2022–2023 The Peel Literature & Arts Review
Volume 15
@thepeelreview thepeelreview.com
ACP Best of Show 2016, 2018, 2022
ACP Pacemaker Finalist 2017
NCCMA Best of Show 2013, 2018, 2022
ACP Pacemaker Winner 2014, 2016
CMA Pinnacle Winner 2022
Appalachian State University Boone, NC 28608
With this edition, we celebrate our fifteenth anniversary. Each year, The Peel could not accomplish so much without the dedication and support of so many people. Right now, I feel this sentiment more strongly than ever.
The Peel is a relatively young, dynamic organization, and each year a new team of editors and committee members brings their ideas and skill sets to the table. Since the first year of publication, The Peel has instituted multimedia facets, continued growth of our editorial board, and close relationships with other organizations at App State. We thank our predecessors and other contributing Peel alumni for making such a versatile and unique space for creatives, and we want to continue to build upon their legacy.
This year’s design was largely influenced by our theme, proximity. Within our socioeconomic climate and through our submissions — we wanted to showcase the connection between closeness and distance. Our design is reflective of this through the spatial relationship of shapes on our cover, and our typography indicates the bond of language and design.
Our theme is representative of the proximity to our first edition, and allows us to reflect on how far we’ve come over the past few years or how far we have regressed. This is why we chose our spotlight: feminine identity and reproductive rights. In light of Roe v. Wade being overturned and drag performance becoming outlawed in certain cities — we wanted to highlight autonomy over all bodies, the power of identity, and how our student body responds to these modern urgencies.
Our first two pages open the magazine with examples of proximity to each other — the world around us, and ourselves. We see forced proximity in “D is for Doctor.” We grapple with the proximity to death in “Little Joys.” We empathize with our lack of proximity to pieces like “Dirt” as we recognize our privileges. We learn to understand and unravel how close or far away we are from our current desires, needs, and fears throughout these pages.
Despite some of our worst anxieties becoming reality, we can still stage our mini-rebellions, and enjoy the free play of mind, and the undogmatic spirit and awareness that the best art still provides. I hope what you see, read, and listen to stays with you long after you’ve put this book down.
Thank you for supporting the creative community here at Appalachian. We hope you enjoy all of the art and stories that lie within. If you want more, please visit our website at thepeelreview.com.
Best,
Cayleigh Brown Editor-in-ChiefLoren Weiss—Little Joys 6
Peter McKinney—Dirt 21
Lydia Blanton—Bird Behavior 28
Mason Atkinson—D is for Doctor 47
Jaxon Schock—Crusader 57
Daniel Wartham—A Forgettable Train Encounter 64
Andrew Monnat—The Earth could be a Fuzzy Thing 5
Ember Jones—Three Versions of the Self: A Pantoum 11
Brittany Helms—Building a Home 14
Madison Stone—Terminus 17
Madeline Waechter—Baptism Under the Maple Tree 19
Caroline Kuhn—Lemonizing 26
Maya Nesbitt—How to peel an orange 41
SK Osborn—Holding Tightly Enough to Keep But Not to Break 69
Elissa Paula—Lurking 4
Caroline Stageman—Walking on Broken Eyes 9
Michele Viola—Spirits 10
Lela Arruza—10,000 XV
Camille Kerner—Gender = Performance 16
Elissa Paula—The Veil of Deception 18
Joseph Boyle—A Foreign Affair 20
Ginsy Barnes—Glimpse 27
Rae Feutz—Summer rain and a moldy home 40
Julie Ferguson—Taking Up Space 46
Chloe VunCannon—Ephesians 6:17 56
Evelyn Cardwell—i see myself in you 68
45 Caffeine Daydream—Heartbreaker Queen
45 Conner Lindsley—It's Not Your Fault
45 Juniper Avenue—Chuck Rock
45 The Dune Sea—Patrol
45 Skydivers—Tremble
45 Skydivers—Hesitate
45 Taylor Smith—Chaotic Overdrive
45 Emma Oliver—Cheesy and Desperate
33 Maya Carr—Woman
33 Maya Carr—Predators in Power
34 Lauren Flanders—Stargirl
35 Cayleigh Brown—Small Pulps
36 Camden McManamy—Self Deflection
37 Harper Bond—A Woman's Place
38 Clay Ersa-Davis—The Excruciatingly Ugly Art of Womanhood
12 Ollie Bandong—Crochet Business
24 Field of Clover—Local Band
52 Gaining Composure—Local Band
54 Educated Guess—Local Band
62 Haus of Liqueur—Drag Group
The Earth could be a fuzzy thing with all the trees it has, that a boy with chubby hands and homemade overalls may brush his arm over the fiber twigs. He could feel them bend like grass and scratch at him a bit for being so intrusive.
The Earth may not mind as he rolls tiny people down the mountain shoulders they might even have fun but not enough to sustain the giggles from high above. So reshaped are the ridges and brushed down are the twigs into a mud-covered dearth and the Earth didn’t care so much back then.
But the boy could mold his little clay ball into whatever he pleases bringing a little red to the cheeks or a sort of death in his eye that signals the doom that is lust for another shiny toy. He could leave it contorted for itself to slowly heal.
The air smells like bleach and that unmistakable metallic tang of blood. It never fails to make bile rise in my throat; the deaths of these people are always inevitable, but I still haven’t gotten used
My coworker walks up to me, and we trade a look. I remember we’d argued about eye colors once, using silly reasons to declare superiority; but now, her green eyes are just as weary as my
My eyes burn, and I blink before I can let tears well in them. “Thanks,” I whisper, swallowing. She gives me another look, this one full of sympathy. I don’t need her pity, though. I’m the one who chose to get attached to a patient.
it must hurt. She’s got one of the male nurses playing UNO with her. I’ve never understood how a game of simple numbers could bring her such joy. She has a thing for sudoku, too. I’d bought her books of puzzles back when her hands could still hold a pencil.
to it yet. The life fading out of their eyes, the heaving breaths they take that end up being their last. It is gruesome, it is disgusting, and it is all but the graceful death the politicians on the tiny television screen promise. Right after I leave the room clean, another body gets wheeled in, twitching under its sheet. The person is alive, but they won’t be for long; they’ve gotten the fast-acting strain, the one that makes boils rise on skin and causes blood to drip from every orifice. It is painful, but it is quick, and I believe it to be more merciful than the original strain, which slowly picks people apart from the inside out. If mercy can even be considered in a situation like this, that is.
brown ones. We don’t need to talk as I hold out my mop and she takes it. Though it couldn’t have been more than a month since the disease ripped through our town, we have already seen more bodies in these few weeks than we’d expected to see in our entire lives. She jerks her head towards another one of the rooms, her voice scratchy when she speaks.
I hear a wheezed, croaking laugh as I peer through the crack in the thick wooden door, my footsteps sounding much too loud on the hard tile below me. When I allow myself a quick glance in the reflective window of the door, I see a haggard version of myself; long dark hair matted, my skin pale from being underneath this damn hazmat suit. More chatter comes from inside of the room, and I step in as quietly as I can muster.
Ella is red, which is the first sign that things are really and
“You suck at this,” she says to him, placing her last card down. The nurse mumbles something, moving to reshuffle before I clear my throat.
Ella’s eyes instantly brighten. “Aiko!” she cheers, then coughs, blinking down at her hand before wiping it away. It stains the sheet a rusty brown, bringing my attention to the other streaks of red covering the clinical white fabric.
I make a mental note to see if I can change her sheets before I allow her a smile. “You doing okay?”
“Could be better,” Ella says with a delicate smile, holding a blistered hand up in the air. When she meets my eyes, I realize that the sickly blue sheen of disease has settled even farther into her irises.
“I’m-” I start apologizing, then shut my mouth when she fixes me with a stern look. Right. Don’t say sorry for things you aren’t responsible for. “I’m wearing a dress today, like you asked me to. The one I wore to my high school graduation.” Two years, and I still fit into it. Sometimes I wonder how I ended up here; me, a medical student with a few classes under my belt. Then I remember that I’m one of the only ones they have left.
Ella’s smile turns dreamy.
that everything would be okay. I thank whatever godly entity is out there that she hasn’t caught on.
Describe the dress. I’ve never been descriptive. “Um, well. It’s yellow. Sunflower yellow, stops at my knees, puffed sleeves. It’s too short for you, but you would look beautiful in it, I think.” It’s an uncomfortable dress, but it’s pretty enough.
“You look beautiful in it.” Ella’s dreamy smile fixates on me. It takes all of my willpower not to wipe the sweat from the apple of her cheek.
“You can’t see it,” I whisper instead, clenching my hands in my lap.
“455. She’s asking for you again. It’s not looking too good.”
truly going downhill. Her dark cheeks are bright spots of crimson, and her thick hair is slicked down with sweat, but still she smiles, though
The nurse quietly packs up the cards as well as he can with his thick gloves on, quickly moving out of the chair to give me a place to sit. I’m not sure how it happened this way, but people seem to not want to be in the same room as Ella and I. Perhaps they can hear the raw pain in my voice that she cannot.
“Are you? Can you describe it to me?” Her hand stays in the air, almost as though she was actively holding back from reaching out to touch. It’d been hard for her at first. Now, it’s hard for me to keep myself from wrapping my arms around her poison-ridden skin and combing a hand through her hair, whispering
“I can. In my mind.” Her finger traces a shape in the air, and I follow it. The pads of her fingertips are bleeding, and they connect to make one dark rivulet that trails down her wrist. Her expression is still as bright as ever. I don’t understand how she can be in so much pain and still smile
It is gruesome, it is disgusting, and it is all but the graceful death the politicians on the tiny television screen promise.
Right after I leave the room clean, another body gets wheeled in, twitching under its sheet. The person is alive, but they won’t be for long…
Though it couldn’t have been more than a month since the disease ripped through our town, we have already seen more bodies in these few weeks than we’d expected to see in our entire lives.
A bird chirps from just outside of the closed window. I look over to see it peering into the room with curious, beady eyes. It’s a cardinal. Superstitiously, I wonder which spirit possesses it. My mother always told me that lost souls visit in the bodies of these fat, red, beautiful birds. I have always wished that the souls would choose a less ominous vessel.
When I turn back to Ella, she is watching me with eyes half lidded. “Aiko,” she whispers, clasping her hands in her lap. Though her voice is raspy now, my name has always sounded perfect on her lips. “I’m sorry.”
“You can’t apologize,” I say immediately, guilt crashing over me like an angry wave. “You haven’t done anything. Whatever you’re apologizing for, you’re not responsible for it.”
“Your eyes smile less and less,” Ella says carefully, as though I’m the sick one. “I miss seeing your smile. It’s because of me, isn’t it?”
I feel the tears welling up again, then a spark of fury that I can’t just swipe them away from my eyes. “No,” I insist, breaking eye contact. “That’s not your fault, El. I’m not supposed to get attached to patients, it’s the first thing we learned in school.”
Ella swallows, then coughs into her fist again. Another stroke of red on the white sheet. “You should apologize to yourself, then.” Her expression shows nothing but conviction, an emotion so strong that I can’t help getting swept up in it.
“Then I’m sorry,” I whisper, but I’m not. I’m not sorry to myself, because though loving her is painful, it is what keeps me whole. No, I am sorry that it is someone like her that the world must take away, that such a bright light must be extinguished so brutally. That one day, she will be the bright red cardinal sitting in the window, while I must keep on living.
A knock sounds on the door right as a soft smile climbs
onto her face. “Aiko,” someone calls, muffled through the wood, and I bite on my tongue to distract from the ache in my chest. “You’re needed in 418. They’re dropping like flies out here.”
I turn to Ella, and she must sense my panic, because she raises her hands to make a heart with her fingers. “Go,” she says. “I’ll still be here.” I can see in her face that she believes it. I dread the day when she doesn’t.
I love you dies on the tip of my tongue. “Hang in there,” I say instead, closing my eyes and standing. I cannot look at her while I leave for fear that I will go running back. She whispers a goodbye just before the door shuts.
As I take the bottle of bleach back into my hand, my stomach turns again. I hate this. I hate it here, I hate being here, and I hate living like this, and yet, I am someone who cannot afford to die. Perhaps, when the bodies become too many, the rest of the doctors may lose their minds just as I’m doing now.
There is no end to what I have found myself in. All I must do is scrub and wait for my world to fall apart.
Now, it’s hard for me to keep myself from wrapping my arms around her poison-ridden skin and combing a hand through her hair, whispering that everything would be okay.
One by one, step by step. I think that you could conquer the world like this, those dark, lustrous vines crawling towards the light, though you are smaller than you will ever be.
I think that you could conquer the world like this, just you and your notebook and the things you claim as your own. My dear, though you are smaller than you have ever been, you stare down the black shadow of the future, unmoving, just you and your notebook and the thoughts you claim as your own. Do you feel the weight that the world presses on you as you stare down that black, unmoving shadow? I wonder where you found that courage, little girl.
You feel the weight of the world on your shoulders and still you stand. Are you yet unsteady? I wonder where you found that tenacity, little girl. I did not make it for you—
so how do you still stand so unsteadily? I slept and woke, and in the morning you were changed. I know that I did not give it to you, though I wish I had, this strange new fire, burning foolishly inside your chest.
I slept and woke and you were changed. My dear, I grow slowly, gradually towards the light, so unlike this strange, foolish new fire burning within you, so unlike the little girl you used to be, idle and muted.
I reach for the light slowly and gradually, and you are someone I won’t be for years— so unlike who I am now, muted and idle. I want to love you. I admire how you take up space.
But you are someone I won’t be for years yet, though quiet and smaller than I will ever be.
I’m coming to love you, and to admire the space you will take up because I know that you could conquer the world like this,
even though I am smaller than I have ever been. We’ll just take things one by one, step by step. You could conquer the world like this. Dark, lustrous vines crawling towards the light.
What started as a small side hustle to support their brother’s top surgery ended as a local student-run business that caters to all audiences in Boone. Ollie Bandong, gender studies senior, runs a crochet business that sells colorful fruit and vegetable hats, pride keychains, and more.
The Raleigh native first started crocheting senior year of high school and started selling solely to fundraise for their brother’s top surgery during the peak of the COVID-19 pandemic.
Bandong, later on, sold their crocheted goods at popup shops and farmer markets showing the locals and students a fuzzy side of their business. Bandong’s main purpose is to cater to queer and college-age students, making a variety of products that fit the criteria of their business. Products include little hats for furry friends, fingerless gloves, stuffed donuts, and Valentine’s hearts.
One of their favorite memories is the Lily's pride market. The business flourished as they were advertising, promoting themselves, and also meeting different people during their fun shopping experience. “It felt really great especially when I knew the money was going to a cause I’m passionate about.”
Bandong is finishing up their bachelor’s degree this spring and hopes to take their business throughout their post-graduate career. Shoppers can find Bandong’s crochet business at Femme Fatales and pop up Student-Made shows, which are at the beginning of every month at Cupcrazed on Blowing Rock Road.
“After he had his surgery, I was taking commissions and just doing it for fun,” Bandong said. They later saw applications for the King Street Market and got accepted to sell which featured their shop every other week for people to buy and view.
“It was a lot of fun… I was crocheting fruit and vegetable bucket hats,” they said.
It felt really great especially when I knew the money was going to a cause I’m passionate about.Photo by Effie Horvath Photo by ASU Photo Club Photo by ASU Photo Club
If it’s okay with you, I think I’m going to build a house with your laughter as the foundation, and your ambition plastered all over the living room walls, to remind myself I can grow the apples needed to bake that apple pie from my grandmother’s cookbook that I try not to look at too closely to avoid water damage and salt residue from crusting the pages shut forever.
If it’s okay with you, I’m going to use your warmth to keep the fireplace dancing through the winter, and your kindness to clean up the kitchen.
I’ve made a mess again, and if it’s okay with you, I’m going to use your hands to soak up the leftover lemon juice, from my mid-afternoon experiment, saturating them enough to create sweet tiny paper tea bags, so when I’m reading on Sunday morning you can squeeze raspberry leaves into my mouth by the beach.
If it’s okay with you, I’m going to knead you into the dough of my life, once I’m sure there is raspberry residue left underneath your fingernails for me to pick out when I’m ready to be the person you don’t want but need as the foundation for your home.
Camille Kerner
acrylic on bed sheet and plywood
there is nothing profound in the quiet that follows. no bird-song or ivy overtaking that shell of a city, and no foxes dozing in the rib cage of a house
and when Prometheus is gone to ash in the soft and tender throat of some divine carrion leaking crimson tar on the side of the road the eagle with the bent neck will not rouse
no soft rains will fall, and the soot will not descend like flecks of snow, tumbling to rest on the tip of your tongue trees will not burst from cracks in those vestigial streets like forgotten limbs, reaching towards the overpass
this place is not a place of honor there is no art in this suffering
Madeline Waechter
Vermillion hues tornado. I let them kiss me on the descent. Alive again, I’m alive again. Under the harvest moon, absolve me of my terrors— for mother, I have sinned. Embrace me with gnarled limbs. I worship in your waters, fingers graze the pale bark of your skin, two beings never more akin. I lift my chalice to you, old friend. my baptism under the maple tree the rushing river’s end.
Elissa Paula acrylic, oil pastel, and plastic gems on canvas
he sun rising over the mountains in the east would be picturesque if any of us cared. That novelty wore off by the end of the first month. Now all it means is the rays are going to start beating on us while we wear all this gear and these clothes and carry all this shit and walk for miles and miles and it is so fucking hot.
The plowed poppy fields make five kilometers feel like a hundred. Every time I take a step I sink up to my ankles and somehow a pinch of dirt finds its way into my boot. It doesn’t matter how tight I tie them; it always creeps in. This shit is everywhere. It ends up in my pockets, down my back, in my magazine pouches; I wonder if
TI’ll ever be able to get rid of it all. It sticks to everything. This whole place sticks to everything. One day I’ll learn that it sticks forever.
No matter what anyone says about it being a dry heat, 120 degrees is miserable. Long pants. Long sleeves. Leather boots. A helmet. Body armor that is loaded down with so much shit that it hangs on my shoulders with 40 lbs of smothering weight. Nothing breathes. I can’t breathe. This whole place is suffocating.
I can’t remember the last time I was soaked from sweat. There was no moisture anymore, just a constant salty crust on every part of me. I feel older. At 27 years old, I could easily
be mistaken for 40. I feel 50. Four months deep in a six-month rotation. I keep a daily log. It helps track the time, even though time has no meaning here. I suppose the log is meaningless, but I keep it anyway. Every day is the same. The only thing that changes is the height of the poppies.
I’m not even sure what we are looking for... or what’s looking for us. As I look around at the 15 others trudging through the tilled landscape, it still bewilders me to see how different everyone is, even though they all look the same. Each has a different personality that I’ve figured out over time while keeping my distance. Deployments are short. Shorter for some.
One day I'll learn that it sticks forever.
Smith is your typical go-getter. He’s like a welltrained German Shepard. Aggressive when needed, docile when not. He’s smart, doesn’t make rash decisions, and is the kind of guy everyone wants to be in the lead. He was probably the star quarterback in high school but wasn’t your typical jock. He worked hard, despite his natural talent. Everyone likes him. Everyone respects him. Smith doesn’t take that lightly, and you can see in his face the toll that responsibility has taken on him. He’ll never admit it, but the eyes don’t lie. Regardless, there is no place he would rather be.
Rogers thought he wanted this his whole life. A farm boy who grew up in the
Midwest somewhere, spending his summers shucking corn then sneaking Natty Light behind the barn with his buddies. Don’t worry Rogers, dad knew the whole time - just boys being boys. He’s not so sure this is what he wants anymore. This isn’t what the posters looked like in the recruiting ads. Most of the guys here are Rogers.
Jackson thinks he was born for this. He comes from a long line of his type. He would tell you that his great-great-grandpa fought in the Civil War but wouldn’t tell you which side, even though secretly he’s proud of it. Every man in his lineage since then has fought somewhere: great grandpa in WWI, grandpa
in WWII and Korea, dad in Vietnam. He couldn’t wait to become the next in line to serve. Now, he can’t wait to go home. He’ll tell stories about heroic actions he never actually took, much like his family before him. He will live the rest of his life sitting at the VFW drinking cheap beer, worrying someone might one day call him out on his bullshit.
There’s only one Michaels. The strong, silent professional. With 1,000 of him I could take over the world. He could easily lead this whole crew, but he came in two years too late because he promised his mom he would go to community college first. He will gladly follow what Smith tells
him to do, not because he always agrees with it, but because he understands the importance of discipline and loyalty. He never complains. He is the first one up every day and will also take an extra guard shift at night if it means someone else gets more sleep. One day, Michaels could lead his own platoon, and they would follow him into the fires of hell at the drop of a hat. He won’t though. Michaels won’t get the chance. The best ones never do. It is so fucking hot. We end up out there all day, which seems par for the course. Stop and talk to the man who runs the market. Have you seen anything unusual? Who the fuck knows. What is unusual anymore? We offer to pay him some money for any leads on where to find
ask ourselves why we are here. They constantly tell us “complacency kills.” We’ve long since died inside.
The little kids in the village are always out playing in the dirt with their one ragged-ass soccer ball hoping to one day become their country’s own Messi. I want to tell them to give it up. Statistically you’ll be lucky to survive that long. Rogers lines up and kicks the ball, launching it as far as he can so that the little pests have to chase it. He’s not trying to play their game; he just wants them to feel our frustration. I hope you never get your ball back. I say nothing to the kids. I don’t get paid for that.
of the heat. One kilometer left. We could go the longer way and avoid the canal crossing, but at this point we just want to be done. Always avoid the bridges. Smith picks the crossing point. We wade in, one by one tits deep across the 15-foot-wide artificial river. It’s probably full of fertilizer, shit, piss, and any number of other normally disgusting things, but for the first time all day, I feel like I’m not on fire. It doesn’t last. The fucking heat here dries you so fast that you don’t even get the chance to enjoy the shit water. At least some of the crust is washed away.
I want to tell them to give it up. Statistically you’ll
what we are looking for. We don’t even know what that is. He takes the money and feeds us a line of shit that you can smell from a mile away. Smith listens to the drabble, but his focus slowly drifts over the man’s shoulder and into the nothingness that we will all be dragging our boots through for hours. You can see the heat getting to him, as we all silently
They always run over to us asking for the only things they know in English. Chocolate! Money! Get. The. Fuck. Away. It’s like some sort of joke for them to ask us. No, I’m not giving you any money. I don’t feel bad for the kids. I feel nothing. Even if I had chocolate why would I give it to you? I don’t have chocolate to give. Nobody has any. How could we possibly have chocolate in our pockets or in our packs or anywhere on us when we all know that it would just fucking melt anyway, because...
By this time of day, the dirt is hot. Hot to the touch. Hot to the smell. I wonder if it will ever come out of my clothes, out of my skin, out of my brain. I’ll scrub my skin later and end up spending the rest of my life trying to scrub it from my brain. As for the clothes, I’ll burn these when I get home and buy new ones.
I remind myself to tell my closest compatriots that if I don’t make it, to burn my clothes before they get boxed up. Burn all my stuff. I don’t want the memory of that smell to go home to my family and have it stink up their entire lives. Set it all on fire.
Nobody will feel the heat from the flames anyway.
be lucky to survive that long.
The femme-based band enters the Boone music scene introducing sounds influenced by Alex G, Weyes Blood, and Big Thief in hopes of reaching the coffeehouse vibe around the quaint mountain town.
Field of Clover, the two-member band, features Grace Lawton, senior music industry studies, and Lynda Garcia, junior music industry studies. The local band got their start in early February 2023, making the band a fresh sound in the local music scene. The bandmates' history goes back from being in the same program and doing projects together including being current members of Femgineers, a group that highlights femme, nonbinary, LGBTQ+, and minorities. They are dedicated to creating a safe space in the music industry.
Clover recently released their first EP “Snowday” which is available on Apple Music, Bandcamp, and Spotify. Garcia wrote the lyrics, high-
lighting her world during the wintertime, specifically learning how to enjoy things alone. Since she and Lawton have worked on music together, Lawton later added her own touch of sound to the single, recording and finishing it that winter night.
“We were on such a high that night,” they both said. “Snowday” captures a soft and ambient sound with vocals that vibrate throughout the demo, with the strums of the guitar and a percussion instrument that perfectly captures being in the moment of a relaxing snow day in the mountains.
With tremendous support from other local Boone bands, Field of Clover are pressing the gas pedal in terms of their future. They plan to release an EP project featuring four new songs and perform at local spots showcasing their exciting sound.
“If we make someone feel anything it’s a win in our book,” Garcia said.
If we make someone feel anything it’s a win in our book.
-Lynda GarciaPhotos edited by @bluefelicia.design Photos by Sara Gallimore
I fileted a flounder with a dull knife. Ran the dark silver under a chunk of flesh, ticking against the thin bones The flounder was made to be separated To please others in her broken form.
I lied.
I only made the first incision My father finished while I sat smelling the metallic scene.
It reminded me of him describing my birth
The most poetic thing he’s ever said: Beana, there were so many colors coming out of your mother, the darkest purple you’ll ever see.
When he finished the massacre, He said he needed to lemonize his hands.
I felt like a traitor to this muddy creature to watch it battered and fried Stuffed into a taco
Surrendered to hands and mouths that needed lemonizing.
Ginsy Barnes
acrylic and puffy paint on canvas
The color on the birdhouse I painted my freshman year of high school is starting to fade. The afternoon sun glows orange against what used to be bright red walls and a blue roof; lightened by the years of direct sunlight. It was cheap craft store paint, anyway. It wasn’t meant to last a lifetime.
I know there’s a nest of brambles inside, stuffed with five gray eggs huddled close to one another in the small space. When I was still in high school I’d come out every morning to see if there were any new eggs or if the feed was lower than usual, and drag Dad out to see the differences. Mama always hated the birdhouse–how close it was to the porch railings she’d had redone, how bird poop always ended up dried along the wood.
She used to come out with a broom in the mornings to chase off the birds, and I had to devote my Saturdays to washing the railings to get her to stop.
Dad is changing out the bird feed that hangs from the foundations, an unlit cigarette clutched between two of his fingers. There’s dirt on
the knees of his jeans from the garden, and the hole in his wide-brimmed straw hat seems to have gotten bigger since he went to weed out the corn this morning.
“Careful,” I yell out when the spear the house sits on shakes with the weight of the feed he hangs back on it. “There’s five eggs in there.”
He squints at me. “There were four yesterday mornin’.”
“I guess she laid another one today.”
Dad peers through the hole in the front of the house, grinning when he sees the extra spotted egg. “Well, alright then.”
He comes to sit next to me on the porch swing, rusted chains chinking against the chirp of birds and a lawnmower running in some yard a ways away. He lights his cigarette and taps the ashes into the grass at his feet, huffing a cloud into the air. The wind blows the smell of smoke in my direction, into the flyaway pieces of my hair, and I breathe it in through my nose.
He and Mama used to smoke when I was lit-
tle, tucked into a cloudy alcove in the garage full of Dad’s music equipment and Mama’s bookshelves bursting with pages that stink of smoke even though she hasn’t touched a cigarette in eleven years. Me and my brothers used to sit on the chairs out there, smoke smell seeping into our clothes, and talk to them until we got bored enough to go back inside the house. The smell of a cigarette brings me back there, laughing with Mama over the latest cliche in her romance book.
I don’t bother telling Dad to go smoke it elsewhere.
I look out at the garden that’s become of the backyard, the knee length stalks of corn reaching up out of the dirt in hopeful tendrils. Maybe they’ll get tall enough this year so that I can crouch between the stalks and hide from Dad while he’s weeding like I did when I was a kid.
Can you see me?, I’d yell between the gaps, Can you see me now?
“Do you think it’ll be a good harvest this year?” I ask him.
Dad looks out at his creation. It’s the time of the
season where the problems start to happen. The past four years have been failures full of soil too acidic or too dry, or frosts happening later than anticipated. He’s already had to pull out the sprouts and replant four times already this year.
But today he smiles. “I think it’ll be the best one we’ve had in a while.”
The happiness in his face is shadowed with age; the gray hairs of his beard, the lines that crease at the corner of his eyes as he smiles, the thin gray strands of hair sprouting from his bushy eyebrows. The brim of his hat casts a shadow against the right side of his face when he turns to look at me, and I wonder how long it’ll be before he can’t come out and bend over his plants anymore. How long it’ll be before he’s too tired.
He’s still all happy when he asks, “How’s Leo doing? I haven’t seen him in a while and I know he was really interested in weedin’ and helpin’ with the corn.”
He’s right. Leo had been interested. He worships everything my Dad does, and it isn’t even a weird obligation he felt like he needed to have as my boyfriend. He just loves my Dad, even the piece of him that hides away for hours every night with a
bottle of Jack Daniels.
Leo has his ways of loving people. You could show him the crappiest part of a person and he’d love them anyway.
I go to answer, reminding myself that I had told my parents that Leo couldn’t make it to Sunday dinner because he was busy with his own family. Not that he was actually sitting at home with take out from our favorite Japanese place in town. “He’s good–”
“Are y’all coming in or what?” Mama pokes her head out of the back door, squinting against the light and pursing her lips when she sees the two of us rocking on the swing. “Your plates are gettin’ cold.”
“Oh!” Dad jumps up and stomps out his cigarette in one movement, “Comin’ honey!”
I kick the remnants of his cigarette butt off of the wood of the porch and try to dust away the dusty patches his bare feet left behind so Mama doesn’t have a cow when she comes out here and sees the mess he left behind.
The dining room table is decorated with the usual seasonal placemats Mama likes to find at the antique store downtown: soft blue with embroidered sunflowers for summer. There’s only three plates set out tonight. There hasn’t been five since Christmas–the only family dinner my two brothers come to besides Thanksgiving. Their absence is expected. They’ve managed to perfect the art of letting my parents down on their invites. I never got the hang of disappointing Mama like they did the second they moved out.
Dinner is fried chicken tonight. It’s Dad’s favorite meal, and you can tell by the way he drums his fingers against the wood of the table as he waits for Mama and I to come sit. Steam still wafts from the plates sitting perfectly on the placemats, and my mouth starts to water.
“It looks good, Mama,” I tell her when she pulls out her chair to sit. Her silver-dyed hair hangs perfectly above her shoulders, fram-
But today he smiles. ‘I think it’ll be the best one we’ve had in awhile.’
The brim of his hat casts a shadow against the right side of his face when he turns to look at me, and I wonder how long it’ll be before he can’t come out and bend over his plants anymore. How long it’ll be before he’s too tired.
ing her face and the smear of flour against her jaw. I tell myself I’ll point it out to her after dinner, and forget about it altogether when she smiles in gratitude.
Dad leads the prayer, and the empty space fills with the sound of met-
him. She’s never made him feel left out.
But I know she doesn’t want him to be my husband.
al against ceramic plates, Dad’s compliments spoken through his full mouth, Mama’s laughter. The room feels full of the happiness that shrouded my childhood. Since I’ve moved out, it has felt out of reach, at the edge of my vision. It’s funny that Sunday dinners are what make it feel as real as ever.
“It’s a shame Leo couldn’t join us for dinner,” Mama starts when the initial eating frenzy has quieted, “It would have been nice to see him.”
Dad voices his agreement. “I was just talking to her about him, too,” He cuts his eyes to me, “Make sure to tell him we missed him tonight.”
I shift in my seat and glance at Mama. Talking about Leo with my Dad is fine, but I don’t like talking about my boyfriend with Mama around. After three years of dating, she’s learned to love him. She’s never said anything mean-spirited to
It’s a cloud that’s settled over the two of us. Her silently and terribly holding in the fact that she’s scared I’m going to end up living with Leo’s family in a trailer home with six kids, and me.
I know that with my graduation comes the idea of engagement, and I know Leo knows that, too.
And I know Mama knows that, because she’s the one who told me–very severely–that I am damn well not getting engaged or married or anything of the sort until I have a diploma with my name on it.
I avoid the subject whenever I can, except in situations like this, where the subject presses down on me on all sides.
“I saw his mom at the Pig the other day.” Mama bites a green bean in half. A laugh starts in the back of her throat. “Not like I could have a conversation with her.”
I stare down at my mashed potatoes. The words rake against my skin, begging for a reaction I try to breathe through.
Leo’s mom doesn’t speak
a lot of English. Where Mama refuses to learn the basic Spanish that goes into brief hellos, Leo’s mom wakes up an hour early to watch YouTube videos on English pronunciation in hopes she’ll be able to meet my family officially one day. Mama doesn’t want to go through the trouble of even having dinner with Leo’s family.
I’d told her about Leo’s mom once. The videos she watched in the mornings, how she wanted to meet everyone.
“About time,” She’d said, “If you’re going to live in the country you should speak the language, right?”
“You could’ve said hi, still,” I keep my voice even. “It would have made her day.”
Mama shrugs. “No point in that.”
I spear a cluster of green beans on my fork. I accidentally bite a piece of my cheek when I’m chewing them. The tang of blood hits my tongue. I chew through it. Quietly, silently.
“Honey,” Dad’s voice is soft across the table. “Maybe we should get that Rosetta Stone program on the computer. Maybe by the time they get married we’ll be able to talk a little.”
Mama goes on eating her food casually, as if this conversation is normal. As if she’s right. She rolls her eyes, “I’m not spending any damn money learning a language I don’t need to know. If they want to talk to me then they can sure as hell learn English.”
I scoot my chair out. The sound of the legs scraping against the hardwood turns Mama’s eyes frantic, and I can almost see the scolding forming in her head.
I’ve gotten on my hands and knees to take care of those floors, I can almost hear her saying, like she does every time, you should know better than to scrape them up. I push my chair back in, sure to drag it along the floor as I do, and it stops whatever she was about to say. She purses her lips.
“I’m leaving.”
Mama frowns. “You haven’t finished your dinner yet.”
“I’m finished.”
She rears back at my tone, and puts on the confused expression I’ve seen every time I’ve decided to put up a fight. “I don’t understand why you’re so upset.”
It’s predictable, her reaction. Confusion, sadness at the fact that her words were met with anything but laughter or agreement. Judgment for getting upset over something so “small”. I’ve dealt with it my entire life. The bubble of happiness bursts, and the pieces rain down around the two of us. I stare at her and pretend I don’t feel the pull to apologize, to cower.
“I’m going to head home.” I say evenly. “Thank you for dinner.”
When Leo asks me how it went when I get back to
our apartment, I glance in the mirror in the entryway to make sure the redness around my eyes is gone. He’s all earnest as he looks at me, curled under a blanket on the couch we got from a thrift store forty-five minutes away.
I think about Mama, and all the things she doesn’t know. I breathe.
The blanket is warm where I drape it over my legs next to him. “Dad says he misses you. The corn’s growing.”
“Oh, really? It’s gonna work out this year?”
“Yeah, yeah I think so,” I feel the anger softening at the excitement in his eyes. That genuinity that really only seems true when it’s him who’s showing it.
“Mama misses you, too”
“Does she?”
He knows about the judgment that hides under her skin. But, like my father, Leo loves the pieces of her that are ugly and offensive.
Just like me.
“Yeah, she does.” I’d like to think she does. I’d like to think she loves me enough to get past it.
Leo grins.
The words rake against my skin, begging for a reaction I try to breathe through.
The anatomy of a coat hanger is inherently dangerous, sharp edges and thin metal slices and opens the inside and pours the liquid of life, but I would do anything out of desperation and now might be my moment to paint the walls a sickening red and soak the carpets, I can become an artist, perform for the stars as they watch, unable to look away as I finish what never should have started. I wanted you and couldn’t keep you, not in a pumpkin shell, not in an old shoe. If I’d kept you, you would have been born to a drunk and a lotus-eater, in an apartment without heat, in a neighborhood that smelled of laundry-steam and new tires; the neighbors’ bass and screaming would’ve been your lullaby. If you’d been born you would have been my toy accordion, my tiny prayer. Your eyes would have been opiumsmoke blue.
Camden McManamy
acrylic paint, marker, and colored pencil on wooden panel
A Woman’s Place
Harper Bond photography
I’m home from my first year of college
Staying in my childhood bedroom
With a wrapped condom still tucked between
My bed and boxspring
From highschool
My cycle has come and gone and come and gone
And never come again
So I drive to buy the
Cheapest pregnancy test I can find
I get catcalled in the CVS parking lot
Then trip on my frayed laces
Back, right, isle seven, to the left, next to super plus tampons
Lies the ever discrete Family Planning sign
I shouldn’t of had to of memorized this so young
I grab the double pack, for good measure
And slap what’s left of my gas money
Into a teen boy’s hand behind the counter
He steps off his stool to put my cash in the register
And wishes me good luck through his bound braces
There’s a gas station 2 minutes away
Not that I can afford gas anymore
But it’s a bathroom that I’ll never have to use again
So I can hold onto as few reminders of this as possible
I dial my best friend
The one who knows the excruciatingly ugly
Art of womanhood as well as I do
And I tell her over the sound of some
Sad indie music on the radio
You know I get anxious, but my period is really, really late
She tells me to breathe, to slow down
To anchor myself within the present moment
And other bullshit i’ve told her in the same scenario
She promises to make sure I’m okay
Though she is halfway across the country now
I go in to the gas station
My mother’s stolen flannel catching on the rusted door handle
I buy a neapolitan ice cream sandwich
Wedge it into my purse
And ask for the bathroom key
It’s attached to a broken broom handle
That awkwardly dangles lower than my dress
I can’t pee when I’m nervous
I have all the time I need
As I go to steady my hand to take the first test
Someone knocks | hard | on the door
A trickle echoes
I cry and huff the slow drip back into my nose
I stuff the test face up in my purse
On top of my ice cream sandwich
Pleading it won’t reek of piss
My car has a man sitting on the hood
Shooting the shit over the phone
Ash from the cigarette being pinched in the corner
Of his mouth hits his screen
That’s my car
I say through swollen eyes
He sucks his lips at me
As if to say I’m a bigger bitch than I know I am
But he leaves
As do I
I can feel my pulse against the soles of my converse
As I press the gas pedal much harder than I know I should
Only slowing down to back in my driveway
As I walk through the door of my parents home
I do a three finger wave to my mother
And head towards my room to the sound of Her welcoming me home from my errands
I curl up in my closet
And turn the lock as far as it will go
While muttering please under my breath
I cannot afford this
I pull the wet plastic test out of my purse
The smell of melted ice cream and coins almost covers up
The stench of my own piss
There is one vertical line
And so I swear, raising my hands up to a god I never believed in
And begin to eat my ice cream sandwich
Thankfully completely alone.
Select your fruit carefully-young and firm, but with some give, you should be able to plunge your greedy fingers into its gem bright flesh. If the rind resists, simply push harder. (Do not forget, this orange belongs to you. It has no say in what you do to it.) Dig your iron tipped nails deep into its protective shell till crescent shaped wounds mar its delicate beauty, marking it forever as yours, yours. Peel away its defenses until it is open and raw before you, all flaws and imperfections laid bare. It would be prettier had your clumsy hands not bruised it so, but these things cannot be helped. Be sure to cut away the bitter pith-- oranges should be sweet and tangy, never harsh upon your tongue. It’s far easier to remove it entirely, than chance those spiteful white strings getting stuck between your teeth. For it is unpalatable to you, and your opinion is the only one that matters here. Finally, pare away that fragile membrane, and let those honeyed juices run freely down your wrist. Sink your callous canines in, and smile. It would not taste so sweet, had it not wanted you to consume it.
Caffeine Daydream
Heartbreaker Queen
Connor Lindsley
It’s Not Your Fault
Juniper Avenue
Chuck Rock
The Dune Sea
Petrol Skydivers
Tremble
Skydivers
Hesitate
Taylor Smith
Chaotic Overdrive
Emma Oliver
Cheesy and Desperate
The Dune Sea started in 2018 as a duo between Spencer Underwood and Jake Kremer. We started in high school at Weaver Academy in Greensboro where we also collaborated with Aiden Foley, Pierce Felt, Julian Creech-Pritchett and Wolfgang Willard. Petrol began as a jam between Spencer and Jake, and was recorded in Fall 2022 at our home studio. Petrol features Zach Carter on bass and Jack Dunphey on drums. Following the release of Petrol, Jake left the band to focus on school and his career. The Dune Sea is currently on hiatus, but will return with Spencer Underwood, Jack Dunphey, and Zach Carter.
Connor Lindsley
Connor Lindsley is a singer, songwriter, and producer from Charlotte, NC. They’ve been writing music for the past few years and last year released an EP called “I’m Not Sorry” which can be found on all major streaming platforms! The song, “It’s not your fault,” is one of the last songs they recorded for the project. The song’s about reaching a point of clarity and forgiveness for past friends and lovers, as well as themselves. It’s a sentiment of letting go and getting free rather than holding on to bitterness. https://linktr.ee/connorlindsley
As any other artist, Emma loves to write about how she feels. At the time of writing this song, they had already experimented writing with that sort of hard rock vibe since that was the genre of the band she sang for. However, after parting ways with them, she wanted to see what she, personally, could create. This piece she wrote about her boyfriend of 3 years. He’s always been incredibly supportive of her making music, so “even though it’s cheesy, I wanted to give him something in return.” Overall, she had a fun time with this song and hopes everyone enjoys it!
Taylor is a freshman Instrumental Music Education major. They wrote Chaotic Overdrive as their high school senior project in music theory. They used inspiration from the themes of some of their favorite shows, specifically Gravity Falls and The Owl House. They also wanted to experiment with a time signature not in 4/4, so there’s a section in 5/4 and a couple bars in 2/4. The name of the piece is the name of an old podcast they tried to start and it seemed to fit.
Heartbreaker Queen
Caffeine Daydream
It's Not Your Fault
Connor Lindsley
Chuck Rock
Juniper Avenue
Petrol
The Dune Sea
Tremble Skydivers
Hesitate Skydivers
Cheesy and Desperate
Emma Oliver
Chaotic Overdrive
Taylor Smith
Every week in kindergarten, there was a featured letter of the alphabet and a field trip to go with it. Over the course of the year this amounted to 26 field trips, taken every single Friday. I’m not entirely sure how we did it; the logistics of coordinating a classroom of five year olds, arranging transportation, getting the parents’ permission, and finding an educational opportunity that fit the bill on a weekly basis are insane, but Mrs. Niedrach found a way. Tall, tanned, and gracefully aging into her sixties, Mrs. Niedrach was the universally beloved matriarch of our school. Every single student beyond kindergarten and through highschool had become her loyal acolytes by the time they had moved up to first grade, and decades of instructing the youth of Rome, Georgia had given her an unquestionable reputation.
A is for airport. The bus drove out to a small landing strip where we were met by a shabby looking pilot and his equally sketchy sedan sized plane. Mrs. Niedrach’s web of influence reached far beyond our school and throughout the town, so most of these excursions were favors she was calling in, led by a sketchy series of old friends/debtors that made our parent chaperones uneasy but intrigued the rest of us. We boarded in groups of three and took
The first week, after we had mastered crayons, naptime, and the cleanup song, we were taken to the airport.
turns making slow circles over the surrounding area for a few minutes, screaming into the pilot’s ear and attempting to wave to our
friends on the ground. When it was my turn, I was led away from my nervous-looking mother and into the backseat before the pilot clumsily bounced us down the runway and careened into the sky. The first few moments naturally called for panic as the ground shrank away beneath us and the flimsy material of the plane threatened to come apart, but after being told to sidownandshuttup, we composed ourselves. It was the first time I had ever been in a plane. It was dangerous, thrilling, and definitely not something I should’ve been allowed to do, but I was flying anyway. By the time it was over, the spell had taken effect. As far as our class was concerned, Mrs. Niedrach was God.
The whole year continued in this fashion. F is for firemen, so we took a trip to the firehouse and got to slide down the pole. No dalmatian
The first few moments naturally called for panic as the ground shrank away beneath us and the flimsy material of the plane threatened to come apart, but after being told to siddownandshutup, we composed ourselves.
It was dangerous, thrilling, and definitely not something I should’ve been allowed to do, but I was flying anyway.
though, which I felt was false advertising. J is for judge; specifically her husband, the honorable Jack Niedrach, noted line-straightness critic and asshole. Week after week the magic continued, often outside of the bounds of our usual Friday outings. On Halloween, she read us Tailypo, a scary folk tale about a hunter and a monster that was carved so deeply into my nervous system that I still feel an electric anxiety when it comes to mind. Around Christmas she read us a story about gingerbread men, and when we returned to the classroom later that day every single chair, desk, table, and surface had a gingerbread man on it. For over an hour we greedily devoured our hapless prey, fighting over their sweet little corpses and scrounging around in the dust beneath shelves for stray limbs and gumdrop eyes. One notable occasion involved a high school senior and former student of hers tumbling out of an oven dressed as Elvis and performing Blue Suede Shoes. I still fail to grasp the logic behind that one. I think she just liked Elvis.
Mrs. Niedrach made school fun . Exciting in a way it isn’t really allowed to be. We spent our time exploring and playing and enjoying life; any learning was merely an unintended byproduct of that carefree curriculum. I loved her like she was one of my parents,
and she adored five year old me. I trusted her implicitly, and whenever I had a problem, I turned to her. Naturally, as five year olds do, I eventually developed a massive problem over something completely inconsequential. One day, wedged in a corner underneath an avalanche of toys and art materials, I found a Halloween-themed Spongebob picture book called Spongezilla Attacks . It depicted a massive, bestial Spongebob with two fangs in place of his usual buck teeth that goes on a rampage and threatens to destroy the town of Bikini Bottom. After several failed attempts to pacify it, Spongebob makes a noble sacrifice by dressing up in a crabby patty costume and leading it away before ultimately being swallowed whole by the monster. Of course, the whole thing is revealed in the end to have been a nightmare brought on by watching too many scary movies before bed, and nobody was really hurt. I have never been more terrified of anything in my entire life.
It’s hard to pin down exactly what was so unnerving
about the book. It could’ve just been the thought of dying that scared me. Maybe it was the twisting of a familiar, safe character into a monster. Whatever quirk of childhood psychology was responsible, the fear paralyzed me. The image of being devoured alive by a giant, grotesque version of the self was inescapably burned into my mind. Any moment spent alone brought a creeping dread that something was lurking just out of view, waiting. I would lie awake at night, perfectly still except for the steady tremor of my heartbeat, shaking my body with adrenaline. My eyes would dart between the dark corners of my room, waiting for massive hands to rip apart the walls and finally take me. When sleep did come, I dreamed of running from those colossal fangs, and falling into a cavernous throat. I had chosen the form of my destroyer, and it was giant Spongebob.
I tried to hide the effect this was having on me, but it must have been pretty obvious that I was cracking. Mrs. Niedrach, being more in tune with five year olds than the average person, took me aside and asked me what
was wrong, quickly reducing me to a blubbering pile in her arms. I managed to explain my situation through the sobs, and begged for her help. After she consoled me back into a state where I could form coherent sentences, Mrs. Niedrach confided that she was feeling scared as well. She had a doctor’s appointment today, she explained, and getting stuck with needles was one of her biggest fears. Maybe, she said, we could help each other. Once lunch rolled around, she gently picked me up, walked out to the parking lot, and placed me in her red corvette. Engine revving, we sped along the winding forest road leading away from school, the top down, wind and leaves whipping around us as she drove.
In the waiting room, she hands me a small notebook, a pen, and some colored pencils. Together, we write a new book, entitled Spongezilla Dies. I did the drawings, and she wrote the words. This version was almost identical to the original, but with a revised ending where instead of devouring anyone, Spongez-
illa is shot, stabbed, blown up, arrested, and sealed away in Tartarus by the proper authorities. The creature could never hurt anyone ever again; I had written it into being, and it was so. Once it was finished, she handed the book to me and we read through it. Page by page, the tightness in my chest melted away. The bastard was finally dead. I was free.
I followed Mrs. Niedrach into the doctor’s office. She told him I was her grandson, I think. I sat next to her on the exam table, quietly staring as the two discussed her medical history, various aches, and medications. When it came time for her to get a shot, I wrapped my hands around her index and middle fingers and had her look at me. She really was scared. We breathed in a slow, steady rhythm, and found ourselves alive on the other side. Once the checkup was over and we had both calmed down, we drove back to school in her corvette, arriving just in time to join the rest of the class as they were getting back from lunch. I didn’t mention this trip to
anyone. I was just glad to be rid of my curse, and besides, leaving school with Mrs. Niedrach was nothing out of the ordinary. It happened every Friday.
Five years later my family is living in Wisconsin. We’re sitting on the back porch in the afternoon, taking turns telling stories about our time in Georgia. The house, each other, our friends, school. Naturally, when it gets around to me, I immediately launch into all of my stories from kindergarten, including most of what I’ve told you. After going through all of the field trips, baked goods, and elvis impersonators, I decide to end on a fond note by telling them about the time Mrs. Niedrach helped me get over my fear. I start the story enthusiastically, but as I talk the faces of my parents and brother slowly contort into confusion, then bewilderment, then horror. For the first time in years, I began to realize there were several things deeply wrong with that trip. It dawned on me that a teacher took me out of school during the day, without my parents permission or knowledge, and brought me with her to a doctor’s appointment before returning me as if nothing had happened. After the silence passed, I quickly reassured my family (and myself) that she didn’t hurt me. I was certain of that. Still, we were all at a loss for words over how bizarre it was. My story
When sleep did come, I dreamed of running from these colossal fangs, and falling into a cavernous throat. I had chosen the form of my destroyer, and it was giant Spongebob.
Once it was finished, she handed the book to me and we read through it. Page by page, the tightness in my chest melted away. The bastard was finally dead. I was free.
quickly prompts more from my parents, and I learn for the first time that Mrs. Niedrach was a nightmare for everyone except her students.
Both my parents are educators, and for most of my life I’ve been in the schools they worked at. My dad was the principal of my school at that time, and he tells us that from the moment he started, Mrs. Niedrach couldn’t stand him. He would sometimes question the necessity of weekly field trips, or try to talk to her about how many kids who moved from her class to first grade struggled with reading, but any attempt to change her methods was met with complete resistance, or doubling down. There were frequent complaints of favoritism being shown to certain students, or fights being picked with other teachers, but there was just no way to approach her. She was beloved by every student, including children from important families, had at least a decade of seniority over every other staff member, and was close personal friends with the Dean of Education (my dad’s boss). He could do little except put out her fires as she went; an indignity she relished.
Naturally, a lot of these memories became very strange with newly granted hindsight. For instance, I began to think critically for the first time about the kindergarten wedding. A deeply bizarre thing to do with five
year old children, the kindergarten wedding was a show put on year after year by Mrs. Niedrach where the entire class would be assigned different roles in a mock wedding held during school in a nearby church. We would all be given little suits and dresses, arranged up near the altar, and walked through the ceremony for an audience of cooing grandparents. Once this adorable display of mandatory heterosexuality was over, our obedience was rewarded with strawberries and a chocolate fountain. The roles were purportedly assigned via lottery, but it was an open secret among the adults that Mrs. Niedrach predetermined them based on her own preferences. The more she liked you, the more central your role. The groom was almost always a boy from the Overton family, which donated to the school almost as frequently as they had children. The highschool statistics teacher infamously did the math and found the chances of every single one of their kids being chosen for the coveted role to be, unsurprisingly, astronomical. I was the best man, for what that’s worth.
I’ve often wondered why she wasn’t cruel to me. She hated my dad, and by all accounts the pettiness of taking that out on me wasn’t beneath her. Her influence was such that she certainly could’ve gotten away with it. It could be that she was
kind enough to be a good teacher; that she genuinely cared about me. The other possibility is, in true Machiavellian fashion, she knew that it would be an even worse punishment for my parents to have me come home every day and talk about how much I loved her. I talked to my folks before writing this to ask them how they remembered it, and the contempt in my mother’s voice was palpable. “From day one, it was about power. Why do you think the first field trip was an airplane? She was establishing one thing: ‘These are my kids now. I can throw them up in the sky if I want, and there isn’t a thing you can do about it.’” She paused then, and her eyes softened. “She really did adore you, though. That was real, son.” I think I believe that too, but all I have to go on is the memory. The flimsy testimony of a kindergartener. The whole thing is gone now, anyway; any traces of that place and those people have eroded away, steadily replaced by the present. I remember it as something meaningful; a wonderful time, a safe anchor in my past. I hope I always think of it that way, but it’s hard to just ignore what I know and focus on the nostalgia. It’s like rewatching Charlie and the Chocolate Factory for the first time since you’ve grown up and finally noticing all the child death and oompa loompa slavery.
Whenever I tell this story, I ask myself if I’d ever go see her again. Maybe at some point I pass through Rome on my way to somewhere else, or we take a family trip to see our old house. She’s been retired for a few years now. I bet she’d love to see me. We could sit in her kitchen and trade memories of the year we spent together. She would ask me what I was doing in college, and I’d answer, “Oh, I write stories.” If I were there, sitting across from her, could I ask? Finally figure out what in her right mind possessed her to take me out of school? What she would have done if I had told someone about it sooner? Tell her how fundamentally weird that was? In all honesty, I don’t have the guts. It would betray the magic.
An early 2000s-inspired local band rocks out in Boone’s local music scene with sounds influenced by Radiohead, Modest Mouse, and Ween. Gaining Composure, the four-member band, started their project about nine months ago showcasing their experimental sound to Boone’s DIY music culture.
The local band consists of Mateo Oropesa, guitarist and singer, Nick Perkins, bass guitarist, Kevin Williams, guitarist, and Brad Hood, drummer. Oropesa and Hood first started as a two-member group since they both lived together in the same apartment, playing a set of guitar and drums. As they kept evolving, the duo met their third member Shea Bruer, who is currently studying abroad, and all three attended local house shows together until Hood came up with an exciting idea.
“We should totally do a band,” Hood chuckled. The three
took the idea and turned it into the start of their project, Gaining Composure.
Their musical influences range from the early 2000s emo and rock music scene, making their sound unique and representative of who Gaining Composure is.
Later, Williams was added to the band as a guitarist. “With more freedom, that’s where we can get a little more experimental,” Williams said. The band is working to find their unique sound that they can claim and is currently in the works of releasing a single soon. They will be working with a professional studio that will help them get their foot in the door.
“We’re having fun with what we’re doing and putting our creative spin to it,” Oropesa said. They hope to do a single release show to advertise the band’s first single.
Gaining Composure recollected their favorite performance which was at TappRoom, a packed-out night show in early December performing along with Jamus and Yes Dude. Oropesa recalls one of the attendees there asking why the venue was so packed and questioned who the band was. That comment made the entire band feel thrilled since they’ve never seen that many people and react to their opening act. The band played cover hits like Feeling Good by Nina Simone, with Bruer and Oropesa singing their hearts out together while Williams took the guitar solo and Hood banging it out on the drums. Throughout the performance, the crowd captures the raw moment and hears the incredible sound of Gaining Composure.
“We’re here to play music how we want to and enjoy it,” Hood said.
We’re having fun with what we’re doing and putting our creative spin to it.
-Mateo OropesaPhoto by Ann Margaret Photography
Thisjazz-rock-infused band brings their own sound to Boone, inspired by music such as Thundercat and Vulfpeck. They play music that is outside the norm of the local music scene, Educated Guess is bringing never-heard before sound in a small mountain town through bass, voice, and keyboard.
They met a little over a year ago but six months ago, Educated Guess started playing local shows around the Boone and Greensboro music scenes. Alvin Carlisle, Nick Williams, and Kendrick Davis played at the same church in 421 and had connected both socially and musically. The trio would come up with songs after the service. They all have their own influences such as artists like Nate Smith, which allows them to do some rhythmic doodling around to find their completed sound. Educated Guess focuses on sounds of that nature and brings it closer to modern jazz, which makes it a sound experimental and unique to Boone.
Educated Guess wants to give a unique experience that will stick afterward with either the locals or students. Carlisle says, “What they haven’t heard before and break out the norm of what they usually hear.” Educated Guess believes that Boone’s current music scene seems to be saturated in the same sound and being one of the first full-Black music groups would enhance that sound a bit. They work around immense hardships such as racism and try their best to not get discouraged by it. The community and music scene are connected and it’s supported by a lot of people. “It’s a great fan base to have, it’s just grabbing those people,” Williams said about gaining music exposure. “When you have them, you have them,” as they said, evolving into their own space in the DIY Boone music scene. They’ve been playing at local spots and house shows around the Boone area but plan to expand to other towns. Educated Guess recently released their first single, “Time Fuck” mid February and an EP that features their first single and three originals; "Wind Walker," "Full Nelson," and "Replicant"early March. Listeners can find their music on Spotify. Educated Guess continues playing at local venues, and can be found on their Instagram: @educatedguess.band.
Chloe VunCannon
copper with a liver of sulfur finish and NuGold
I.
“Why, my soul, are you downcast? Why so disturbed within me? Put your hope in God, for I will yet praise him, my Savior and my God.”
– Psalm 42:11
Charlestown was once a nice place to live. When I was growing up, St. Mary’s Church was always packed full of good Christians, eager to worship our Lord. My friends and I were free to run and play in the streets –without supervision – until supper. The streets were all so lively, and the joyous laughter of little children would echo
With more and more desperate souls turning to sin in their weakness, attendance of the church is at a new low. I mark every newly vacant seat in the pews and mourn the loss of each member of our congregation. I would leave here forever if only I could, but I am trapped in this dead place in which I was born, in which I will die — it is surely my own Purgatory.
I was the last to leave the church after the six o’clock mass. It was so eerily quiet once everyone had gone. I could’ve stayed there all night, basking in the empty stillness of the chapel. But I knew that I would
late to leave the church on this particular night – arriving home past 9:00 – and so she had naturally grown weary in her waiting. The light of the TV cast a bluish glow on her snow-white skin. She was angelic. I stood above her, watching her chest rise and sink to the rhythm of her breath, imagining the sight of her beautiful brown eyes hidden behind the lids. I knelt beside her and planted a kiss on her forehead before treading up the old wooden stairs with cautious steps so as not to wake her with a careless creak.
As I lay awake in my room, an impure thought entered my mind.
Grace must be an awful woman to have left me alone in this bed. She fell asleep early so that she wouldn’t have to see me tonight. She chose the couch so she would not have to sleep next to me.
throughout. Now Charlestown lies desolate. The laughter is all but gone. The children that remain never leave their parents’ sight for fear that they should be abducted by some kidnapper or molester. Many families have gone away to live in more appealing neighborhoods, places fit to raise their children.
have to turn in early; tomorrow was another busy day. I knelt before the altar in a noble prayer, then arose and walked out the doors and across the dimly-lit street towards my home.
My wife Grace lay asleep on the couch in our living room. Every Sunday night she sits there, waiting for me to return. I was especially
I was alarmed at the absurdity of this sudden thought, and I quickly put it out of my head. But the thoughts soon returned and would not leave.
She doesn’t love me, she never did. She hates me! Why did I ever marry her? I’ve wasted my life away! And for nothing!
I could no longer control my thoughts or emotions. A fury grew in me and
I would leave here forever if only I could, but I am trapped in this dead place in which I was born, in which I will die — it is surely my own Purgatory.
shook my body violently.
Selfish, insolent, ungrateful bitch! Wretched woman! I must be rid of her forever!
I leapt from the bed and fervently paced the room. Hatred pervaded every part of my being. My body ached entirely until I felt that I would explode. Miraculously, I gathered the strength to utter a silent prayer to God, begging him to spare me from death. Then all at once the fever subsided, and I collapsed back onto my bed.
“I love the Lord, for he heard my voice; he heard my cry for mercy.”
– Psalm 116:1
Grace woke me up the next morning. She rubbed my shoulder and ran her fingers through my hair as my eyes forced themselves open.
“Michael? Are you awake? You slept in, honey. Did you forget to set the alarm again?” I must have appeared very strange to her because with a look of concern she asked: “Is something wrong?”
“No, dear. I’m fine.” I hardly recognized my own voice, I spoke in such a hoarse whisper.
“Okay, well... just come downstairs and eat some breakfast in a minute before you have to go.” She had the same confused expression as she walked out of the bedroom.
Was it all a dream? It couldn’t have been!
I still felt a dull ache within me. As I walked into the bathroom, I jumped at the mirror’s reflection. My face was ghostly pale, and my eyes appeared as if each individual blood vessel had popped inside of them. It looked like I had aged overnight.
Something’s terribly wrong with me. I’ve got to figure out what. Fast.
At that moment, it struck me that I was going to be late for the church’s charity event. We had been planning this for weeks. Whatever was happening to me, it would have to wait.
Grace was reading the morning paper when I came down the stairs. She had set the table and prepared breakfast for us: pancakes, eggs, bacon, coffee, and –my favorite – strawberry jam on toast.
“Are you sure you’re alright, Michael?” Grace asked as I approached the seat
across from her. “You don’t look well.” I turned to look at her and felt nothing but guilt and shame. She would never know the feelings I felt, could never discover the despicable thoughts that broke into my stream of consciousness like a thief in the night. She would be mortified that I could even think such things. I decided it would be best not to tell her anything about last night, so instead I simply mustered a smile.
“Just a bit under the weather maybe. Didn’t get much sleep either,” I replied, with a raspy voice only slightly improved from before.
“Well, I hope you start to feel better soon. This thing you’ve got at the church today is very important, isn’t it?” Grace’s eyes went back to her newspaper as she cut into her pancake and began to eat. She had been waiting for me. “I’m so sorry I fell asleep last night, I guess I was just a little more tired than I thought.”
How could I have thought such horrible things about such a lovely woman? I wanted to tell her that she didn’t need to apologize, that she was the kindest woman I’ve ever known and that I loved her. But I couldn’t bring myself to say any of it. She had done me no wrong, yet I saw her differently than I did just the day before. She had changed somehow or, more likely, I had. Her voice didn’t ring in my ears as it used to. Her smile didn’t
bring me the same joy. I could feel myself choking up at this revelation and had to stifle the tears that were welling up before Grace noticed. I scarfed down my toast and desperately hurried towards the door.
“Have a good day!” she called after me. But I was already gone.
III.
“Be strong and courageous. Do not fear or be in dread of them, for it is the Lord your God who goes with you. He will not leave you or forsake you.”
– Deuteronomy 31:6
I stopped before the church for a moment to collect myself. A prayer to God has helped me countless times in the past, and this should be no exception. I prayed that the Lord may help me calm my nerves and help me through these challenges. It worked, of course; within a few seconds, I had been able to put these strange events out of my mind. I kept in my mind that He works in mysterious ways, and that whatever was happening to me must be part of His plan. Now that I was assured, I was able to focus on doing one small part of the Lord’s work: charity.
Over the past month, I had been organizing an event to feed the homeless people of Charlestown. It was likely to become a bi-monthly event held by St. Mary’s. If
it went well, it could become a staple of the church that I could claim to be a proud founder of. Needless to say, I had been anticipating this day for a while.
We held the event in the parking lot of the church. My grand vision was to provide these people a feast like no other; we would outperform every soup kitchen and shelter in Boston. However, it was evident that would not be the case when I arrived. Our “charity” consisted of a few elderly women, handing out beans, soup, corn – anything that came from a can – from behind a couple of folding tables. The abysmal amount of volunteers in attendance wasn’t surprising, but there were many more homeless than I thought there would be. The line of them stretched all across the lot and onto the sidewalk.
The old ladies told me that the people who had planned to bring cooked food had canceled at the last moment. These few boxes of cans were all we had from the food drive and we would have to make do with them.
I thought this might anger me, but I reminded myself that this was part of His plan too, and that I should relax myself and let Him work through me. I relieved one of the ladies of the cans she was handing out and stood behind the table. I was ready.
“About time!” exclaimed the next man in line. “I’ve been starvin’ out here! You
guys have been really damn slow.”
“We’re sorry, sir,” I offered without sincerity. My patience was already gone – how had it gone so fast? I tried not to look upset but he must have seen it.
“Relax, I’m only joking with ya!” He smiled at me. The few teeth he had were yellow and rotten. I couldn’t help but wince at the stench of his breath. My visible disgust didn’t seem to bother him. He snatched the can from my hand. “Sucker!” he shouted, cackling as he shambled away from me. I hated him... I hated him and all the other vagrants. They were not the meek that would inherit the earth. They were scum. Leeches that serve no purpose other than to feed off the hard work of the good and kind-hearted people, the few of them that remained. The Lord had provided him with the bread of life and he laughed in his face. He took the bread and he laughed. He laughed.
Judas. May he burn.
We ran out of food long before we had reached the end of the line. The rest of the bums let us know how bitter they were about it. They yelled and threw empty cans at us until some nearby policemen came and shooed them away.
Savages. All of them.
Where were these thoughts coming from?
What had come over me?
I wasn’t ready to go
Miraculously, I gathered the strength to utter a silent prayer to God, begging him to spare me from death.
home yet; I couldn’t stand to see Grace again so soon. I decided to spend the rest of the day out of the house.
I went shopping, walked in the park, saw a movie – anything to get my mind off of the bleak world around me. Before I knew it, the sun had set and I was forced to go back home. I hoped that she would be asleep on the couch again. But when I walked through the door, I found her sitting there wide awake. She had been waiting for me again. But where I expected anger from her, there came only love. She ran to me and embraced me in her arms.
“Where were you all day, Michael? You made me so nervous!” I tried to reply but still I could not find the words. “Well, say something, damn it!” I pushed her away from me. I had never heard her be profane before; although, she looked regretful the moment she said it. “I’m sorry. I just need you to talk to me, Michael.”
“No, I’m sorry,” I said at last. “It’s just really hard for me to see you right now.”
“Then I want you to be honest with me, ok? Are you... are you seeing another woman?”
“No! Of course not! That’s not it at all. I don’t know what it is, but I can’t
be here right now. I need to leave. And you have to let me go.”
“What? No, Michael, you just got here!” she cried. Her eyes welled up and the tears overflowed down her already tearstained cheeks. “Please just stay, let’s talk.” She reached out her arm to grab me, but I slapped it away.
“Don’t! Don’t touch me!” It barely registered with me that I was screaming at her. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
I’ll never forget the look she gave me then. A look of shock, of fear, of love that was now lost. It told me that what we had was gone now and it would never be the same. The look she gave me broke my heart, because it told me that I had just broken hers, and I’d never be able to mend it. Then I turned my back on her and walked through the door into the cold and unforgiving night.
I thought the tears streaming down my face might evaporate from the boiling of my blood. I was both furious and miserable at once, and what I witnessed next would bring me to the brink of insanity. The filthy, toothless old devil from the charity was standing in front of St. Mary’s with his back to
me. He was pissing all over the walls of the church.
“What are you doing?!”
“Reverend!” He turned around to face me, piss falling onto the grass of the church’s front yard. “It’s good to see you again!” His halfopened, drunken eyes peered right through me. The tattered sleeves of his jacket did nothing to hide the hideous marks the needles had made up and down his arms. The leper stumbled towards me as he pulled up his pants. He held a bottle in his hand, and now he offered it to me. “Care to drink with me?”
That was the last thing I remember before everything went dark. The next thing I remember was staring down at the old man who lay on the ground. The very same bottle he had offered me was broken and stuck in his gut. Blood was flowing out through the neck of the bottle and staining the grass beneath his lifeless body.
IV.
“This is how it will be at the end of the age. The angels will come and separate the wicked from the righteous and throw them into the blazing furnace, where there will be weeping and gnashing of teeth.”
– Matthew 13:49-50
I sped down the highway with reckless abandon. His bloated corpse had barely fit in the trunk of my Cadillac. Every couple of miles,
I swore I heard a sound from the back, but every time I convinced myself that it was just bumps in the road or ghosts in the wind.
At that moment, I didn’t have time to process anything that had happened; I just knew I had to get him away from there or things would go bad for me very fast. Now that I was on the road with him in tow, I had time to reflect. In truth, I didn’t want to think about any of it at first. I wanted the radio to drown out all my thoughts. I wanted to drive right off the Bunker Hill Memorial Bridge and plunge myself into the icy waters of the Charles River. But I forced myself to see it through to the end. After all, this too was part of God’s plan for me. Right?
The most stupid and obvious option was for me to drive the body a few miles down to the waterfront and dump his body in a quiet part of the harbor. This was a sure way for me to get caught. Besides, I had seen enough of the ocean to last me a lifetime. No, I would take him west and bury him in a forest somewhere.
I don’t want to hurt you. My own words repeated themselves in my head as if I were not the one who said them. I had meant them as a warning, but I only now realize they seemed like a threat. Poor Grace. Hopefully one day she would understand.
The devil must surely be
hard at work here. Such cruel and wicked events can be explained no other way. I felt powerless in every instant of anger. Rage that I had never known had become active within me. It could’ve come from no other than Satan, I was sure of it. He was responsible for all of this. Even now, I had to be careful to remain calm about it or risk losing control to him again.
When I was sure I had found a good spot, I pulled the car over to the side of the road. Even at night, these forests were beautiful. The tall trees, shrouded in shadow, swayed in the cool, gentle breeze. A chirping choir of crickets and cicadas sang a song that only I heard. It was pure bliss.
My moment of tranquility was rudely interrupted by loud banging coming from the back of my car and the unmistakable cries of a miserable old drunk. He was alive, alright. I grabbed the shovel from the back seat, stepped out of the car, and popped the trunk.
“Please!” shouted the poor bastard. His belly was still gushing blood, his red-stained hands uselessly clutching to the wound. “Please... don’t kill me. I’m sorry, ok? I’m really really sorry, please. Just let me go. I won’t tell anyone about any of this, and you’ll never have to see me again.” I grabbed hold of him by the collar and threw him out of the car and onto the road. He was really
weeping now. “Please don’t do this. I’m sorry, I really am! I won’t say nothing – I swear to God!”
The old man didn’t seem to realize that he had desecrated the house of God just a few hours earlier. Still, his cries for mercy struck something deep within me, something I thought was buried. I pitied him more than I had ever pitied anyone. It was truly a shame that it had to come to this.
Then suddenly the moon and the stars flashed so bright in the sky, and communicated to me the very solution to my problems. I knew then what I had to do.
“It’s ok,” I told him calmly. I dropped the shovel to the ground. “I forgive you. And now, I want you to forgive me.” Then I turned my back on him and faced down the road that I had traveled. There was a minute of silence between us, and then I heard him pick himself up and sprint into the shadows of the forest. Another minute passed and he was gone. It was all up to him now, he was the one with the choice to make; I would confess only if he would. I knew my God would forgive me, and that was all that really mattered anyway.
In the dark stillness of the night, I offered a final prayer that would save us both:
“Our father, who art in heaven, Hallowed be thy name...”
I’ll never forget the look she gave me then. A look of shock, of fear, of love that was now lost.
The drag scene in Boone expands throughout this small mountain town as more unique talent performs through this city's favorite spots like Lily’s and Howard Station.
It started with two drag performers but as they continued they both realized they wanted more people to join in which ended up being an art collective of drag performers.
“An active rebellion against social norms and gender expectations,” the group said.
Drag group, Haus of Liqueur believes in liberation, gender satire, and fem-gender performance to be something artistic. The drag group involves eight performers; Margo Iskrzycki/Brandi Maxx, Christophe Satterfield/Missy V, Guppy/Rosebush, Jacob Kitchen/Marilynn Merlot, Donovan Yoshida/Bubbles, Hannah Little/Hank E. Pankee, Milo Kerner/Lil Tito, and Jo Husk/Jo Lean.
Being in a drag group in a traditionally rural and red city presents its challenges: the nuance of existence, predominantly white straight culture, and competition. It’s difficult to branch out, promoting themselves from one venue to another, inventing themselves in a small town with minimal exposure.
There are also small places in Boone that are not safe enough, which limits
their performance and isn’t as accepting as other venues.
Outside of their challenges, they continue to get to know people inside the scene which allows the ability to grow their connections and make it easier to go from there. When people come to their shows, it allows Haus of Liqueur to have a space that makes intimate connections with the audience. This is one of the many small town benefits to love. Haus of Liqueur performed with the Boone Barbies, which helped pave the way for their stage at Lily's Snack Bar. The performers have incredible talent and Lily's is an extremely welcoming and open place.
Howard Station Dynamite was the first show that the group organized this year. Kitchen says "the venue was phenomenal, promotion, the little details, it was electric." The group continues performing brunch shows at Lily’s Snack Bar; their upcoming shows are soon to be announced and can be found on their Instagram page.
Attendees can expect to hear Lana Del Rey, Beyoncé, Rico Nasty, and Britney Spears at their performances. Their biggest inspiration ranges from Black women idols, alternatives, prima donnas, and Cher. The attendees can also expect the group to make fun of gender norms, fake constructs of gender, and toxic masculinity.
“Always be yourself, if you believe it then everyone else will follow up with you,” Yoshida said about entering this culture.
“Be the representation you want to see, be what you want to be seen.”
Always be yourself, if you believe it then everyone else will follow up with you.
“Photo by Michaela Sullivan Photo by Michaela Sullivan Photo by Michaela Sullivan
Slowly. Her lungs would run out of air before she understood him.
Therefore, no one batted an eye when Howard disappeared into the night with a leather notebook, one bottle of scotch he’d never open, an empty wallet, and one pair of hobnail shoes on his person.
The first year he stood at the top of the cliff and strongly considered the possibility of finding himself at the bottom. That thought would visit him at night and when he walked home after his long days in class. He had never found himself in mills or in factories or in warehouses or even in front of a grease top; maybe it would be different this time. He decided that life was too short and instead ate away at his parent’s longevity. They worried about him with
white and red wrung hands and quiet solemnity.
“He always preferred sitting inside and I never understood why,” his mother would say as she applied too much makeup on her face. The mirror image didn’t look like her. She remembered being young. What happened?
“That’s true darling. But remember that time I asked what he was reading in high school and he said some European author, I should have been concerned then,” his
father retorted as he placed a much too big bow in his tie. Howard’s father looked like Howard’s grandfather and he wasn’t the least bit shocked at his twin behind the silver. His aloof smile still showed through, and that was all that mattered to him.
“OH! I do remember that. I didn’t even look at what that meant.”
The worry was hard to hide in her voice and she began to tear up a bit. Of course, he was killing her.
When he stepped onto the train platform, he had used a fake name. Daniel or Gabriel or Michael. Something that attributed virtue to himself. When he sat down next to an older lady in that stiff wooden seat from somewhere in the earlier century, he told her he was Isaac. Going home to New York from college. He told her that it wasn’t his fault he was touched or that none of his school subjects had touched him. She listened intently from behind her milky eyes. They danced as he raised and lowered his voice for the drama. Her hands sat quietly on her lap, overlapping themselves as he made wide gestures with his own. She leaned forward and back as he encroached upon her space.
The lines on her face appeared and reappeared
like evolving rail maps. Washouts and landslides and derailments all displayed on her forehead and on the corners of her mouth. If anyone needed to know the next stop, they could have simply asked her. She had traveled by rail since being a little girl. She had met many people. Carnies, tramps, well-to-do ladies of society, men with mustaches who laughed a little too loud, clean-shaven men who whispered too quietly. Yet, she had never met anyone quite like Howard. The green eyes in his head kept spinning behind his thick coke bottle glasses and his chin kept wagging. He told her of great Kings and Tsars slaughtered in their beds and of dogs who could seek out mushrooms. He told her of foreign wars and how to bake bread. He was pontificating and punctuating things that didn’t matter in the slightest, but that was slightly interesting.
He steamed away as the wheels under them kept them moving west. She never mentioned that New York laid above the Mason-Dixon line; he was much too clever and well-read to be shattered like that. As he told her about his love for pressing flowers and the shame, he couldn’t bring any along, she nodded and watched him. She saw the deep cavern of his mouth. Full of endless possibilities and impossible ends. She noticed his dull teeth like stalagmites forming. Calcium deposits that in fact were shrinking from neglect, not growing. She saw his soft cheeks that reminded her of dough and of his hair that flopped on his forehead that held acne that should have gone away many years ago.
Yet, she saw deeper into him. She saw the red flakes on the corners of his hairline. She saw dandruff on his shoulders that he had obviously tried to wipe off, but further ground in. His angry red nose. Splintered. It had been smashed and mashed so many times he probably couldn’t recount all of them. She saw the matching scars on his eyebrows. Waning
He was pontificating and punctuating things that didn’t matter in the slightest, but that was slightly interesting.
The first year he stood at the top of the cliff and strongly considered the possibility of finding himself at the bottom.
Even the towns they passed were no more than a few distinct buildings and red blurs. Just like the words on his tongue.
was far off in some distant country that spoke a different language with different customs. She remembered screaming and crying and begging for him not to step off the front porch and into the world beyond. Perhaps he would get himself killed. But maybe it would kill her. She remembered the shriek of cloth ripping as he drug her down the front lane by his pant leg.
She sat quietly as the world slowed and the sparks exploded against the glass. Perhaps the conductor misjudged the distance; again. Nothing was said when the other passengers started to mutter and grab their luggage. She didn’t even open
her mouth when very different passengers started to shuffle in and place their luggage down. They thought that the spot belonged to them, but she had seen a thousand different shapes in a thousand different colors in those racks and bins. Even when she stood up, she did so quietly. Finally, Isaac turned to her. In a final question with the innocence of youth and the finality of wisdom, he asked,
“Is this your stop?”
“I’m afraid so young man.”
“Won’t you stay?”
She shook her head and walked down the aisle. Tears filled her eyes when the concrete met her rigid shoes. By the time she had made it
down main street, onto the dusty turnoff, to her mailbox, which was empty, and onto the hardwood floors of a family home that wasn’t even her family’s anymore, they had dried. She set down her bags and went into the kitchen. She switched on the classical music station and started to put on supper. As she put on entirely too much water to boil, she thought to herself that it would’ve been nice to see him at her dried and chipped dinner table with cigarette burns and deep stains.
By the time the pasta had been eaten and the wine drunk, she forgot him.
and shallow. Clearly a byproduct of his growth. She saw his coarse hair that was as fine as a corn stalk.
She remembered how in the dim light exuding from the barn, boys had told her she had hair as soft as corn silk and as blonde as wheat. People were laughing and screaming and moving in a great ocean behind them as the guitars and fiddles played double time. Yet, she would sit out there in the purple dusk with a pair of talking chunky boots and dirty fingernails while her own sat like pearls against her soft blue cotton dress. Blue like the one set of China that mama would kill a full-grown, hog-wrangling,
hard-drinking man for touching only a few short years later. Blue like the lights from the neon that would bounce off the bedroom windows when she and four other girls tried to hack it in the big city. Blue like the uniforms of men with too much power and not enough common sense as their perfectly polished black boots dug into men’s spines when the idea of a tab being left open came up. But she also saw kindness in this boy’s eyes. Sure, he would lie and cheat, but she believed it was never out of meanness. He just liked telling stories and getting attention. Perhaps that’s why he was talking inces-
santly, trying to collect his thoughts against the background of the world buzzing by them. Farmsteads materialized and vanished into thin air. Trees and poles were only short blips. Even the towns they passed were no more than a few distinct buildings and red blurs. Just like the words on his tongue. The glass was smudged. Small fingerprints from hands that likely were swatted off. She imagined the mother now with her white blouse and pinned hair chastising the kid for getting gum in her hair or for playing too rough with his friends. She thought of her own son. Not far from Isaac’s own age. Except he
The difference is in the fingertips. It’s nothing to do with intention.
The bird bones we found in the backyard— I did not mean to crush them. Gingerly, you said, & gingerly is what I meant.
I could have dropped them. I was terrified of loss. Of losing. Of asphalt’s unforgiving nature.
Instead, I found grief down a different road, hands clenched in safekeeping. I would not let go & then, snap!
Body betrays desire. I wanted to be gentle & wasn’t. Does this make me a bad god? A good one?
In any case, bone shattered in the palm of my hand. My blood blushing at the surface. The vague sense of your disappointment.
Gingerly, gingerly
You split the soft earth, I lay the bones inside. God or no god, intention or no intention, the story is the same:
Hands. Fervor. A grief so large we could not hold it.
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Loren Weiss
Amelia Rhodes (Fall Associate Editor)
Alexis Marsh-Fennell (Spring Associate Editor)
Kimberly Acosta-Flores
Rachel Cooke
Ember Jones
Tyler McDonald
Talina Perez
Emma Sikes
Jacob Taback
Madeline Waechter
Cayleigh Brown Editor-in-Chief
Kara Hunkele Head Print Designer
Sydney Webb PR Coordinator
Vivian Rogers Sound Editor
Madeline Scott Fall Prose Editor
Zoë Nagel Spring Prose Editor
Hannah Little Visual Editor
Brittany Helms Poetry Editor
Savannah Waters Web Designer
Erin McIntyre Fall Social Media Co-Coordinator
Covey Holmes Social Media Coordinator
Denise Casalez Zest Editor
Allison Bennett Dyche Adviser
Camille Kerner (Associate Editor)
Ashland Scavotto (Associate Editor)
Parker Banks
Arianna Bennett
Sam Hatchett
Ember Jones
Isabel Mcdonald
Allie-Grace Poupore
Lilianna Rivera
Maggie Schupp
Sky Simmons
T Skindzier
Becca Stickler
Savannah Waters
Macaulay Brumbelow
Jayda Copeland
Grace Dunn
Leslie Harker
Grace Raimo
Louise Starnes
The Peel Literature & Arts Review works to cultivate creative expression at Appalachian State University by providing platforms through which students can express themselves. We achieve this goal by creating the publication in your hands. In addition to this print magazine, The Peel also produces a biannual digital publication that can be viewed at www.thepeelreview.com.
This is The Peel’s fifteenth print publication. Our design editor used the roman numerals XV to signify and celebrate 15 years of community — and student — driven arts and literature here at Appalachian State. Throughout these pages you’ll find many references to the XV as a symbol of this milestone in our continued growth and commitment. This print publication showcases the highest scoring work of both fall and spring online editions. This year, we received 418 total submissions. Ten of those submissions were spotlight works, 203 were visual, 135 were poetry, 62 were prose, and 11 were sound. All of our sound artists can be found on the QR codes on page 45 as well as on our website.
The 2022-2023 print edition, in combination with the spring 2023 online edition, was unveiled at The Peel Release Party on April 28. The party was held in celebration of the magazine, staff, and published students at Nth Gallery. The event featured literature readings and musical performances.
Loftin & Co. of Charlotte, North Carolina printed 1,000 copies of this publication in April 2023. The pages of this print publication 6 x 9 inches in dimension are printed on 80 lb endurance silk text. The cover is in 120 lb endurance silk. The typefaces Marvin Visions Big Bold, Gill Sans, and Garamond are used as the headline and body text throughout the publication.
The Peel is made possible by the community of creators and patrons of this creative community. More specifically, we would like to thank various departments and professors for spreading our mission to students; and Third Place, Espresso News, and Nth Gallery for being our trusted community partners. We send a special thanks to all students who submitted content, those who worked toward the mission of The Peel, and the talented community this magazine aims to represent. Thank you for enabling free expression.