying calmly in the breeze. They cast dancing shadows over a group of bodies laying beneath. He turned his head back toward the tree line on the other side. More bodies stretched across the field, almost not even green anymore, the dead being such a blanket. He saw no one moving. He decided he couldn’t lay under the dead anymore and slowly made his way up, first to his knees, then to his feet. A sharp pain went through his right leg and he looked down to see a gaping, bloody gash. Its funny, he thought, he’d actually forgotten all about it, laying there. He hadn’t been shot, thankfully, but someone had got him with a blade. He’d killed that man and tried to remember PG // 79
his face. It was etched there somewhere in his memory, but too much to search for now. The tree’s shade looked inviting and he limped his way over to sit beneath it. His throat was parched, but that would have to wait. Tearing a strip of cloth from his coat, he made a makeshift bandage and wrapped it tightly around the wound in his leg. The pressure sent another wave of pain through, but it was over in a moment. Looking around, he wondered what he should do next. First, he would need to survey the field. There’d be useful supplies on the dead soldiers, things he’d need to help him get back to another division. Canteens, ammo, another weapon, maybe even some rations if he was lucky. The sight of the field of dead amazed him all the more as he made his way through it, stepping gingerly over arms and legs splayed out in the deep grass. He found two canteens, one almost full, the other half way, which he’d drained immediately. The water felt as if it brought some life back into him, cooling his parched and sore throat. He also picked up another pack of ammunition, which would probably be enough for him to make his way. He didn’t plan on being out long. It felt like it took ages to make it to the tree line. He looked back over his shoulder. The sun was setting now and the bodies on the field began to take on the look of a singular
mass, as the shadows darkened and stretched across everything. He’d found more water and desperately wanted to have it then and there, but decided he should wait. No food to speak of. He knew there would be a division of his comrades somewhere deep behind the tree line, but he didn’t know what lay between them and him. From intelligence sources they’d received earlier that morning, he knew that the enemy had planned to flank that distant division he so wanted to be with, but he had no way of knowing what may have transpired after he marched out with his group. He’d have to move swiftly, but quietly. His bad leg would give him trouble. The canopy was heavy overhead, making the forest floor ever darker as the evening grew. That was good, he thought, shadows were good. The leaves underneath his feet were damp enough so that his boots didn’t crunch them. He couldn’t hear a sound other than his own shallow breath as he hobbled along. Not even an animal stirred in the darkness around him. In a place strange to him, all he had was his sense of direction, his hunger, and the pain in his leg. He felt so utterly alone. The moon flashed quietly between branches of trees, here and there, a slow, sleepy strobe of night on the leafy ground. The air began to turn chilly and his nose began to run. He had been trained for endurance and physical exertion was not uncommon for him, but the wound in his leg stole his energy. Numbness crept up his calf and into his thigh. Stopping to tighten the tourniquet, he drank a draught of water and
caught his breath. He could see it evaporate in the night like smoke. If I only had a cigarette, he thought. Something he forgot to look for among the dead. A rustling of leaves off to his left froze him. Slowly, he crouched as much as his bad leg would let him. He scanned the area, squinting, seeing nothing. Reaching to his belt, he unbuttoned his holster. No, he thought, the noise would be deafening. He unsheathed his knife instead and waited. The sound came again, soft in the darkness. Was it too his left? It was hard to tell. It seemed now as if it could come from anywhere. Or was that panic? No time for that, he thought waiting, holding his breath. Gripping his knife with white knuckles, he scanned the ground again. Bare patches of moonlight scattered here and there, illuminating the dead ground, but not the thing that made the noise. His mind began to wonder as he waited. It seemed only yesterday that he was at home, in the sun, his family gathered around eating, celebrating his promotion. Smiling faces, laughter, pats on the back. They all avoided the inevitable discussion of danger and the possibility no one would ever seen him again. He remembered forcing himself to eat, a turning in his gut ruining his appetite, some horrible premonition forcing a pasted, fake smile so as not to upset anyone. His mood would influence theirs and they wanted to be at ease. They deserved to be at ease. Kind, innocent people. They seemed so far away now, finding himself among killers in fields of death and dying. It was his job. That was that. PG // 80
A rabbit jumped from the darkness and landed in a patch of moonlight. He sighed, sheathing his knife as he stood. The rest of the night passed quietly, slowly. He methodically pushed along and soon soft rays of morning sun began to stretch between the limbs overhead. There had been no sign of anyone. The idea that the other division would not be there when he arrived gnawed at the back of his mind. They would not have sat there that long, this close to enemy lines. But it was the only hope he had, the only path available. All he could do was to keep moving. There was no other choice. His wound, while annoying, was not altogether serious. If he could get with his comrades, there’d be medicine and another job to do, field stitches and more killing. At least he’d be surrounded by compatriots, a shield against the utter loneliness in this foreign place. Work was always more bearable when shared with others. Especially this nasty business, a situation he’d never previously believed he would have found himself in. It’s odd, he thought, what a person can be capable of given the right circumstances. Things change when you are frightened. You change. Just before you give up caring. There was a long truck, its undercarriage half blown away, sitting in silence there ahead of him. It’s one of ours, he thought, seeing the markings on the door. Coming up to it, he peered in the cockpit to find the pale body of a young man slumped over in the seat. Dried blood was plastered across the windshield. Part of the young man’s face was missing, yet his helmet still PG // 81
nestled perfectly on his head. Odd how such a thing could happen. Perhaps the young man had bee sent to connect to the group in the dying field an never made it? Maybe he had just run, alone, full of fear. It didn’t matter now. The soldier with the bad leg made his way toward the back of the mangled vehicle. There were a few metal boxes and a pallet with brown parcels. He pulled himself up into the truck, the numbness in his leg now shooting with pain and he drug it over the metal tailgate and into the canopied bed. He ignored the metal boxes, knowing they would only contain ammunition. What interested him were the brown ones on the pallet. He opened one and was greeted with exactly what he was hoping for. Rations. He grabbed one of the stiff plastic bags and sat down, leaning against the cab. He was so hungry he practically mangled the package with his knife, cutting with the zeal only complete hunger can initialize. The main entree was a stew of meat and potatoes. It would be find cold. He couldn’t take the time or the chance to build a fire. He tore open the foil covering and began lapping up the contents like a dog. Cold gravy and lumps of beef and potato slid down his throat. He almost didn’t notice it going down. It was gone so fast. Fishing around in the bag again, he found a pack of jam. The sweetness was prickly on his tongue as he devoured it. He upended the bag and dumped it onto the bed of the truck. Napkins, salt, crackers, odds and ends. There was a packet of
coffee which he dumped into his canteen. Then, he spotted a prize. Cigarettes and matches. It was like finding the toy in a box of cereal. Lighting one, he inhaled deeply. Grey smoke filled the bed of the truck. A smile crept across his lips. After his cigarette, he left the truck behind. Time to move on. He’d stuffed the crackers in a pants pocket just in case. With any luck, the truck would not have traveled far and the other division might still be close by. The full light of day now hung over the woods, chasing away a bit of the chill from the night before. Now that he’d eaten, a sweat broke out on his forehead. His insides, at least, felt more peaceful, if nothing else did. His leg was numb again and he took advantage of it, making good time. Birds began singing and he tried to imagine himself taking an innocent walk in the woods as he did when he was a child, when he would traipse around imagining all sorts of things. He’d be a rescue party looking for the survivors of a plane crash. Sometimes he’d be a big game hunter, tracking an elephant in the long grass for miles. Other times, he’d be Robinson Crusoe, looking for useful items with which to build his island paradise. Funny, he thought, he’d never imagined himself a soldier. ` Suddenly, he saw something ahead. The woods opened into what looked like a circular clearing a few yards ahead. There was something there, but he couldn’t make out what it was. Nothing moving. Crouching, he grew closer, making as little noise as possible. Just at the beginning of the clearing, he leaned behind a tree and was greeted by yet another filed of death.
Kaitlyn Courtney // Studio Art Bottle Guy // Pen on Paper
Bodies lay strewn about, haphazard there in the sun. The uniforms were not of his men. A temporary graveyard for the enemy. He peered at the other side of the clearing as best he could from his vantage point. There didn’t seem to be anything living in sight. He walked out from under the cover of the trees. He estimated there were probably at PG // 82
least one hundred bodies. And they weren’t all the enemy. Some of his side were among the dead, but not many. They were ready for them, he thought. It made him feel good, but he couldn’t smile. Not there in the midst of it. Probably not ever. He hobbled among the bodies, mostly numb now to the disarray. The division he’d been Violet Durden // Art Education No Peeking! // Charcoal on Paper
looking for must have pushed on to the other side of the clearing, he thought. That would be his path now. A breeze picked up, cooling the sweat on his forehead. He took a deep breath, his lungs filling with the smell of blood and carbon. He was reaching the end of the circle of bodies, ready to leave it behind, when he heard a gasp. Or a gurgle. Hard to tell, but it froze him in his tracks. He heard the gurgle again. It sounded like someone saying “help” through a swollen throat. Like someone sick. He turned slowly toward the sound, scanning the ground. He took a step toward it and heard the voice again, more clearly. Taking two more steps, he looked down at the mangled torso of a young man, wild eyes staring up at him. His chin was covered with dried blood and one of his legs was missing. The eyes, almost glazed over, looked down where his leg should be, then back up at the soldier standing over him. Our lost soldier with the bad leg looked down at his unwanted companion, his mind almost blank. What should he do? “Help..” The man on the ground said again. A spurt of blood trickled down his chin. The other one stared down at him. “Please.....water....” Without thinking, our lost soldier with the bad leg pulled out his canteen and knelt down, lifting the enemy’s head with one hand and angling the mouth of the canteen toward bloody lips with the other. The man on the ground seemed to choke at first, but then gulped the liquid down as if it was salvation itself. When he could drink no more, the canteen was pulled away.
“Private....private....,” the man with the missing leg men approaching. He laid onto the ground beside the tried to introduce himself through a cough. Private and eyed the other side of the clearing, waiting for “I’m Captain....” our soldier with the bad leg a glimpse of who was coming. It would be too late to run trailed off. What did names matter now. This man would to the cover of the woods. be dead soon, one way or another. It was irrational, but First, he saw helmets marching out. Then uniit made the Captain feel strange to think that this dying forms. They were some of his own. Standing, he waved man would somehow take his name with him. He didn’t toward them. They paused at first. Then, with recognition, want the dead to know him. they picked up their pace. One man led the group, getting “What happened?” the Captain asked, already there first. knowing the answer. “Glad to see you, Captain,” the man said, his voice “They...they knew we were coming......never stood gravely. White stubble covered his chin. Gold stars on his a chance....surrounded....” the private winced with another shoulder. cough.”We were supposed....to ambush them... but...that “Thank you, General. I’ve been looking for you.” wasn’t water.......that.....” “What happened to the rest of you?” The general That’s right, the Captain thought. The coffee. asked. “Nothing like good strong coffee in the morning, “Our division was decimated. As far as I know, I private.” was the only survivor. I’ve been on foot ever since,” the The mangled man tried to laugh but it was no Captain replied, stoic clarity creeping into his voice. good. A pitiable ‘thank you’ was all he could muster. “Well, shit,” the General replied. “I knew it The Captain felt uncomfortable. He peered again already, but shit. Well, you’re with us now.” around the clearing, knowing he couldn’t stay for long. A gurgling sound came from their feet. The The enemy might come looking for their lost division at Captain and the General looked down at the Private. The any time, if his side had not chased them all away. He dying man’s eyes looked at them, from one to another. looked back down at the private. The man on the ground There seemed to be neither pain or fear in them, as if he stared up at him, placidly eying the sky behind. He would was a child wondering what was going on. not survive much longer. The General pulled out his gun and shot him in The Captain bent down and stuck a cigarette into the head. the Private’s mouth, lighting it with a match. The Private “Well, let’s get going, Captain. We haven’t got all tried to grin up at him, taking a small puff. Wispy smoke day.” trailed up towards the clouds. The Captain unbuttoned his holster and pulled out his sidearm, aiming the barrel directly at the Privates face. The smile disappeared. The Private’s breath got faster for a moment. His eyes widened, then softened with acceptance. The gun trembled in the Captain’s hands. As our Captain pulled back the trigger, he heard PG // 84
8,496 Pills: The Only Cure
Mixed Media
The meaning behind this piece is the neglect of other fixes for medical problems and runing to medication instead.
“The best part of the pizza is the crust� Chelsey Marie Gordon
Chelsey Marie Gordon Art Education
PG // 85
T h e Tr u t h Beau Reynolds
Loving Husband, Father, Brother, and Friend. That’s how it reads, the tombstone in front of her. She stands there, reading it over and over. Was he all those things? She supposes he was a loving father, brother, friend, and son, but a loving husband…he was not. Sure, he did all the things a “good husband” was supposed to do. He had a good job, made lots of money, and never missed a birthday, anniversary, or even a Valentine’s Day. If these things were the measure of a loving husband, then sure, he was a loving husband, but she wanted more. Maybe she was just being too demanding, but she wanted his attention too, all of it. Maybe he was, a loving husband. Maybe, she had been too selfish to realize that all his time away from her had been spent keeping up the standard of living she had become accustomed to. Guilt starts to creep in. Had she been wrong? Was he all the things inscribed on that stone? Uncertainty and guilt flood her thoughts. Had he been a shining example of all those things? Had she made a horrible mistake? Had she become a widow for no reason? They had a good life, a beautiful home, all the material things, plus the ones money can’t buy, like family and friends. It would never be the same. He was gone, and she would have to live with that guilt. She had to come clean, had to tell someone the truth. She had made a horrible mistake, and she couldn’t just live with it. A crow lands on the stone, and as he looks up at her with his black stare, she falls to her knees weeping.
PG // 86
Specimen 20 Clay Palmer
D
r. Philip Harvey was not a joking man. He found all sorts of emotions to be ill-fit for his chosen career path, so he had purged what was left of his sense of humanity in medical school. After all, graduating magna cum laude with a doctorate in genetics required purging all social needs as well as a great deal of rulebending and ethics challenging. His academic accomplishments as well as his reputation to willingly ignore any and all laws of ethics secured him a high-salary position as head research scientist for Victor Clerval, Inc., a large multinational biopharmaceutical company. The salary didn’t matter however. They could’ve given him Bunny® bread and fluoridated public water and he wouldn’t have batted an eye, as long as they kept letting him conduct his experiments. He had been toying with the human genome since his first year in medical school, but never like this. Here, in this lab filled with millions of dollars in medical equipment, he could play God like no man before him, and he loved it. If you could call the mutilation of both humans and animals love. Not mutilation, he had postulated as a senior undergraduate biology student at Harvard, but the pursuit of a grander purpose for the human race. It didn’t matter how many PG // 87
meaningless lives were lost along the way. They were necessary. Speaking of necessary, he reminded himself, your lab hand is out for the day, and you’re going to have to do his job of feeding the specimens. He looked forward to these moments. Typically, the company officials did not appreciate his need to commune with his test subjects. They viewed it as a liability, an unnecessary endangerment of the mind that they had funneled millions of dollars into for research and that had returned exponentially more to their pockets. Still, he insisted on interacting with each subject as much as possible, so they hired a lab hand who was capable of doing the more strenuous, potentially life-threatening jobs around the compound. Life-threatening, hmph, he thought, how could your own children be life-threatening? He did not share the Board of Directors’ apprehension toward those that he had created. After all, his subjects were 52 percent him, and if you couldn’t trust yourself, then could you really trust anybody? He chuckled to himself as he gathered up his lab coat to walk across the frigid, rainy lawn to the building known as the Kennel. He hated the word Kennel. That word
had always implied, at least to him, the idea of a cramped, feces-ridden place where animals were stored until someone rescued them or they were euthanized. The Kennel was nothing like that, he had insisted that the building that his test subjects were to be contained would be clean, comfortable, and completely sealed off from the outside world. Each of the twenty compartments were the size of a medium hotel room, completely furnished with a bed, litter box, water dispenser, and small television. Meals were served at regular intervals like clockwork. Meals were the only times Dr. Harvey had had any…mishaps…with any of his test subjects. They tended to get very irate if their meals were late. That was how they lost the compound’s first cook. Henrietta was a gifted nutritionist, but she was very slow with the food preparation process and Dr. Harvey’s children did not appreciate tardiness in that regard. Henrietta’s lack of ability to stick to a good schedule led to the Board of Directors’ need to force Dr. Harvey to euthanize the first breeding male of his test subjects, and to implement a new method of food preparation that was much quicker than Henrietta’s process. He punched in his key code to the front door of the Kennel and stepped into the room that served as an entryway. He stepped behind a curtain and took off all of his clothes as well as his shoes, and put on the white linen undershirt and briefs that anyone entering the kennel must wear. He then stepped into the sterilization chamber and pressed the keypad to begin the process. After being sprayed down, he slipped
into the clean set of scrubs and lab coat that were hanging on the wall, and entered into the food prep room. The food prep room was a simple area consisting of two stainless steel counters and a food warmer across from a door to a freezer that held a month’s worth of food rations calculated to each individual test subject. He walked through with a cart, grabbing one container from each section and placing them in a basket that remained in the freezer. Dr. Harvey hated the smell of the food that was in those containers. It was not your traditional microwave oven meal. This was a corn-based puree along with synthesized protein pellets and several other ingredients mashed into a stinking oatmeal-like consistency and packaged into an edible bowl. Not fit for humans, but the test subjects craved it like candy. He pushed the cart to the door that led into the hallway that was lined with the doors to the compartments, and steadied himself. The initial walkthrough and feeding was always unnerving. Dr. Harvey would have approximately three minutes to distribute all twenty meals before the test subjects began injuring themselves. He readjusted his glasses, took a deep breath, and pressed the button to open the door. As the door opened with a sterile hiss, the noise from the compartments assaulted Dr. Harvey’s ears. It began as twenty low guttural growls that escalated and crescendoed into a cacophony of ear-splitting squalls. It hurt like murder, but he knew that he must brave it PG // 88
and finish giving out the meals so that the test subjects would return to their usual, docile states of mind. He rolled the cart quickly down the center aisle, stopping only briefly to slide the meals through the slots at the bottom of each of the shaking, half-ton steel doors. As each meal was given out, the squalls grew increasingly quieter until it was nothing more than quiet slurping and squelching. As Harvey slid the last meal under the twentieth door, the least violently shaking of them all, he stood there panting, sweat dripping down his forehead and neck onto the collar of his lab coat, and marveled at his creations. All of them, except the last one, were female. Their features were vaguely humanoid, but with an elongated snout, three-toed hands and feet, large droopy ears, and covered with white bristly hair. He watched each of them as they shuffled their cold snouts along the concrete floor, inhaling the stinking paste with gusto. He chuckled at their tenacity. He ran through his mind the intense amount of study and research that had culminated into the creation of these beings. Beautiful specimens all, created by him to serve a much greater purpose, the ability to save lives. Each specimen, although alien in appearance, were completely human from an anatomical standpoint, at least in regard to their major organs. In some ways theirs were even more hardy than human organs, capable of being harvested and used for transplants at all ages, engineered for a lifespan that tripled that of a PG // 89
normal human. Longevity at the expense of only a small fortune. Dr. Harvey was going to be immortalized for his work, and he could not wait to soak that in. His genius demanded it. Of course, there had been‌obstacles, regarding the initial phases of the project. It was one area of ethics with its own loopholes to jump through just to splice two different species of animals together. It was completely out of the ballpark to play with the human genome. So naturally Victor Clerval, Inc. had to do some fancy footwork with the government that ultimately led to his research facility being built halfway around the world, secluded from prying eyes and inspections. Their new location, combined with the use of his own DNA as a base for these marvelous beings, had kept his work under the radar. The Board had taken the necessary precautions, however, should his operations be discovered there. Each compartment was fitted with a high grade incinerator, capable of rending the contents of each unrecognizable. These had been tested. Unfortunately, twenty compartments were only enough to house breeding stock, and soon another larger building would have to be built to contain the litters that were produced before they were harvested. He couldn’t wait. It would be the crown jewel of his work. He quickly paced through all of the females, and they stopped to look up at him inquisitively with cold, black eyes before they returned their lolling tongues to searching the floors of their compartments. He stopped at the
very last compartment to check in on his new sire. This one’s aggressive gene had been dampened, unlike the last one. Unfortunately, altering this gene had slowed the growth rate of this particular male, an excusable occurrence, according to the board. So long as no more incidents were had. Dr. Harvey leaned in towards the glass, examining the rhythmic rise and fall of the small, pink body that lay curled up on the bed. The specimen was small, roughly the size of a nineyear old. He looked nothing like the last breeding male, a big burly brute of a creature that had grown to 350 pounds within a year, with razor sharp tusks jutting from its bottom jaw and eyes the radiated malevolence. The small frame shuffled, as though it sensed that it was being watched, and raised its head to peer through the windows with pale blue eyes that matched his own. A feeling arrived within him that he had not felt in a very long, long time. Looking into those eyes that mirrored is, a heavy, sinking weight dropped from his throat into his abdomen. What was that called again? Guilt, he reminded himself, that feeling is pure, unadulterated remorse. The look from those pained eyes gave him back the thing which he had not ever wanted: his conscience. He fumbled for his key card, and, as though under some kind of spell, swiped it on the control panel next to Specimen 20’s cell. The screen lit up in bright green: ACCESS CODE_. He tapped in the six-digit code, and with a sharp click, the door slid open. At that moment, Specimen 20 sat bolt
upright, it’s chest heaving nervously as its blue eyes lolled inside their sockets. Dr. Harvey stepped into the room. For what seemed to be an eternity, both scientist and test subject stared at each other. Harvey crouched down to eye level with the creature, and extended his hand towards it. The creature let out a sharp, terrified grunt and backed further into the corner. Harvey recoiled his hand, shocked by the sudden movement. Nothing to be afraid of, he chided himself, it’s your own flesh and blood for God’s sake. He leaned in closer to the shivering animal, holding his outstretched hand towards the specimen’s wrinkling snout. The creature froze, its pupils dilated to an enormous size, and its lips peeled back to reveal a fearsome snarl of needlelike teeth. Dr. Harvey clenched, he knew within a millisecond what would happen next. He had seen the behavioral studies of enough sharks and other predators to know exactly what those phenomena meant. The specimen clamped down on his arm and Dr. Harvey wailed in pain. He screamed for help, but knew instantly that no help would come. The animal released his arm, but with a newfound taste for blood, launched itself at Dr. Harvey’s neck. For its size, Specimen 20 was incredibly strong. Dr. Philip Harvey let out a bloody, wheezy gasp just before his neck snapped. Among the frenzied, sloppy feeding squeals, Specimen 20 let out a new, cold sound. “H..eeeee…llp….reeeeeeeeeeeee.”
PG // 90
The Eyes of the Natives Mason Parker
Nanivquo (nah-nee-uh-kwoo-oh)—anybody
May 23, 1874 Dear Journal, I suppose it is a bit childish to be writing in a journal, whether it is leather-bound or otherwise, but it will be handy in retelling the story of my journey into the mountains of North Carolina. Who knows? Maybe my own children will read these letters one day. Elizabeth, Timothy, I miss you both dearly. I cannot wait to tell you about what awaits me in the Cherokee nation. I closed my journal. It was a gift from my children, so I found it only fitting that I should fill it with words of wisdom to give back to them one day. Elizabeth, of fourteen years, was growing to be a proper lady. Her heart was easily as large as Boston’s reach across the globe. Timothy, her junior by six years, was hardly on track to be a man, but I suspect that he’ll pick up some things from his sister. I smiled, and then a tear escaped my eye. “Homesick so soon, Mr. Hans?” asked my traveling partner, Mr. Ewing. “Ah, Julius, I did not expect it to overwhelm me this quickly, but I admit that I have been feeling a little sad.” I said. PG // 91
“Joshua, that’s completely normal. If it lifts your spirit at all, we are almost there. Do you see that clearing?” “The one by that lake?” “That’s the one. That will be our home for the next month.” Julius turned back toward the path, which showed signs of being used only a few times. “The path does not seem to be so welltraveled,” I said. We passed by a wagon that was severely broken, and looked as though it had been imprisoned in these mountains for years. “You’re not completely incorrect this time, Mr. Hans. The man that I last spoke to told me the last people to visit this resort were looking for something. The local people called it Nanivquo.” “What does it mean?” “Anybody.” “Strange,” I responded. I took off my glasses and removed a smudge, which had been plaguing my vision for roughly ten minutes. I found that it was a culmination of dust from the trail, which I realized once I noticed the stain that it left on my shirt. A man with a relatively unnerving countenance, complete with a tattoo that ran from
the side of his neck down his side, approached us as we rode toward the camp. “Halt, foreigners,” the man said. “What business do you have here?” I gulped, a little more loudly than I was intending to. “We sent in a letter a month ago, sir. We are nothing more than everyday men looking to study another culture.” “We will see if your story stands on its own feet. If it does not, you will not.” I turned toward Julius for a moment, and then slowly rotated back toward the man. “Of course. You will see that what I have said is most certainly true.”
“Come this way, foreigners.” Julius and I followed the man into the camp. Several tents decorated the path, which turned from rarely used into a well-worn street. Women played with children in their front yards, while men were little to be seen. Perhaps they’ve gone to hunt, I thought. As we passed each home, the children who had been laughing only seconds ago rushed to their mothers, who were now speaking in another language, rather aggressively. I was dumbfounded. In most situations, I felt like my presence had a much more calming effect that what was being demonstrated to me in that Kinzy Potts // Veterinary Health Technology WildFlower // Photography
moment. I caught the eyes of a woman who was now clutching her child. The woman had fear burning through her eyes. I took another breath. I was dumbfounded. In most situations, I felt like my presence had a much more calming effect that what was being demonstrated to me in that moment. I caught the eyes of a woman who was now clutching her child. The woman had fear burning through her eyes. I took another breath. The guard pointed toward a tent that resided at the head of the camp. “There, where the smoke rises from. That is where you will meet the chief. Dismount, then come quickly,” he said. Julius and I tied our horses to the hitching rail and proceeded toward the tent. Three people stood outside of the small establishment. The guard spoke to the people, and turned back to face us. “This man,” the guard said as he grabbed one of the men by the shoulder, “will serve as your translator as you meet the chief. Be respectful. Remove your shoes before you enter.” We walked under the sheet that guarded the domain’s doorway. In the room sat a frail man that faced the far side of the tent. Smoke slithered up through the air into an opening at the top of the encampment. Our translator kneeled beside the fire, bowed his head, and spoke what seemed to be a prayer. The old man slowly stood and brought the translator to his feet. This old man, who I presumed was the chief, embraced him. The chief whispered something into the translator’s ear, and stood to face Mr. Ewing and me. He began to address us in another PG // 93
language, and the translator turned to us. “The chief says, “Welcome. I received your letter, and have been awaiting your presence. You will find that the teepee beside my own will be your home for the coming month. Until it is prepared, you are welcome to travel the camp to your heart’s desire.” The old man coughed. The soft look in his eyes turned hard as he stumbled toward me. He grabbed my arm with the strength of ten young men and glared into my eyes as his disposition shook. In perfect English, his words raged to my ears. “We’ve been waiting, Joseph. We’ve been waiting!” The old man thrashed, never releasing his grip on my arm and let out a terrifying laugh. “What do you have to do with us? Have you come here to torment us before the time?” Suddenly, the chief fell to a knee. The translator, at a loss of words from fear, bent to help his chief. The old man whispered something to the translator, who then turned to us. “The chief asked that you would both go to your tent. The chief needs rest,” he said. Julius and I quickly spun to leave, our pace like that of the horses.
May 30, 1874 Dear Journal, It’s been a week since I first entered the Cherokee Nation. Our first night had an interesting first day, but no such paranormal activities have occurred since then. I cannot go anywhere without the people whispering something…is it a name? Nanivquo, they say. I
am not allowed contact with the chief due to our last incident. Tonight is the festival, and maybe I shall learn more about this demon that is plaguing this village. I will attest to what I find later. Until then, carry my love, children. I closed my journal to see the preparations for the festival already popping up. Horses were being decorated for the warriors to ride in, while drums were being polished. Toward the center of the encampment dancers were practicing their routines. This was one of the few days that the men would not be off hunting, and the camp seemed much more lively than usual. “Fantastic sight, isn’t it, Joshua?” Julius asked me. “I don’t imagine we had any festivals like this back in Virginia.” “Hardly,” I said. I paused for a moment. “Julius, has anything seemed strange to you?” “Still thinking about it, Mr. Hans?” “Unfortunately so. I have not been able to remove the image from my mind.” “I understand. Maybe the festival will clear our minds.” “Maybe,” I said. The heavily tattooed man, whose name I came to learn was Scarred Lion, was standing next to the fire pit. As Julius and I walked toward the center of the camp, he approached us. “I suppose your story was approved by the chief,” he said. “Indeed it was,” Julius responded. “You’ve arrived at the perfect time. The festival is about to begin.” Almost as if it was choreographed, people began to pound the
drums. I glanced back to Scarred Lion, whose eyes…wait, what happened? They turned from the hard dark color to a reddish, impenetrable shield. He ran toward the fire. Dancers flooded toward the fire, which was now climbing to heights I had never seen before. Their eyes. Everyone’s eyes were turning into the same reddish color that Scarred Lion’s had just turned. A force shoved me toward the fire, and I could offer no resistance. The people began to chant in unison. It was that name! Nanivquo. Nanivquo. The sound got louder as the drums began to pound, faster and faster. The flame rose. Suddenly, a figure escaped the fire. He had, were they wings? He carried a bow and arrow. But that was hardly the most frightful part of it all. His entire being was covered in that red color that had taken over every eye around the camp. “Hello, Mr. Hans. I would greet your friend, but it seems he is, well… not his normal self.” The figure said. I turned to see Mr. Ewing, whose eyes were now covered in this horrible red. “I believe I am what you were searching for during your time here?” I slowly nodded. “I will teach you what you came to learn. My name is, as these people call me, Nanivquo. In your language, that is Anyone. See their eyes, Mr. Hans?” Once more, I looked to see that awful red color that had overtaken each eye. It was taking over their very souls. “That is demon I am. I am in every person you meet. I am the thing that eats at your soul, because I am anyone.” He grinned. He turned an arrow towards the air and shot toward the atmosphere. “Goodbye, and hello, Mr. Hans.” An PG // 94
explosion rang throughout the night, and at that moment, all light ceased from the encampment. Only the glow of the eyes remained.
will share one last lesson with you both. This demon that I have succumbed to is living among you. You cannot escape him. I can only hope that you will avoid him as long as you live. The eyes are the first sign. The eyes. I love you. Goodbye.
June 1, 1874 Children, This will be my last entry. I’ve decided to forego my studies and dedicate my last days in living among the forest. Perhaps the animals are free of the demon that plagues the rest of us. I
About the Author
Mason Parker Music Education
“Words are only painted fire; a look is the fire itself.” Mark Twain
I grew up in a small town where my parents pushed me to pursue my passions, and one of those was writing, beginning around fourth grade. I thought it was fascinating that one could create an entire picture using words. As I grew in learning how to paint with words, I noted that there were stories that needed to be told. My writing process usually lent itself to seeing different things in my own life and writing about it. That is, I was inspired by seeing real-life interactions and real-life problems, and then trying to write to find a solution when there are problems. PG // 95
The Laundromat Beau Reynolds
The smoke floats through the air outside the laundromat where Billy and Joan sit smoking and chatting while they wait on the dryers. They talk about kids, and their ability to infuriate parents, about the weather, and about the outrageous cost of washing clothes in the mat. They see the young man pass by, heading into the mat, but pay him little attention. Frankie is his name, and the clothes he brought today have deep red stains. Frankie works at the local butcher’s shop and always has red stains on his clothes, but these stains come from different animals. Billy and Joan are oblivious to Frankie’s excessive use of stain remover, along with the way he keeps looking at them. Looks that say, Frankie is on the hunt, and they are his prey. Frankie didn’t come to the mat to hurt anyone, but sometimes he just can’t help himself. Billy and Joan continue to complain to one another about their misfortunes. Neither of them have ever had a real job, but they are certain it’s only because of others unfairly judging them, and not at all due to them being lazy asses, who only show up for work when they feel like it. In fact, if all their former employers weren’t such jerks they would have their own washers and dryers at home! Frankie watches and listens. With every complaint, his interest in them grows. Frankie gets all his clothes sprayed down and into the washer and heads outside. Frankie sits down on the adjacent bench and listens a few more minutes before speaking. “I don’t suppose one of you could come help me get some supplies from the back room?”
PG // 96
Lost & Found Michael Zulpa
W
hat makes a house a home is the existence of a junk drawer. A bric-a-brac drawer. A miscellaneous debris drawer. Whatever one chooses to call it, that’s something I’ve always believed. In our home, my wife has decided that this dubious honor should be bestowed upon my sock drawer, despite there being three completely empty and therefore unassigned drawers elsewhere. Whatever she finds around the house that doesn’t really have a place to call home ends up in my sock drawer. Small flashlights, screwdrivers, rolls of tape, cigarette lighters, pill bottles, flash drives, ball-point pens, random paperback novels, et cetera, et cetera - All of these things have ended up in my sock drawer at one point or another. I suppose, then, I shouldn’t have been surprised when we were awakened to a pounding on our front door one Saturday morning in March. Parked on our lawn were dozens of “official” looking cars and vans, disgorging hundreds of people ranging from men in black suits with dark sunglasses, soldiers in full combat uniforms, scientists in white laboratory coats, and even a PG // 97
few Indiana Jones wannabes I assumed were archaeologists. The military types quickly set up an armed perimeter around our home, and we were ushered into our own dining room by serious men in suits with reams of documents for us to sign, effectively stating that we should just keep our mouths shut about what was happening here. Or alternately, to forfeit our lives. That done, several scientists, all talking over one another, informed my wife and I that through a series of historical documents, ancient texts, and scientific formulae, the Lost Continent of Atlantis had finally been discovered, and was quite close. Nodding, I led the group into our bedroom and pointed to the dresser. “Upper-left drawer, fellas.” Leaving the overexcited scientists to it, I stepped out to the porch and lit a cigarette. A nearby soldier – Tim, it turned out – asked if I minded him bumming one off me. He’d left his in the jeep, he explained. Nodding, I cadged him one from my pack and lit it for him. “Helluva thing, isn’t it? They’ve been looking for Atlantis for ages, and it turns up in
Bumfuck, Minnesota, of all places. In a friggin’ bungalow.” He took a drag and shook his head in disbelief. “Yup.” I replied. “Can you believe it?” “Yup.” I stubbed my smoke out on my shoe and headed back inside. Eventually, the excitement calmed down, the government confiscated my sock drawer, and my wife and I decided it was time to get a new dresser anyway. Once we’d taken delivery of the new dresser, my new sock drawer replaced the
old, only with something more of a reputation to uphold this time around. I suppose, then, I shouldn’t have been surprised by the knock at the door one Tuesday morning in November. Standing on our porch was a shivering mummy, who very politely asked if we’d seen the Sarcophagus of Aksenhamen lying around anywhere. I sighed and led him to the bedroom.
Caitlynn Dowland // Graphic Design Mr. Jerry’s Barn // Photography
Stay You wonder why no one comes inside your house When you won’t unlock any of the doors You’re hurt when no one calls But you turn off the phone You seemed surprised that I walked away But you told me to go I only left Because you didn’t ask me to stay Becca Toungette Art Education
Caitlynn Dowland Graphic Design
Tr a n s i e n t Michael Zulpa
J
ones woke up to the barking of a pack of stray dogs. Lightning flashed outside the broken windows, followed by the floor-shaking crash of thunder. Darcy was already dead in the corner, her lank brown hair draped over her vacant, half-closed eyes. Her jaw hung slack, and a syringe was still tucked into the crook of her elbow, trickling a thin brown fluid. If her eyes had been closed, she might have only been sleeping, but Jones and Benny knew she was gone. Whenever it finally stopped raining, they would carry her to the hollowed-out chicken coop in the back of the house and bury her next to where they’d buried the little black boy a few weeks back. Jones hated it when it rained. The decrepit house they had spent the past several months squatting in had holes in the roof, so the group only stayed marginally drier within its walls than they would have been outside. It was better than nothing, he supposed. A cloud of greasy black smoke wafted past his face. The old man was cooking something over a fire he’d started in the kitchen sink – probably beans in his battered tin pan again – mumbling once more about John Malkovich stealing one of his ideas for a screenplay. He did that more and more often, these days. But then, Jones knew, the guy was bat-shit crazy. Decent cook for a brain-dead hobo, though. The people who currently squatted here – Jones, PG // 101
Benny, Jack, the old man, White-Eyes, and poor dead Darcy – were not friends, not really. They were the dregs of society, the people the world had chewed up, found distasteful, and spat back into this shambling wreck of a wooden house on the outskirts of the city. But they were all one another had. There were others, of course. People drifted in, stayed a bit, then drifted back out the way they’d come. Sometimes, like the black kid, Micah, they were too far gone to return, and just came here to die in peace. It wasn’t a choice, it just was. Some were alcoholics, others were junkies, but universally, they came here all alone and homeless. Benny was rummaging in the canvas sack he habitually carried on his right hip. While he was digging, his left hand kept scratching violently at his thick black mustache. Benny wasn’t really his name – it was actually Raoul – he was nicknamed that for his drug of choice, amphetamines. He had a tendency to twitch a lot, for obvious reasons. “Where is that pinche razor, I know I got it in here somewhere…aha! Found it!” He held the orange plastic handle up to the glow of the candle on the floor next to him and inspected the blade for rust. Pronouncing it useable, he wet it in a coffee can of rainwater and started to scrape the black hair from his upper lip. “Too bad about Darcy, eh?” “Yeah. Think she left any smokes for us?” Jones
had already picked anything worth smoking out of the tinfoil ashtray earlier that afternoon. “I’m busy here, mano. You go check her.” Jones was more than happy to oblige – if Darcy had had any cigarettes left on her when she died, he got automatic dibs for finding them. He stood up and walked over to where her scrawny body was already cooling in the corner, the wooden floorboards creaking in protest at his every step. He knelt by her side, careful not to disturb her resting form, but taking a moment to gently close the poor girl’s eyes before he started patting down her pockets. The skinny jeans she wore were surprisingly loose on her emaciated legs, the result of an almost entirely smack-based diet. Girl didn’t know when to quit. Well, she does now, he supposed. Finding a square bulge in her left rear pocket, he reached in with his forefinger and thumb and withdrew a half-crushed pack of Newport 100’s. Grinning at Benny, he flipped open the box top and looked into the box. The grin fell somewhat when he realized all she’d left them was a box full of stubbies. Well, they were better than nothing, and there were at least a dozen or so in the pack. She’d probably been picking them out of the gutter for a couple of days, at least. He shrugged. “How many, Jonesy?” asked Benny. “Few butts. I’ll share ‘em.” “Gracias,” said Benny, swishing the razor in the dirty rainwater again. “Sick of these pinche lice, man.” “I’m sure the feeling’s mutual – you don’t have much meat on you.”
“Very funny, cabron.” At that moment, the old man shuffled into the room, grumbling about the rain and carrying a pan full of burnt beans, leaving a trail of greasy black smoke in his wake. He pointed a thumb at Darcy’s huddled form in the corner. “She dead?” “You got eyes, old man? You see her breathing?” “Nope. Ah well, more beans for us, then. You search her?” “’Course I did. Found some butts. And you can keep the beans, they smell like shit.” “More for me, then.” With that, the old fool squatted down and started shoveling charcoal and beans into his gap-toothed craw. “Beans’re good. Dunno what you’re missing, fellas.” Benny laughed. “Couple days in that corner, she still gonna smell better than them beans, abuelo.” “You calling me old, spic?” The old man, whose name was actually Francis, set down the pot and started to get up, gnarled fists raised in front of him like a worn-out prizefighter from the forties. “Yeah, vato, I’m calling you old. ‘Cause you are old. Now siddown and eat your pinche beans.” “Well, since you asked nicely, sweetheart,” replied the old man with a smile. Jones was chuckling to himself when the old man looked back towards Darcy’s prone form. “Damn shame about her, too young for this life. Think she had any kin?” Pondering, Jones replied “None of us got kin, Frank. Just each other.” “Yeah, we always got each other. ‘Least until we don’t. We need to bury her, soon. Got enough flies and stink around here. Don’t need no more.” He PG // 102
fingered some more beans into his mouth. “My kingdom for a goddamn spoon…” Benny poked around in his sack again for a minute, finally pulling out an old Taco Bell spork with a shortened handle. He tossed it in the old man’s direction with a sad little smile. “No hard feelings, eh?” “Let’s just call it a cease-fire for now, punk.” “You got it, jefe.” Benny was still smirking. From downstairs, the shrieking of the front door hinges announced the return of White-Eyes and Jack. The two had left a few hours earlier, promising to scrounge up enough cash to buy the squatters a case of beer. Promises weren’t worth a damn though, as Jones knew all too well. When the men reached the top of the rickety stairs, he saw that all they had was a brown paper grocery sack, one too small for a case of beer. “Whatcha got?” he asked. “Couple bottles of Mad Dog,” said Jack. He Caitlynn Dowland // Graphic Design We Are // Digital Painting
pronounced it “Dawg.” “Business wasn’t exactly booming today, it’s all we could afford. She gone?” he asked, pointing at Darcy. “Yeah. She gone. And yeah, I got her smokes. You got the lighter, though.” “Actually, I have the lighter, man.” White-Eyes was one of those bums who sat with a cardboard sign that said “Vietnam Vet, please help.” He wasn’t lying either, like so many supposed “vets” did to gain sympathy and change from passerby. His real name was Nick, and he’d been blinded towards the end of that war by looking too long at some napalm that was merrily burning down a village. For all that, though, he was a very friendly, very polite, older dude. The two new arrivals sat down and started passing around the three bottles they’d bought, while Jones did the same with the box of butts he’d inherited from the late Miss Darcy. Taking a pull from the bottle of green “wine” before handing
it to Benny, White-Eyes asked “How’d she go out, son?” Jones lit a smoke with the communal lighter before replying with a cough. “Quietly. Just never woke up is all.” “Sad,” the blind man replied. “Any of you have a problem with me sayin’ a few words for her, when we put her out with Micah?” Benny wiped his lips with the back of his hand. “We didn’t have no problem with his burial, Padre, why would we have a problem now?” “I’m no priest, Benny. Just an old Chaplain who likes the dead to know they’re appreciated.” He sighed, lit a smoke, shook his head. “Not my first, won’t be my last.” Francis burped into the ensuing silence. Always polite, that Francis. “You guys want some beans?” Jack reached for the offered pan and nodded his thanks. Spooning in a mouthful of brown-black sludge, he grunted and smiled at the old man. “Not bad, Frank. Not too bad at all. Here’s to you!” he took a swig and handed the bottle to Micah, who now sat at his left. “You guys know this shit will rot your brains, right?” Sitting there in his cloud of greasy black smoke, he looked remarkably healthy and hale, despite his having been put to rest in the ground three weeks ago. A spider crawled from out of his sleeve onto the hand he used to pass the bottle on to Benny. The latino scratched at his luxuriantly greasy mustache and looked at Micah. “This some voodoo shit or something, amigo? ‘Cause you dead, bro. You don’t need no Mad Dog, you just
a kid anyhow. Smart kid would stay dead in the ground, like we left ‘im, si?” Jones, nonplussed whatsoever, laughed at Benny. “I don’t mean to point out the elephant in the room, buddy, but weren’t you clean shaved a few minutes ago?” He took a swig and passed the bottle on. “What fucking elephant, mano? I don’t see no elephant.” They all laughed, smoking their purloined cigarette butts and drinking their cheap booze. “One of you assholes want to give me one of my goddamn smokes? ‘Cause someone seems to have taken them out of my ass pocket while I was dead.” Darcy sat in her cloud, not looking very happy right then. Francis tossed her the pack. Jones just shrank and said “Sorry, Darcy.” It was quiet for a few minutes, the group smoking their butts and drinking in silence. Finally, Jones looked up and sighed. “It’s happening again, isn’t it?” “Yes,” replied the greasy, black, human-shaped cloud that sat in the center of the circle. “The experiment continues for the one hundred and forty-first of your Earth days. The ship will soon reset itself to the appearance it held exactly four hours ago.” “Why?” asked Francis. “Why not?” replied the cloud. “You weren’t doing anything with your lives, now were you?” Jones woke up to the barking of a pack of stray dogs. PG // 104
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