Port City Review 2015

PORT CITY REVIEW the literary arts journal of SCAD

ISSUE 03

1

Port City Review Issue 03

1

OUR MISSION Port City Review exists to provide students a forum to share their very best works. Curated by students, the journal seeks to be intimate, exploring art from every angle.

P O RT CI T Y RE V IE W 2015

Issue 03

Produced by District Savannah College of Art and Design

Port City Review Issue 03

3

C O N T E N T S 6 7 8 9 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 37

Coy Infinite Love Octane Rich Media Logo Resolve Parallel Echelons Blessing I’m Not Sold On Us Antique Store Let the Earth Produce Maleficent Title Sequence There was an Old Man of the Hague Car Fear and Loathing Movie Poster Set ESPN Logo Ascend Expressions Around the Table Voltus De Sylva Off the Creeper Trail The Fox, the Crow, and the Wicket Roots...

Mania Engraved Experience Around the World Hell in the Victorian Age Around the World Pull a String, a Puppet Moves Can’t Hold Back a Dreamer Old Man I am the danger Monochromatic Homage to the 28th Homage to the 28th I - VI #720HorasenBarcelona Let it Enfold You, Part One Expressions around the table Danse de la Fée Second Class Angel Aqui Te Amo On Transcendence Portrait of a Childhood Nightmare A Rose of Success Eternal Sunshine Hatchet man

38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 50 51 52 53 54 56 57 58

59 60 63 64 65

Carnage Millennials Sundance 2014 Trailer Pitch She was Cold Apex Looking Back On the Other Side Hong Kong (series) Hair My Favorite Hue Bureaucracy Scylia Hong Kong (series) Curiosity Woven Light The Diner Mystery Modified Sonnet 60 Origami Collection Flamewrangler Socializing Georgeous Sink or Swim Bottle One Kiss George Dr. Pepper Alexiythimia Diamonds and Gold Figure In Motion My Heaven Olivier Sauvage Custodial Rango Pitot Garden Ties Your Roots and Where to Find Them One World

66 67 68 69 70 71 72 73 74 75 76 77 78 79 80 84 85 86 88

Royal Self-contained Groundscraper Broken Dreams Identity Theft DBOMB Magazine A Manhattan Exclusive Jazz Night Ana Cris My Friend the Balloon Identity Burglar Canis Major Gua! Gua! Man’s Best Night Light Dancing Didot Roxy Surf n’ Sun Western Snow Bristol Kit Festival Steel/Ash Ply Coffee Table No. 1 A Slow Boat to China Good Fortune National Geographic Kids...

For the Love of Cereal Red, White and Food Suds and Smiles Expressions around the table

ON THE COVER

Steel Mill in Antarctic Ocean near South Pole, pencil drawing on sketch paper. 18x24” Anqi Yang Wuhan, China, fourth-year, Bachelor of Architecture

ON THIS PAGE

Lost in Thoughts, acid free watercolor sheet, watercolor wash, glazing technique. 8x13” Abhishek Singh Jaipur, India, first-year, BFA visual effects 89 90 91 92 93 94 95

Monocle Mantis Foreclosure Beehive Head Hula-Balu Cake Keep it Simple What I Did While You Were in Phoenix Shy Girl

Port City Review Issue 03

3

C O N T E N T S 6 7 8 9 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 37

Coy Infinite Love Octane Rich Media Logo Resolve Parallel Echelons Blessing I’m Not Sold On Us Antique Store Let the Earth Produce Maleficent Title Sequence There was an Old Man of the Hague Car Fear and Loathing Movie Poster Set ESPN Logo Ascend Expressions Around the Table Voltus De Sylva Off the Creeper Trail The Fox, the Crow, and the Wicket Roots...

Mania Engraved Experience Around the World Hell in the Victorian Age Around the World Pull a String, a Puppet Moves Can’t Hold Back a Dreamer Old Man I am the danger Monochromatic Homage to the 28th Homage to the 28th I - VI #720HorasenBarcelona Let it Enfold You, Part One Expressions around the table Danse de la Fée Second Class Angel Aqui Te Amo On Transcendence Portrait of a Childhood Nightmare A Rose of Success Eternal Sunshine Hatchet man

38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 50 51 52 53 54 56 57 58

59 60 63 64 65

Carnage Millennials Sundance 2014 Trailer Pitch She was Cold Apex Looking Back On the Other Side Hong Kong (series) Hair My Favorite Hue Bureaucracy Scylia Hong Kong (series) Curiosity Woven Light The Diner Mystery Modified Sonnet 60 Origami Collection Flamewrangler Socializing Georgeous Sink or Swim Bottle One Kiss George Dr. Pepper Alexiythimia Diamonds and Gold Figure In Motion My Heaven Olivier Sauvage Custodial Rango Pitot Garden Ties Your Roots and Where to Find Them One World

66 67 68 69 70 71 72 73 74 75 76 77 78 79 80 84 85 86 88

Royal Self-contained Groundscraper Broken Dreams Identity Theft DBOMB Magazine A Manhattan Exclusive Jazz Night Ana Cris My Friend the Balloon Identity Burglar Canis Major Gua! Gua! Man’s Best Night Light Dancing Didot Roxy Surf n’ Sun Western Snow Bristol Kit Festival Steel/Ash Ply Coffee Table No. 1 A Slow Boat to China Good Fortune National Geographic Kids...

For the Love of Cereal Red, White and Food Suds and Smiles Expressions around the table

ON THE COVER

Steel Mill in Antarctic Ocean near South Pole, pencil drawing on sketch paper. 18x24” Anqi Yang Wuhan, China, fourth-year, Bachelor of Architecture

ON THIS PAGE

Lost in Thoughts, acid free watercolor sheet, watercolor wash, glazing technique. 8x13” Abhishek Singh Jaipur, India, first-year, BFA visual effects 89 90 91 92 93 94 95

Monocle Mantis Foreclosure Beehive Head Hula-Balu Cake Keep it Simple What I Did While You Were in Phoenix Shy Girl

Port City Review Issue 03

5

A LET TER FROM THE CRE ATIVE DIREC TOR A long time ago, someone told me the tale of three pigs who were sent out into the world to find success.

The siblings set out on their journey wary of the big bad wolf. To protect themselves, they each built houses of different materials. The first pig used straw, the second used sticks and the third used bricks. We all know how the rest of the story goes.

Today, you hold in your hands the third issue of Port City Review and my final one as Creative Director.

This year, I’m fortunate enough to have the help of two very talented designers: Eli Schneider and Jordan Wright. We eliminated the past use of categorized sections and instead tried to create a narrative. The order of pieces is inspired by the constantly evolving relationship between dark and light.

The beautiful cover art, “Steel Mill in Antarctic Ocean near South Pole” by architecture student Anqi Yang, perfectly encapsulates the sense of discovery most people have when starting something new. We begin with an idea, a blueprint. Then we add hints of light and shade to make it real.

As artists, our pieces balance these elements both visually and conceptually. As people, we question their nature. From Socrates to Freud, society has been trying to figure it out for years. Who and what are the wolves we’re hiding from? Do we all have a little bit of the wolf inside?

Much like the three little pigs, I first travelled halfway around the world for a brighter future. Like any student, I struggled with school work, part-time jobs, a social life (or lack there of) and a growing caffeine addiction. It wasn’t until recently that I realized what kept me breathing, what kept me sane. Joining District is one of the best decisions I’ve made. It’s here that I found a family to help build a foundation stronger than bricks.

“As far as we can discern, the sole purpose of human existence is to kindle a light in the darkness of mere being.”

- Carl Jung, 1903-1955

GABBY MANOTOC

CREATIVE DIRECTOR, FALL 2012 - WINTER 2015

S TAFF

COPYRIGHT & COLOPHON

CREATIVE DIRECTOR Gabby Manotoc

Individual pieces contained herein are the intellectual property of the contributors, who retain all rights to their material. Every effort was made to contact the artists to ensure that the information presented is correct.

GRAPHIC DESIGNERS Eli Schneider Jordan Wright EDITOR-IN-CHIEF Nicholas Lawrence COPY EDITORS Amanda Surowitz Megan Balser Walsh Millette

No part of this journal may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the editorial staff and the adviser. Port City Review, established in 2012, is an annual literary arts journal showcasing the work of SCAD students exclusively via a submissions process. Published content is determined by student editors. Opinions expressed in Port City Review are not necessarily those of the college.

The third issue of Port City Review is available free of charge to SCAD students, faculty and staff. Subsequent copies of the journal, and copies for the general public, are available for $10 each.

The typefaces used in this edition of the journal are Brandon Grotesque and Granjon. This journal was designed by Gabby Manotoc, Eli Schneider and Jordan Wright with the use of Adobe Photoshop CC, Adobe Illustrator CC and Adobe InDesign CC.

This year, Port City Review explores, both visually and thematically, the relationship between dark and light. It is in the fine balance of these concepts that artists play, create, build upon and oftentimes embed a piece of their soul inside.

Port City Review Issue 03

5

A LET TER FROM THE CRE ATIVE DIREC TOR A long time ago, someone told me the tale of three pigs who were sent out into the world to find success.

The siblings set out on their journey wary of the big bad wolf. To protect themselves, they each built houses of different materials. The first pig used straw, the second used sticks and the third used bricks. We all know how the rest of the story goes.

Today, you hold in your hands the third issue of Port City Review and my final one as Creative Director.

This year, I’m fortunate enough to have the help of two very talented designers: Eli Schneider and Jordan Wright. We eliminated the past use of categorized sections and instead tried to create a narrative. The order of pieces is inspired by the constantly evolving relationship between dark and light.

The beautiful cover art, “Steel Mill in Antarctic Ocean near South Pole” by architecture student Anqi Yang, perfectly encapsulates the sense of discovery most people have when starting something new. We begin with an idea, a blueprint. Then we add hints of light and shade to make it real.

As artists, our pieces balance these elements both visually and conceptually. As people, we question their nature. From Socrates to Freud, society has been trying to figure it out for years. Who and what are the wolves we’re hiding from? Do we all have a little bit of the wolf inside?

Much like the three little pigs, I first travelled halfway around the world for a brighter future. Like any student, I struggled with school work, part-time jobs, a social life (or lack there of) and a growing caffeine addiction. It wasn’t until recently that I realized what kept me breathing, what kept me sane. Joining District is one of the best decisions I’ve made. It’s here that I found a family to help build a foundation stronger than bricks.

“As far as we can discern, the sole purpose of human existence is to kindle a light in the darkness of mere being.”

- Carl Jung, 1903-1955

GABBY MANOTOC

CREATIVE DIRECTOR, FALL 2012 - WINTER 2015

S TAFF

COPYRIGHT & COLOPHON

CREATIVE DIRECTOR Gabby Manotoc

Individual pieces contained herein are the intellectual property of the contributors, who retain all rights to their material. Every effort was made to contact the artists to ensure that the information presented is correct.

GRAPHIC DESIGNERS Eli Schneider Jordan Wright EDITOR-IN-CHIEF Nicholas Lawrence COPY EDITORS Amanda Surowitz Megan Balser Walsh Millette

No part of this journal may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the editorial staff and the adviser. Port City Review, established in 2012, is an annual literary arts journal showcasing the work of SCAD students exclusively via a submissions process. Published content is determined by student editors. Opinions expressed in Port City Review are not necessarily those of the college.

The third issue of Port City Review is available free of charge to SCAD students, faculty and staff. Subsequent copies of the journal, and copies for the general public, are available for $10 each.

The typefaces used in this edition of the journal are Brandon Grotesque and Granjon. This journal was designed by Gabby Manotoc, Eli Schneider and Jordan Wright with the use of Adobe Photoshop CC, Adobe Illustrator CC and Adobe InDesign CC.

This year, Port City Review explores, both visually and thematically, the relationship between dark and light. It is in the fine balance of these concepts that artists play, create, build upon and oftentimes embed a piece of their soul inside.

Port City Review Issue 03

7

1 Coy, digital photograph. 10x15” Alexa Mekita Boynton Beach, Florida, fourthyear, BFA illustration 2 Infinite Love, ink wash on ivory sheets. 11x11” Abhishek Singh Jaipur, India, first-year, BFA visual effects 3 Octane Rich Media Logo Resolve, digital design and animation in Maxon Cinema 4D and Adobe After Effects.

Spencer Higbee Lake Bluff, Illinois, fourth-year, BFA motion media design

2

1

3

Port City Review Issue 03

7

1 Coy, digital photograph. 10x15” Alexa Mekita Boynton Beach, Florida, fourthyear, BFA illustration 2 Infinite Love, ink wash on ivory sheets. 11x11” Abhishek Singh Jaipur, India, first-year, BFA visual effects 3 Octane Rich Media Logo Resolve, digital design and animation in Maxon Cinema 4D and Adobe After Effects.

Spencer Higbee Lake Bluff, Illinois, fourth-year, BFA motion media design

2

1

3

Port City Review Issue 03

9

POETRY

I’M NOT SOLD ON US

Andrew Larimer Lafayette, Louisiana Second-year, BFA writing 1

Greying tired, we are cold among the red daisies. beneath the morning vapors, we are small and we are lucid,

1 Parallel Echelons (Modern Naive Style), Adobe Illustrator and Adobe Photoshop.

quite damp in the eyes of the gods, they are soaring through clouds. while we are falling underground, for we are weird and numb against wind.

Fyn Ng Singapore, Singapore, fourth-year, BFA motion media design

we are the jaywalks of townies, we are lost when we are found. we are the sluts in Sunday school, we are the opulent bastards in boarding schools, and we are the yellow in the sun.

2 Blessing, ink on bristol board.

6x8” Ugis Berzins Kalamazoo, Michigan, fourthyear, BFA sequential art

we are the broke when rich, we are never nice, always the bitch, we are the rewards for the guilty, and an empty soapbox for the filthy, we see change as a sin, and are the hollow words from an overused pen, we construct skyscrapers with offices of deceit and see it as a fucking feat, we listen to the music of sex but we all know the real is merely a vex,

2

we shoot each otherbang bangshoot to killthe initiation of a gang, we need constant attention and believe the lie of ascension,

Port City Review Issue 03

9

POETRY

I’M NOT SOLD ON US

Andrew Larimer Lafayette, Louisiana Second-year, BFA writing 1

Greying tired, we are cold among the red daisies. beneath the morning vapors, we are small and we are lucid,

1 Parallel Echelons (Modern Naive Style), Adobe Illustrator and Adobe Photoshop.

quite damp in the eyes of the gods, they are soaring through clouds. while we are falling underground, for we are weird and numb against wind.

Fyn Ng Singapore, Singapore, fourth-year, BFA motion media design

we are the jaywalks of townies, we are lost when we are found. we are the sluts in Sunday school, we are the opulent bastards in boarding schools, and we are the yellow in the sun.

2 Blessing, ink on bristol board.

6x8” Ugis Berzins Kalamazoo, Michigan, fourthyear, BFA sequential art

we are the broke when rich, we are never nice, always the bitch, we are the rewards for the guilty, and an empty soapbox for the filthy, we see change as a sin, and are the hollow words from an overused pen, we construct skyscrapers with offices of deceit and see it as a fucking feat, we listen to the music of sex but we all know the real is merely a vex,

2

we shoot each otherbang bangshoot to killthe initiation of a gang, we need constant attention and believe the lie of ascension,

Port City Review Issue 03

11

we form groups, clans, cliques to suppress the others, cause they always fall for the same tricks and always the actions from the same dicks, but they will be judged, when that internal clock stops its ticks. we are the drug abusive hypocrites trying to see girl next door’s massive tits, cocaine, acid, meth, weed, MDMA only to try to hide that we are all gay.

1

we are so fucking weak, I am so fucking weak, so lies through lackluster lips we speak, and we are vilest ravens with poking beaks fictional mold of ourselves, clothes with tresses of gold, and we cheated, yet never told, so to we, us, you, me; my soul I have sold.

2 1 Antique Store, Adobe Photoshop. 12x5” Juan Acosta Quito, Ecuador, fourth-year, BFA sequential art 2 Let the Earth Produce, graphite on paper, digital color. 18x7” Shannon Kuguenko Austin, Texas, fourth-year, BFA illustration

Port City Review Issue 03

11

we form groups, clans, cliques to suppress the others, cause they always fall for the same tricks and always the actions from the same dicks, but they will be judged, when that internal clock stops its ticks. we are the drug abusive hypocrites trying to see girl next door’s massive tits, cocaine, acid, meth, weed, MDMA only to try to hide that we are all gay.

1

we are so fucking weak, I am so fucking weak, so lies through lackluster lips we speak, and we are vilest ravens with poking beaks fictional mold of ourselves, clothes with tresses of gold, and we cheated, yet never told, so to we, us, you, me; my soul I have sold.

2 1 Antique Store, Adobe Photoshop. 12x5” Juan Acosta Quito, Ecuador, fourth-year, BFA sequential art 2 Let the Earth Produce, graphite on paper, digital color. 18x7” Shannon Kuguenko Austin, Texas, fourth-year, BFA illustration

Port City Review Issue 03

13

1 Maleficent Title Sequence, Adobe Photoshop, watercolor.

Ana Lossada Caracas, Venezuela, fourth-year, BFA motion media design 2 There Was an Old Man of the Hague, pen and ink, digital.

6x10” Mackenzie Baker Elizabethtown, North Carolina, third-year, BFA illustration

1

2

Port City Review Issue 03

13

1 Maleficent Title Sequence, Adobe Photoshop, watercolor.

Ana Lossada Caracas, Venezuela, fourth-year, BFA motion media design 2 There Was an Old Man of the Hague, pen and ink, digital.

6x10” Mackenzie Baker Elizabethtown, North Carolina, third-year, BFA illustration

1

2

Port City Review Issue 03

15

1

3

4 1 1926 Model A Duesenberg, Autodesk Maya.

Walker Kennedy Knoxville, Tennessee, second-year, BFA visual effects 2 Fear and Loathing, prismacolor marker on white matte board. 18x24” Olivia McLean Chicago, Illinois, second-year, BFA illustration 3 Movie Poster Set, pen and ink, digital. 14x28” Mackenzie Baker Elizabethtown, North Carolina, third-year, BFA illustration 4 ESPN Logo, Adobe After Effects, Cinema 4D.

2

Fyn Ng Singapore, Singapore, fourth-year, BFA motion media design

Port City Review Issue 03

15

1

3

4 1 1926 Model A Duesenberg, Autodesk Maya.

Walker Kennedy Knoxville, Tennessee, second-year, BFA visual effects 2 Fear and Loathing, prismacolor marker on white matte board. 18x24” Olivia McLean Chicago, Illinois, second-year, BFA illustration 3 Movie Poster Set, pen and ink, digital. 14x28” Mackenzie Baker Elizabethtown, North Carolina, third-year, BFA illustration 4 ESPN Logo, Adobe After Effects, Cinema 4D.

2

Fyn Ng Singapore, Singapore, fourth-year, BFA motion media design

Port City Review Issue 03

17

1 Ascend, Adobe Photoshop.

Shir Wen Sun Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia, third-year, BFA illustration 2 Expressions around the table (series 2014), archival inkjet print on photo rag paper.

11x16” Gabriela Iancu Târgu Jiu, Romania, MFA photography

1

2

Port City Review Issue 03

17

1 Ascend, Adobe Photoshop.

Shir Wen Sun Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia, third-year, BFA illustration 2 Expressions around the table (series 2014), archival inkjet print on photo rag paper.

11x16” Gabriela Iancu Târgu Jiu, Romania, MFA photography

1

2

Port City Review Issue 03

19

1

3 1 Voltus De Sylva, graphite and ebony. 32x20” Michael Vidal

Miami, Florida, second-year, BFA illustration 2 Off the Creeper Trail, pastel, pencils and charcoal on paper.

16x20” Rachel Whitt

Clemmons, North Carolina, third-year, BFA illustration 3 The Fox, the Crow, and the Wicked Roots of Flattery, pen and ink on bristol, digital rendering. 9x12” Derik Hobbs

Cookeville, Tennessee, third-year, BFA illustration 2

Port City Review Issue 03

19

1

3 1 Voltus De Sylva, graphite and ebony. 32x20” Michael Vidal

Miami, Florida, second-year, BFA illustration 2 Off the Creeper Trail, pastel, pencils and charcoal on paper.

16x20” Rachel Whitt

Clemmons, North Carolina, third-year, BFA illustration 3 The Fox, the Crow, and the Wicked Roots of Flattery, pen and ink on bristol, digital rendering. 9x12” Derik Hobbs

Cookeville, Tennessee, third-year, BFA illustration 2

Port City Review Issue 03

21

FICTION

MANIA

Sara Terrell Carrboro, North Carolina Third-year, BFA writing`

Saturday afternoon was our first glimpse of sun in weeks.

Spring blossomed in our garden, perfuming the air as the petals on our tree glided down, carpeting the grass. My brother and I rolled on the lawn until our clothes were stained green and our knees marked with dirt. We made a crown of flowers and rushed inside to our parents’ bedroom. The curtains were drawn, but we could faintly see her silhouette blanketed on the mattress. Mom groaned as she curled into herself, trying to close out the light.

We left the crown on the night stand, silently closing the door.

That night I thought I heard someone crying, but dismissed it and closed my eyes.

On Monday, Mom brought home a piano. When we arrived from school, she clutched our hands, excitedly leading us into the living room. She bounced on her heels and laughed as we set down our bags and ran our fingers over the woodwork. The keys were yellowed and cuts grooved in and out of the body, but it was ours and it was perfect. She sat us down on the bench. Her fingers began to make their way across the white and black. We did the same, filling our little house with music. She smiled her best at us and we did the same. We’d never played before.

Dad came home from his trip that Wednesday and found the piano against what used to be the empty space in our living room. He took Mom aside so we wouldn’t hear. But this was a small house and the walls were thin. He patiently asked her about the money. She said that he shouldn’t worry so much, that she only just wanted to fill the space. They raised their voices and the door slammed. I came down to find Dad at the table with his head in his hands. Mom came back when it was dark and said nothing.

Two weeks later, Dad and I went to visit her in the hospital.

My brother was too young to understand and he was afraid of

Engraved Experience, oil paint on ivory sheet. 10x12” Abhishek Singh Jaipur, India, first-year, BFA visual effects

doctors. We picked her some flowers from our garden, which she took with weak hands. She wasn’t my mother then. This woman was a ghost: pale and crumpled like old paper. She told us she was sorry, and we said we loved her. Our neighbors saw us on their walk. They looked at me with pity and shook their heads, whispering. Dad cursed at them and they quickened their pace.

The years passed as smoothly as we could make it.

Mom took her medication as regularly as she could. Sometimes she’d stop to let herself feel alive for a while; we understood. Dad brought home flowers whenever he could and stopped travelling as much. My brother started taking piano lessons.

I got into a fight with a friend and she asked me why I was being “so fucking bipolar.” I broke her nose and went to bed. I didn’t leave for days.

Port City Review Issue 03

21

FICTION

MANIA

Sara Terrell Carrboro, North Carolina Third-year, BFA writing`

Saturday afternoon was our first glimpse of sun in weeks.

Spring blossomed in our garden, perfuming the air as the petals on our tree glided down, carpeting the grass. My brother and I rolled on the lawn until our clothes were stained green and our knees marked with dirt. We made a crown of flowers and rushed inside to our parents’ bedroom. The curtains were drawn, but we could faintly see her silhouette blanketed on the mattress. Mom groaned as she curled into herself, trying to close out the light.

We left the crown on the night stand, silently closing the door.

That night I thought I heard someone crying, but dismissed it and closed my eyes.

On Monday, Mom brought home a piano. When we arrived from school, she clutched our hands, excitedly leading us into the living room. She bounced on her heels and laughed as we set down our bags and ran our fingers over the woodwork. The keys were yellowed and cuts grooved in and out of the body, but it was ours and it was perfect. She sat us down on the bench. Her fingers began to make their way across the white and black. We did the same, filling our little house with music. She smiled her best at us and we did the same. We’d never played before.

Dad came home from his trip that Wednesday and found the piano against what used to be the empty space in our living room. He took Mom aside so we wouldn’t hear. But this was a small house and the walls were thin. He patiently asked her about the money. She said that he shouldn’t worry so much, that she only just wanted to fill the space. They raised their voices and the door slammed. I came down to find Dad at the table with his head in his hands. Mom came back when it was dark and said nothing.

Two weeks later, Dad and I went to visit her in the hospital.

My brother was too young to understand and he was afraid of

Engraved Experience, oil paint on ivory sheet. 10x12” Abhishek Singh Jaipur, India, first-year, BFA visual effects

doctors. We picked her some flowers from our garden, which she took with weak hands. She wasn’t my mother then. This woman was a ghost: pale and crumpled like old paper. She told us she was sorry, and we said we loved her. Our neighbors saw us on their walk. They looked at me with pity and shook their heads, whispering. Dad cursed at them and they quickened their pace.

The years passed as smoothly as we could make it.

Mom took her medication as regularly as she could. Sometimes she’d stop to let herself feel alive for a while; we understood. Dad brought home flowers whenever he could and stopped travelling as much. My brother started taking piano lessons.

I got into a fight with a friend and she asked me why I was being “so fucking bipolar.” I broke her nose and went to bed. I didn’t leave for days.

Port City Review Issue 03

23

Around the World, digital photography. 11x17” Valentina Cabanzo Caracas, Venezuela, secondyear, BFA interior design

Port City Review Issue 03

23

Around the World, digital photography. 11x17” Valentina Cabanzo Caracas, Venezuela, secondyear, BFA interior design

Port City Review Issue 03

25

1 Hell in the Victorian Age, ink.

13.4x10.8” Kat Lanser

Raleigh, North Carolina, third-year, BFA illustration 2 Around the World, digital photography. 11x17” Valentina Cabanzo Caracas, Venezuela, secondyear, BFA interior design

1

3 Pull a String, a Puppet Moves, pen and ink on paper. 15x20”

1

Rachel Whitt

Clemmons, North Carolina, third-year, BFA illustration

2

4 Can’t Hold Back a Dreamer, digital photography.

3

Kyle Rose

York, Pennsylvania, first-year, BFA film and television

2

3

4

Port City Review Issue 03

25

1 Hell in the Victorian Age, ink.

13.4x10.8” Kat Lanser

Raleigh, North Carolina, third-year, BFA illustration 2 Around the World, digital photography. 11x17” Valentina Cabanzo Caracas, Venezuela, secondyear, BFA interior design

1

3 Pull a String, a Puppet Moves, pen and ink on paper. 15x20”

1

Rachel Whitt

Clemmons, North Carolina, third-year, BFA illustration

2

4 Can’t Hold Back a Dreamer, digital photography.

3

Kyle Rose

York, Pennsylvania, first-year, BFA film and television

2

3

4

Port City Review Issue 03

27

3

1 Old Man, oil paints on ivory sheet. 14x17” Abhishek Singh Jaipur India, first-year, BFA visual effects

4

5

1 2 I am the danger, acrylic paint on canvas. 18x24” Daniel Soo Singapore, Singapore, second-year, BFA visual effects

6

3 Monochromatic Homage to the 28th, charcoal on fabric. 48x72” 4 Homage to the 28th I, oil on canvas. 48x73” 5 Homage to the 28th II, acrylic on canvas. 26x40” 6 Homage to the 28th III, oil on canvas. 26x40” 7 Homage to the 28th IV, oil on canvas. 26x40” 8 Homage to the 28th V, oil on canvas. 10x8” 9 Homage to the 28th VI, oil on canvas. 10x8” Daniela Marin Parra Bogotá, Colombia, fourth-year, BFA painting

8

2

7

9

Port City Review Issue 03

27

3

1 Old Man, oil paints on ivory sheet. 14x17” Abhishek Singh Jaipur India, first-year, BFA visual effects

4

5

1 2 I am the danger, acrylic paint on canvas. 18x24” Daniel Soo Singapore, Singapore, second-year, BFA visual effects

6

3 Monochromatic Homage to the 28th, charcoal on fabric. 48x72” 4 Homage to the 28th I, oil on canvas. 48x73” 5 Homage to the 28th II, acrylic on canvas. 26x40” 6 Homage to the 28th III, oil on canvas. 26x40” 7 Homage to the 28th IV, oil on canvas. 26x40” 8 Homage to the 28th V, oil on canvas. 10x8” 9 Homage to the 28th VI, oil on canvas. 10x8” Daniela Marin Parra Bogotá, Colombia, fourth-year, BFA painting

8

2

7

9

Port City Review Issue 03

29

1 #720HorasEnBarcelona, digital photography. 11x17” Valentina Cabanzo Caracas, Venezuela, second-year, BFA interior design 2 Let it Enfold You, Part One, photography.

8x10” Sheena South Jacksonville, Florida, third-year, BFA photography 3 Expressions around the table (series 2014), archival inkjet on photo rag paper. 11x16” Kyle Rose York, Pennsylvania, first-year, BFA film and television 2

1

3

Port City Review Issue 03

29

1 #720HorasEnBarcelona, digital photography. 11x17” Valentina Cabanzo Caracas, Venezuela, second-year, BFA interior design 2 Let it Enfold You, Part One, photography.

8x10” Sheena South Jacksonville, Florida, third-year, BFA photography 3 Expressions around the table (series 2014), archival inkjet on photo rag paper. 11x16” Kyle Rose York, Pennsylvania, first-year, BFA film and television 2

1

3

Port City Review Issue 03

31

1 Danse de la Fée, colored pencil and colored ink.

20x10.5” Michael Vidal Miami, Florida, second-year, BFA illustration 2 Second Class Angel, Adobe Photoshop.

1

Shir Wen Sun Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia, third-year, BFA illustration 3 Aqui Te Amo - Pablo Neruda Motion Poem, Adobe Photoshop, watercolors.

Ana Lossada Caracas, Venezuela, fourthyear, BFA motion media design

2

3

Port City Review Issue 03

31

1 Danse de la Fée, colored pencil and colored ink.

20x10.5” Michael Vidal Miami, Florida, second-year, BFA illustration 2 Second Class Angel, Adobe Photoshop.

1

Shir Wen Sun Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia, third-year, BFA illustration 3 Aqui Te Amo - Pablo Neruda Motion Poem, Adobe Photoshop, watercolors.

Ana Lossada Caracas, Venezuela, fourthyear, BFA motion media design

2

3

Port City Review Issue 03

33

POETRY

ON TRANSCENDENCE Sydney Diana Seifried Dallas, Texas Second-year, BFA graphic design

To be The Pearls on Lady Di’s neck Memory of meeting you Ringing of a lost phone Sweat on your neck during sex Last push on the swing Lion in captivity Memory of words shouted in love Weight of a piggy back ride Shaved head in a cancer ward Chipped paint on the ceiling Loose string on a wedding dress Memory of raveled fingers Moment of reincarnation Sun spots in your eyes Sheared war braid Burn on the roof of your mouth Memory of never wanting to leave Apathy in a voice Straight face of Hatshepsut Selfies taken in middle school Time you lost it Stolen necklace he gave you Strings in string theory Failed heart surgery Smudged glasses Memory of leaving

1

2

3

1 Portrait of a Childhood Nightmare, mixed media.

46x21.5” 2 Portrait of a Childhood Nightmare - Immerse, mixed media. 30x17x22” 3 Portrait of a Childhood Nightmare - Evolving, mixed media. 20x11x11” 4 Portrait of a Childhood Nightmare - Walking Man, mixed media. 15x16x12” Daniela Marin Parra Bogotá, Colombia, fourth-year, BFA painting

4

Port City Review Issue 03

33

POETRY

ON TRANSCENDENCE Sydney Diana Seifried Dallas, Texas Second-year, BFA graphic design

To be The Pearls on Lady Di’s neck Memory of meeting you Ringing of a lost phone Sweat on your neck during sex Last push on the swing Lion in captivity Memory of words shouted in love Weight of a piggy back ride Shaved head in a cancer ward Chipped paint on the ceiling Loose string on a wedding dress Memory of raveled fingers Moment of reincarnation Sun spots in your eyes Sheared war braid Burn on the roof of your mouth Memory of never wanting to leave Apathy in a voice Straight face of Hatshepsut Selfies taken in middle school Time you lost it Stolen necklace he gave you Strings in string theory Failed heart surgery Smudged glasses Memory of leaving

1

2

3

1 Portrait of a Childhood Nightmare, mixed media.

46x21.5” 2 Portrait of a Childhood Nightmare - Immerse, mixed media. 30x17x22” 3 Portrait of a Childhood Nightmare - Evolving, mixed media. 20x11x11” 4 Portrait of a Childhood Nightmare - Walking Man, mixed media. 15x16x12” Daniela Marin Parra Bogotá, Colombia, fourth-year, BFA painting

4

Port City Review Issue 03

35

FICTION

A ROSE OF SUCCESS

Amanda Surowitz Williamsburg, Virginia Fourth-year, BFA writing

It was an hour after I had gone to bed that Caroline appeared in our bedroom, the gold watch I had bought her for her birthday last week clattering carelessly on top of her vanity. I watched her perform her nightly ablution from behind closed eyes, so accustomed was I to every sound she made. She turned on the light—the back of my eyelids went red—and would bind her russet waves atop her head, keeping them out of the way. The loud rush of water, then silence. She sighed, gently caressing away her makeup with a damp towel as if it were just a fine layer of dirt upon her skin. Again the rush of water, the towel rinsed. She would unbind her hair and comb it free, then plait it to sleep in once she had slipped into bed with me. I heard the sliding of her dress as she removed it and hung it in the closet, which was filled with other nice outfits I had bought her, then the rustle of her nightgown pulled over her head and she switched off the light.

The mattress barely dipped as her warmth crept in beside mine.

Turning to her, I opened my eyes and saw the moon reflected in the whites of hers staring back at me. She murmured an apology for coming home late, and I wanted to believe the sincerity in her voice was not a practiced art she had perfected over the last few years.

Delicately fingering a lock of my hair, she spun a multitude of excuses to explain how her secretary failed to inform her of an urgent meeting with her boss, which she was late to. And once there, it was decided their whole project had to be redone and six of them stayed in the office until a new plan was drawn up. Then the power outage stopped all the elevators—surely I had experienced some of that?—and she was very slow going down the stairs. The midnight traffic had been such a small blessing to not delay her further.

She added: “I can take tomorrow off. We’ll both sleep in and maybe go to the park in the afternoon.”

“If that’s what you’d like,” I answered, and rolled to my other side.

Her hand fluttered to rest over my belly, the caress failing to induce the reaction I know she sought. She whispered other romantic suggestions in my ear and tempted me with dreams of a vacation at our cabin in the country, situated across the road from a honey bee farm and a long distance from any commercial establishment. I dreamt of our old summers there and nights full of cricketsongs floating above the tall grass, the nocturnal animals making their quiet noises next to the windows when we had been quiet for some time, the early morning whistling from birds unseen. The creek was half a mile behind our house and an excellent place for fishing, though I did little of it; I often took my wife to walk through the woods and across the creek to enjoy the simple beauty of nature we couldn’t find in the city.

I loved it more than she ever did; it bored her after a few years.

She found more excitement in dedicating her life to office work and fighting to survive in the steel and concrete jungle. I stayed away from the cabin out of respect for my wife’s opinion and because we needed the money.

The morning light chased away the dourness of the previous evening, and sweet Caroline took the day off as she said she would. My disappointment in her always waned overnight, and she knew morning was the best time to exchange kisses and have my sympathy as she told me again of her difficulties yesterday, the impending workload next week, and how long we might have to wait before going on vacation; but it was forgotten, and she looked into my eyes with sensual delight and a rosy flush of desire in her cheeks.

The bed was a modest one with cherry posts at each corner and pewter bars between them that twisted and arced. Little chips of wood had flaked away from the numerous injuries it had endured as we went from one house to another on the outskirts of the city. She had no modesty as she stretched her white skin before me, teasing me with her hands.

Our room with its cool green walls was not suited to the intimacies of passion, as there had been no passion between us since I repainted the walls two months ago. The soft light of the rising sun came into the room with a sudden intensity, as though a cloud had covered it until that moment I was so engaged with my wife.

Port City Review Issue 03

35

FICTION

A ROSE OF SUCCESS

Amanda Surowitz Williamsburg, Virginia Fourth-year, BFA writing

It was an hour after I had gone to bed that Caroline appeared in our bedroom, the gold watch I had bought her for her birthday last week clattering carelessly on top of her vanity. I watched her perform her nightly ablution from behind closed eyes, so accustomed was I to every sound she made. She turned on the light—the back of my eyelids went red—and would bind her russet waves atop her head, keeping them out of the way. The loud rush of water, then silence. She sighed, gently caressing away her makeup with a damp towel as if it were just a fine layer of dirt upon her skin. Again the rush of water, the towel rinsed. She would unbind her hair and comb it free, then plait it to sleep in once she had slipped into bed with me. I heard the sliding of her dress as she removed it and hung it in the closet, which was filled with other nice outfits I had bought her, then the rustle of her nightgown pulled over her head and she switched off the light.

The mattress barely dipped as her warmth crept in beside mine.

Turning to her, I opened my eyes and saw the moon reflected in the whites of hers staring back at me. She murmured an apology for coming home late, and I wanted to believe the sincerity in her voice was not a practiced art she had perfected over the last few years.

Delicately fingering a lock of my hair, she spun a multitude of excuses to explain how her secretary failed to inform her of an urgent meeting with her boss, which she was late to. And once there, it was decided their whole project had to be redone and six of them stayed in the office until a new plan was drawn up. Then the power outage stopped all the elevators—surely I had experienced some of that?—and she was very slow going down the stairs. The midnight traffic had been such a small blessing to not delay her further.

She added: “I can take tomorrow off. We’ll both sleep in and maybe go to the park in the afternoon.”

“If that’s what you’d like,” I answered, and rolled to my other side.

Her hand fluttered to rest over my belly, the caress failing to induce the reaction I know she sought. She whispered other romantic suggestions in my ear and tempted me with dreams of a vacation at our cabin in the country, situated across the road from a honey bee farm and a long distance from any commercial establishment. I dreamt of our old summers there and nights full of cricketsongs floating above the tall grass, the nocturnal animals making their quiet noises next to the windows when we had been quiet for some time, the early morning whistling from birds unseen. The creek was half a mile behind our house and an excellent place for fishing, though I did little of it; I often took my wife to walk through the woods and across the creek to enjoy the simple beauty of nature we couldn’t find in the city.

I loved it more than she ever did; it bored her after a few years.

She found more excitement in dedicating her life to office work and fighting to survive in the steel and concrete jungle. I stayed away from the cabin out of respect for my wife’s opinion and because we needed the money.

The morning light chased away the dourness of the previous evening, and sweet Caroline took the day off as she said she would. My disappointment in her always waned overnight, and she knew morning was the best time to exchange kisses and have my sympathy as she told me again of her difficulties yesterday, the impending workload next week, and how long we might have to wait before going on vacation; but it was forgotten, and she looked into my eyes with sensual delight and a rosy flush of desire in her cheeks.

The bed was a modest one with cherry posts at each corner and pewter bars between them that twisted and arced. Little chips of wood had flaked away from the numerous injuries it had endured as we went from one house to another on the outskirts of the city. She had no modesty as she stretched her white skin before me, teasing me with her hands.

Our room with its cool green walls was not suited to the intimacies of passion, as there had been no passion between us since I repainted the walls two months ago. The soft light of the rising sun came into the room with a sudden intensity, as though a cloud had covered it until that moment I was so engaged with my wife.

Port City Review Issue 03

Caroline, clad only in her frothy bathrobe, left me to morning ablutions and shave while she made a late brunch for us to share on the back patio. Our backyard was a small one, consisting of poorly tended grass riddled with weeds and a handful of rose bushes on one side that needed trimming, all surrounded by an unpainted wood fence. I would have the time to make it less of an eyesore today, but with Caroline staying home and doting on me as she once did, I was strangely not possessed by the desire to make my home more acceptable to the neighbors.

The moment our breakfast was done I wanted to take her in my arms again on the uncut grass. She was unopposed to this idea until one of our young neighbors ran screaming back into his house and the child’s angry mother told us we were as indecent as animals, copulating in broad daylight where a child could see them.

Inside our bedroom again, I savored the renewed feeling of our old passions. We reclaimed each other from the empty lives we had constructed in each other’s absence. She undid all her late nights at the office as I undid all my nights of turning my back to her in feigned sleep. Briefly, I wondered how long this rekindled flame might burn, and feared how soon it might again go out. We had never suffered such a time of disinterest in each other before this and I had no memory of when it first began; but if we had fallen to a passionless lull once, would we not fall to it again? And could it be fought as this one was, or was something new required each time?

I looked into sweet Caroline’s eyes, but she seemed untroubled by the same thoughts as me.

I asked her: “Will you stop working late so often?”

She considered for a moment, then answered, “Yes, but I may need to go in early every once in a while.”

“Early is better than late.”

She laughed the young laugh I fell in love with long before we were married and resolved to spend the rest of the day in our bed. I had no argument against this, even as the annoying voice of conscience reminded me of the backyard and its raggedlooking grass and twisted rose bushes. I would trim them later.

37

1

2 1 Eternal Sunshine, pen and ink, digital. 5.5x8.5” Mackenzie Baker Elizabethtown, North Carolina, third-year, BFA illustration 2 Hatchet man, digital chromogenic print. 24x20” Timothy Hutto Elizabeth City, North Carolina, fourth-year, BFA photography

Port City Review Issue 03

Caroline, clad only in her frothy bathrobe, left me to morning ablutions and shave while she made a late brunch for us to share on the back patio. Our backyard was a small one, consisting of poorly tended grass riddled with weeds and a handful of rose bushes on one side that needed trimming, all surrounded by an unpainted wood fence. I would have the time to make it less of an eyesore today, but with Caroline staying home and doting on me as she once did, I was strangely not possessed by the desire to make my home more acceptable to the neighbors.

The moment our breakfast was done I wanted to take her in my arms again on the uncut grass. She was unopposed to this idea until one of our young neighbors ran screaming back into his house and the child’s angry mother told us we were as indecent as animals, copulating in broad daylight where a child could see them.

Inside our bedroom again, I savored the renewed feeling of our old passions. We reclaimed each other from the empty lives we had constructed in each other’s absence. She undid all her late nights at the office as I undid all my nights of turning my back to her in feigned sleep. Briefly, I wondered how long this rekindled flame might burn, and feared how soon it might again go out. We had never suffered such a time of disinterest in each other before this and I had no memory of when it first began; but if we had fallen to a passionless lull once, would we not fall to it again? And could it be fought as this one was, or was something new required each time?

I looked into sweet Caroline’s eyes, but she seemed untroubled by the same thoughts as me.

I asked her: “Will you stop working late so often?”

She considered for a moment, then answered, “Yes, but I may need to go in early every once in a while.”

“Early is better than late.”

She laughed the young laugh I fell in love with long before we were married and resolved to spend the rest of the day in our bed. I had no argument against this, even as the annoying voice of conscience reminded me of the backyard and its raggedlooking grass and twisted rose bushes. I would trim them later.

37

1

2 1 Eternal Sunshine, pen and ink, digital. 5.5x8.5” Mackenzie Baker Elizabethtown, North Carolina, third-year, BFA illustration 2 Hatchet man, digital chromogenic print. 24x20” Timothy Hutto Elizabeth City, North Carolina, fourth-year, BFA photography

Port City Review Issue 03

39

1 Carnage, wool roving, various yarns, animal bone. 18x82” Christian Roy Fort Lauderdale, Florida, third-year, BFA illustration 2 Millennials, pen and ink, digital. 8x11” Mackenzie Baker Elizabethtown, North Carolina, third-year, BFA illustration

2

3 Sundance 2014 Trailer Pitch, Adobe Illustrator and Adobe Photoshop.

Fyn Ng Singapore, Singapore, fourth-year, BFA motion media design

3

1

Port City Review Issue 03

39

1 Carnage, wool roving, various yarns, animal bone. 18x82” Christian Roy Fort Lauderdale, Florida, third-year, BFA illustration 2 Millennials, pen and ink, digital. 8x11” Mackenzie Baker Elizabethtown, North Carolina, third-year, BFA illustration

2

3 Sundance 2014 Trailer Pitch, Adobe Illustrator and Adobe Photoshop.

Fyn Ng Singapore, Singapore, fourth-year, BFA motion media design

3

1

Port City Review Issue 03

41

POETRY

SHE WAS COLD

Jamie Greenhut Delray Beach, Florida Third-year, BFA dramatic writing

She was cold.

Not like rain or ice, not in any sort of natural way, not occurring nicely or happening out of the blue. Not the kind of cold that you want to bundle up for, but also not at all like the kind of cold that makes you want to stay near the warmth of a fire with a mug of something hot and soothing; she wasn’t hot or soothing, nothing about her was even remotely so.

She was the feeling of getting out of a crowded pool just as a thunderstorm swells up and cracks down, damp fabric sticking uncomfortably to every inch of your chilled skin as you wrap yourself in a soggy towel, running to seek refuge in the closest place you can and as you burst through the door of some dimly lit convenience store on whatever block you’d run to, the air conditioning hits you like a blow to the chest and your skin raises up in flushed bumps, all hairs on end and mascara down your face and hair matted and feet on slick linoleum because you left your shoes back there, didn’t you?

Cold.

That kind of cold.

Man-made, self-inflicted, spur of the moment, unrecognizable-until-that-second-when-you’re-running-forcover cold.

The kind of cold that makes you want to curl up under your sheets thinking of it. Why I let that kind of cold under my sheets, I’ll never truly know. Because a cold like that is worth nothing.

A cold like that isn’t even worth mourning, isn’t worth effort, isn’t worth entertaining. That kind of cold, like her, it isn’t anything but cold itself and it can’t and won’t ever become anything else.

And when the downpour finally lets up and you shrug your too-heavy towel over your goose-pimpled shoulders as you walk out of that nameless convenience store, you look over at your friend with a sort of wild grin.

And you laugh as you begin to cross the street, clouds clearing as you shake your head, damp hair sticking to your forehead as you tell them, “Man, I’m never going back there again.”

1

2 1 Apex, oil on canvas. 8x24” 2 Looking Back, acrylic on canvas. 16x20” Zachary Wirth Edwards, Colorado, first-year, BFA painting

Port City Review Issue 03

41

POETRY

SHE WAS COLD

Jamie Greenhut Delray Beach, Florida Third-year, BFA dramatic writing

She was cold.

Not like rain or ice, not in any sort of natural way, not occurring nicely or happening out of the blue. Not the kind of cold that you want to bundle up for, but also not at all like the kind of cold that makes you want to stay near the warmth of a fire with a mug of something hot and soothing; she wasn’t hot or soothing, nothing about her was even remotely so.

She was the feeling of getting out of a crowded pool just as a thunderstorm swells up and cracks down, damp fabric sticking uncomfortably to every inch of your chilled skin as you wrap yourself in a soggy towel, running to seek refuge in the closest place you can and as you burst through the door of some dimly lit convenience store on whatever block you’d run to, the air conditioning hits you like a blow to the chest and your skin raises up in flushed bumps, all hairs on end and mascara down your face and hair matted and feet on slick linoleum because you left your shoes back there, didn’t you?

Cold.

That kind of cold.

Man-made, self-inflicted, spur of the moment, unrecognizable-until-that-second-when-you’re-running-forcover cold.

The kind of cold that makes you want to curl up under your sheets thinking of it. Why I let that kind of cold under my sheets, I’ll never truly know. Because a cold like that is worth nothing.

A cold like that isn’t even worth mourning, isn’t worth effort, isn’t worth entertaining. That kind of cold, like her, it isn’t anything but cold itself and it can’t and won’t ever become anything else.

And when the downpour finally lets up and you shrug your too-heavy towel over your goose-pimpled shoulders as you walk out of that nameless convenience store, you look over at your friend with a sort of wild grin.

And you laugh as you begin to cross the street, clouds clearing as you shake your head, damp hair sticking to your forehead as you tell them, “Man, I’m never going back there again.”

1

2 1 Apex, oil on canvas. 8x24” 2 Looking Back, acrylic on canvas. 16x20” Zachary Wirth Edwards, Colorado, first-year, BFA painting

Port City Review Issue 03

POETRY

ON THE OTHER SIDE

Beatriz Alamao St. Augustine, Florida Fourth-year, BFA illustration

43

What is it like to breathe on the other side of the wall?

I imagine you are there now, with Him in a deep desert where the sand is glossed with gold against tumultuous blue skies, and despite the many months that feel hot and arid, you bring rain.

You fill the empty valleys with ponds and lakes and you ask Him to plant green grass between the dunes when the storm was over to rest your head in the shade of a palm tree.

I can see you jumping from different dimensions, from inside the walls of nothing and everything, except this time, you come back in all bright colors, completely soaked from your thunderstorm, your eyes glowing with light, and you are still brilliant.

What is it like to breathe on the other side of the wall?

There is a drawing of you hanging at home in a room that you will never call your bedroom.

You are colored with bright pink, orange and blue markers, looking at me with a pair of wings on your back, and this is not the way you left; you had dark circles painted on your eyes, your chest heaving with shallow breaths while Mom is begging you in Spanish to breathe, baby, please breathe.

There were no bright colors.

The light, the nurses, our thoughts were all grey while a pale layer of sick weighed you down to match the floors of that tiny room.

I found a box filled with little things about you, a list of facts I wrote seven years ago and I remember, now I remember: summers spent in another country during the hottest of months, the last one where we scoured empty beaches for chipichipis and put them in bottles to watch them stick to plastic with cracked mouths.

You cried when you realized Mom was going to cook them later that night.

Or the time in the mountains at our favorite spot: an empty trench that led into a river and we were drawing the clouds when you asked me how cool it would be if we could see God. What if He is sitting with us right now and we didn’t even know?

1

2 1 Hong Kong (1/3 series), digital c-print. 16x20” 2 Hong Kong (2/3 series), digital c-print. 11x17” Justin Chan Highlands Ranch, Colorado, third-year, BFA photography

Port City Review Issue 03

POETRY

ON THE OTHER SIDE

Beatriz Alamao St. Augustine, Florida Fourth-year, BFA illustration

43

What is it like to breathe on the other side of the wall?

I imagine you are there now, with Him in a deep desert where the sand is glossed with gold against tumultuous blue skies, and despite the many months that feel hot and arid, you bring rain.

You fill the empty valleys with ponds and lakes and you ask Him to plant green grass between the dunes when the storm was over to rest your head in the shade of a palm tree.

I can see you jumping from different dimensions, from inside the walls of nothing and everything, except this time, you come back in all bright colors, completely soaked from your thunderstorm, your eyes glowing with light, and you are still brilliant.

What is it like to breathe on the other side of the wall?

There is a drawing of you hanging at home in a room that you will never call your bedroom.

You are colored with bright pink, orange and blue markers, looking at me with a pair of wings on your back, and this is not the way you left; you had dark circles painted on your eyes, your chest heaving with shallow breaths while Mom is begging you in Spanish to breathe, baby, please breathe.

There were no bright colors.

The light, the nurses, our thoughts were all grey while a pale layer of sick weighed you down to match the floors of that tiny room.

I found a box filled with little things about you, a list of facts I wrote seven years ago and I remember, now I remember: summers spent in another country during the hottest of months, the last one where we scoured empty beaches for chipichipis and put them in bottles to watch them stick to plastic with cracked mouths.

You cried when you realized Mom was going to cook them later that night.

Or the time in the mountains at our favorite spot: an empty trench that led into a river and we were drawing the clouds when you asked me how cool it would be if we could see God. What if He is sitting with us right now and we didn’t even know?

1

2 1 Hong Kong (1/3 series), digital c-print. 16x20” 2 Hong Kong (2/3 series), digital c-print. 11x17” Justin Chan Highlands Ranch, Colorado, third-year, BFA photography

Port City Review Issue 03

45

1 Hair, digital photography.

11x17” Cara Kelly Reading, Pennsylvania, thirdyear, BFA photography 2 Bureaucracy, digital chromogenic print. 20x24” Timothy Hutto Elizabeth City, North Carolina, fourth-year, BFA photography 3 My Favorite Hue, acrylic on panel. 12x12” Desiree Palermo Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, MFA painting 4 Scylia, ceramic with raku glaze. 12.5x6x5” Katherine Brown San Antonio, Texas, secondyear, BFA industrial design

1

3

2 3

Port City Review Issue 03

45

1 Hair, digital photography.

11x17” Cara Kelly Reading, Pennsylvania, thirdyear, BFA photography 2 Bureaucracy, digital chromogenic print. 20x24” Timothy Hutto Elizabeth City, North Carolina, fourth-year, BFA photography 3 My Favorite Hue, acrylic on panel. 12x12” Desiree Palermo Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, MFA painting 4 Scylia, ceramic with raku glaze. 12.5x6x5” Katherine Brown San Antonio, Texas, secondyear, BFA industrial design

1

3

2 3

Port City Review Issue 03

47

1 Hong Kong (3/3 series), digital c-print. 16x20” Justin Chan Highlands Ranch, Colorado, third-year, BFA photography 2 Curiosity, digital photography.

Caroline Bailey Summerville, South Carolina, first-year, BFA photography

3

Woven light, mixed yarns.

Natalie Tribble Gray, Georgia, fourth-year, BFA fibers 2

1

3

Port City Review Issue 03

47

1 Hong Kong (3/3 series), digital c-print. 16x20” Justin Chan Highlands Ranch, Colorado, third-year, BFA photography 2 Curiosity, digital photography.

Caroline Bailey Summerville, South Carolina, first-year, BFA photography

3

Woven light, mixed yarns.

Natalie Tribble Gray, Georgia, fourth-year, BFA fibers 2

1

3

Port City Review Issue 03

49

NON-FICTION

THE DINER

Sarah Soltan Atlanta, Georgia Second-year, BFA illustration

The rental car we drove out of the airport reeked of mildew and cheap air freshener. A Hertz desk clerk with a crooked bowtie tried to persuade us into buying a satellite navigator even though we can’t stand the things. I could see mom picking at her cuticles out of the corner of my eye before reaching into her bag and handing over the credit card, not in an exchange of commerce but in defeat. I guess she just couldn’t stomach the idea of being stranded in Freehold. I didn’t blame her.

I lugged our bags into an elevator humming with a metallic ring that scratched at my ears, then crossed the threshold to the room and spotted the bed. A single queen-sized bed with deflated pillows and pale sheets stained the color of sun-baked mud and a bloody crimson that had mom and I both staring wide-eyed at each other. I couldn’t help giggling and thinking how in the world will we manage this before fatigue tugged at our eyelids and we collapsed onto the bed anyway, falling into a dreamless sleep.

The next morning we rode the same elevator down to the lobby, dimly lit by the sun peeking in through the sliding front doors. A breakfast sign scrawled in black ink awaited our arrival, pointing us to a doorway we searched for around the corner. The room was empty.

The only furniture against the whitewashed walls were plastic tables, each with a dingy white tablecloth, one crooked down the middle, the other too short on one side and too long on the other. The far side held a table littered with day-old bagels and Fruit Loops that had fallen into a pool of spilled milk. A few began disintegrating into the liquid, their color seeping outward in faint rings of blue and green before dissolving into the color of their surroundings entirely. I told my mom we should probably leave, since no one was around to help us to a table anyway.

The sky overhead looked like someone had smeared layers of gray paste over Freehold. Every few stoplights on the highway, I’d spot a pinhole of light and a thin beam reaching towards the town. Then thunder cracked, as if in protest, and the rain came down in sheets.

“Hey Mom, we should probably find a place to eat,” I said.

“Good idea. What about over there?” She pointed off to the right side of the road where a diner stood alien-like, its pink neon lights glowing defiant against the backdrop of the black sky. Our tires crunched over the wet gravel as we parked and went in.

We stood disoriented for a moment, blinking our eyes a few times to adjust them to the flood of light. A young woman with a glowing cigarette in one hand perked up at the tinkle of the bell above the door, tapped out the ash into a tray, and hurried us over to a booth with red plastic seats. She retrieved two menus from under her arm for us, grinned, and then walked back to her post. The seat tensed against me before sagging under my weight, as if it saw me from a distance and finally relaxed, recognizing me once I got close enough. Mom scanned the menu while I stared out the window. I already knew what I wanted: omelet and wheat toast, dry, just like breakfast at home. The rain ricocheted against the building over and over like unrelenting, muted gunfire. I refocused my eyes to the diner scene reflected on the inside of the windowpane where my mother’s silhouette appeared, a replica in pristine clarity while at the same time altered, the glass smoothing over the worry lines of her face and reversing her age by five or ten years. She caught my eye and smiles grew across both of our faces.

“So, I guess Aunt Beth didn’t call yet?” I said.

“To be honest, I don’t think she will. I guess we’re on our own visiting Grandma again, sweetie,” my mom said.

“I guess we’ll manage.”

“We always do.”

We ate in no rush and called for the check. Mom and I glanced around the diner one more time, as if worried we were leaving something important behind before shutting the car doors and turning right on the highway. I leaned my face against the window, that pinpoint of neon light growing smaller and smaller in the rearview mirror the further we drove away.

Port City Review Issue 03

49

NON-FICTION

THE DINER

Sarah Soltan Atlanta, Georgia Second-year, BFA illustration

The rental car we drove out of the airport reeked of mildew and cheap air freshener. A Hertz desk clerk with a crooked bowtie tried to persuade us into buying a satellite navigator even though we can’t stand the things. I could see mom picking at her cuticles out of the corner of my eye before reaching into her bag and handing over the credit card, not in an exchange of commerce but in defeat. I guess she just couldn’t stomach the idea of being stranded in Freehold. I didn’t blame her.

I lugged our bags into an elevator humming with a metallic ring that scratched at my ears, then crossed the threshold to the room and spotted the bed. A single queen-sized bed with deflated pillows and pale sheets stained the color of sun-baked mud and a bloody crimson that had mom and I both staring wide-eyed at each other. I couldn’t help giggling and thinking how in the world will we manage this before fatigue tugged at our eyelids and we collapsed onto the bed anyway, falling into a dreamless sleep.

The next morning we rode the same elevator down to the lobby, dimly lit by the sun peeking in through the sliding front doors. A breakfast sign scrawled in black ink awaited our arrival, pointing us to a doorway we searched for around the corner. The room was empty.

The only furniture against the whitewashed walls were plastic tables, each with a dingy white tablecloth, one crooked down the middle, the other too short on one side and too long on the other. The far side held a table littered with day-old bagels and Fruit Loops that had fallen into a pool of spilled milk. A few began disintegrating into the liquid, their color seeping outward in faint rings of blue and green before dissolving into the color of their surroundings entirely. I told my mom we should probably leave, since no one was around to help us to a table anyway.

The sky overhead looked like someone had smeared layers of gray paste over Freehold. Every few stoplights on the highway, I’d spot a pinhole of light and a thin beam reaching towards the town. Then thunder cracked, as if in protest, and the rain came down in sheets.

“Hey Mom, we should probably find a place to eat,” I said.

“Good idea. What about over there?” She pointed off to the right side of the road where a diner stood alien-like, its pink neon lights glowing defiant against the backdrop of the black sky. Our tires crunched over the wet gravel as we parked and went in.

We stood disoriented for a moment, blinking our eyes a few times to adjust them to the flood of light. A young woman with a glowing cigarette in one hand perked up at the tinkle of the bell above the door, tapped out the ash into a tray, and hurried us over to a booth with red plastic seats. She retrieved two menus from under her arm for us, grinned, and then walked back to her post. The seat tensed against me before sagging under my weight, as if it saw me from a distance and finally relaxed, recognizing me once I got close enough. Mom scanned the menu while I stared out the window. I already knew what I wanted: omelet and wheat toast, dry, just like breakfast at home. The rain ricocheted against the building over and over like unrelenting, muted gunfire. I refocused my eyes to the diner scene reflected on the inside of the windowpane where my mother’s silhouette appeared, a replica in pristine clarity while at the same time altered, the glass smoothing over the worry lines of her face and reversing her age by five or ten years. She caught my eye and smiles grew across both of our faces.

“So, I guess Aunt Beth didn’t call yet?” I said.

“To be honest, I don’t think she will. I guess we’re on our own visiting Grandma again, sweetie,” my mom said.

“I guess we’ll manage.”

“We always do.”

We ate in no rush and called for the check. Mom and I glanced around the diner one more time, as if worried we were leaving something important behind before shutting the car doors and turning right on the highway. I leaned my face against the window, that pinpoint of neon light growing smaller and smaller in the rearview mirror the further we drove away.

Port City Review Issue 03

51

1 Mystery, digital chromogenic print. 20x24” 2 Modified, digital chromogenic print. 20x24” Timothy Hutto Elizabeth City, North Carolina, fourth-year, BFA photography 3 Sonnet 60, watercolor on watercolor paper. 4x6” 3

Zachary Wirth Edwards, Colorado, first-year, BFA painting 4 Origami, watercolor on illustration board. 6x7” Ugis Berzins Kalamazoo, Michigan, fourthyear, BFA sequential art

1

4

2

Port City Review Issue 03

51

1 Mystery, digital chromogenic print. 20x24” 2 Modified, digital chromogenic print. 20x24” Timothy Hutto Elizabeth City, North Carolina, fourth-year, BFA photography 3 Sonnet 60, watercolor on watercolor paper. 4x6” 3

Zachary Wirth Edwards, Colorado, first-year, BFA painting 4 Origami, watercolor on illustration board. 6x7” Ugis Berzins Kalamazoo, Michigan, fourthyear, BFA sequential art

1

4

2

Port City Review Issue 03

53

1 Collection, pastel pencils and charcoal on paper. 8x8” Rachel Whitt Clemmons, North Carolina, third-year, BFA illustration 2 Flamewrangler, packaging.

Robin Beattie The Woodlands, Texas, first-year, BFA graphic design 3 Socializing, ink and watercolor on bristol board. 10.5x16” 4 Georgeous, watercolor and gouache on watercolor paper.

8.5x11” Ugis Berzins Kalamazoo, Michigan, fourthyear, BFA sequential art

1

3

2

4

Port City Review Issue 03

53

1 Collection, pastel pencils and charcoal on paper. 8x8” Rachel Whitt Clemmons, North Carolina, third-year, BFA illustration 2 Flamewrangler, packaging.

Robin Beattie The Woodlands, Texas, first-year, BFA graphic design 3 Socializing, ink and watercolor on bristol board. 10.5x16” 4 Georgeous, watercolor and gouache on watercolor paper.

8.5x11” Ugis Berzins Kalamazoo, Michigan, fourthyear, BFA sequential art

1

3

2

4

Port City Review Issue 03

NON-FICTION

SINK OR SWIM Rachel Reed Slidell, Louisiana Third-year, BFA writing

Lloyd called it a long kiss. I guess that’s what made it okay.

His fingers rested on my unassuming face while our lips touched and my mother worked.

“Not like that. I said a long kiss.”

I leaned back in.

I expected growing up to be cinematic. Moments that changed me were going to be accompanied by power ballads and shifts in lighting. Sure, I could blame television, but I think we all start out that way. Believing we’ll become astronauts or lose our virginity to the perfect person. Every first will be pivotal and it’ll all make sense before the credits roll.

True innocence is nothing more than the belief that we have more control over the changes we make in our lives than the moments and people that ultimately change us. Often with our eyes closed, we become adults.

“Have a good day, pretty girl.”

He stood in the doorway as I walked to the bus. I found a spot near the front and placed my ‘Little Mermaid’ lunch box firmly in my lap. The girl seated next to me gripped a red apple between the plump knots of her fingers and we both stared out the window.

“Is that your dad?”

“Sort of.”

I was never really sure of the right answer. My mother worked long hours and after the divorce, my father moved three states away. By the age of three, Lloyd became my main caregiver. So regardless of what I was too young to comprehend, he was all I knew.

He wore his burdens like thick cologne that filled rooms before he entered and stayed long after he left. His eyes were

55

impatiently green and held tightly by a restless face. He constantly fidgeted with the rings on his hands and kept a crystal around his neck that promoted positive energy. The yelling never stopped, but I told myself that everything would be okay because he loved me, even if he never really loved her.

Please send Rachel Reed to the office. Her mother is here to pick her up.

By first grade, I was still taking the bus to school every morning, but I developed a spontaneous illness once a week. The nurses grew to resent my performances and eventually stopped taking my temperature. I’d trudge dramatically through the door with a pout and a hall pass and they’d ask, “So, I guess you want us to call your mother?” to which I’d reply with a cough, cough, blink, blink, “Yes, please.”

“Poor thing. You’ll have to come to work with me,” my mother would say each time, and I’d do my best to not appear satisfied.

I’d hide beneath her desk and listen to her black stilettos tap rhythmically on the carpet. I’d stare at a small, gold-framed picture taken the day I was born on the bookshelf across from me. Her hospital gown faded with the pale blue sheets and illuminated the sweat-drenched accomplishment on her face.

Across the desk, each patient shared fragments of their darkness and she never knew I was faking everything. Her soft hand smelled like jasmine pressed against my forehead and her warm, honey eyes reflected that she needed to know I was okay, even if she didn’t know what was wrong. There, I felt safe.

Eventually, she became busier and sent Lloyd in her place. He rolled his neck from left to right and clenched his jaw until it shook.

“Let’s go.”

I tried to fake recovery, but he took me home anyway. The car ride was strangled by a silence that coiled around me until I couldn’t breathe. My acting days were over, but I wasn’t sure what became of liars. By the time we made it to the backyard, Lloyd made sure I knew.

“You have to kick or you’re going to sink,” he insisted from the edge of our pool.

I struggled to fling off my backpack and apologize again. He flicked his cigarette on the concrete and looked away.

“I told you. Faster, dammit.”

Port City Review Issue 03

NON-FICTION

SINK OR SWIM Rachel Reed Slidell, Louisiana Third-year, BFA writing

Lloyd called it a long kiss. I guess that’s what made it okay.

His fingers rested on my unassuming face while our lips touched and my mother worked.

“Not like that. I said a long kiss.”

I leaned back in.

I expected growing up to be cinematic. Moments that changed me were going to be accompanied by power ballads and shifts in lighting. Sure, I could blame television, but I think we all start out that way. Believing we’ll become astronauts or lose our virginity to the perfect person. Every first will be pivotal and it’ll all make sense before the credits roll.

True innocence is nothing more than the belief that we have more control over the changes we make in our lives than the moments and people that ultimately change us. Often with our eyes closed, we become adults.

“Have a good day, pretty girl.”

He stood in the doorway as I walked to the bus. I found a spot near the front and placed my ‘Little Mermaid’ lunch box firmly in my lap. The girl seated next to me gripped a red apple between the plump knots of her fingers and we both stared out the window.

“Is that your dad?”

“Sort of.”

I was never really sure of the right answer. My mother worked long hours and after the divorce, my father moved three states away. By the age of three, Lloyd became my main caregiver. So regardless of what I was too young to comprehend, he was all I knew.

He wore his burdens like thick cologne that filled rooms before he entered and stayed long after he left. His eyes were

55

impatiently green and held tightly by a restless face. He constantly fidgeted with the rings on his hands and kept a crystal around his neck that promoted positive energy. The yelling never stopped, but I told myself that everything would be okay because he loved me, even if he never really loved her.

Please send Rachel Reed to the office. Her mother is here to pick her up.

By first grade, I was still taking the bus to school every morning, but I developed a spontaneous illness once a week. The nurses grew to resent my performances and eventually stopped taking my temperature. I’d trudge dramatically through the door with a pout and a hall pass and they’d ask, “So, I guess you want us to call your mother?” to which I’d reply with a cough, cough, blink, blink, “Yes, please.”

“Poor thing. You’ll have to come to work with me,” my mother would say each time, and I’d do my best to not appear satisfied.

I’d hide beneath her desk and listen to her black stilettos tap rhythmically on the carpet. I’d stare at a small, gold-framed picture taken the day I was born on the bookshelf across from me. Her hospital gown faded with the pale blue sheets and illuminated the sweat-drenched accomplishment on her face.

Across the desk, each patient shared fragments of their darkness and she never knew I was faking everything. Her soft hand smelled like jasmine pressed against my forehead and her warm, honey eyes reflected that she needed to know I was okay, even if she didn’t know what was wrong. There, I felt safe.

Eventually, she became busier and sent Lloyd in her place. He rolled his neck from left to right and clenched his jaw until it shook.

“Let’s go.”

I tried to fake recovery, but he took me home anyway. The car ride was strangled by a silence that coiled around me until I couldn’t breathe. My acting days were over, but I wasn’t sure what became of liars. By the time we made it to the backyard, Lloyd made sure I knew.

“You have to kick or you’re going to sink,” he insisted from the edge of our pool.

I struggled to fling off my backpack and apologize again. He flicked his cigarette on the concrete and looked away.

“I told you. Faster, dammit.”

Port City Review Issue 03

57

I tilted my head to the sun and apologized once more. His agitation intensified and my arms grew tired.

“When I was your age, my father told me to sink or swim.

You’re lucky you know that?”

Soft bubbles trickled up over my eyelids and I became weightless.

Certain feelings seem to stick. Being ashamed of failure. Wanting to survive, to please someone. They’re the things that make us human. Shame has no age limit and luck had very little to do with the way Lloyd loved me.

He pulled me up by the collar, “You can’t lie to people that care about you. Do you understand that?”

I nodded.

“And don’t tell your mother. She isn’t like us.”

Later in life, I wondered if his efforts to force me to mature were because he knew he was going to leave. He needed to make the most of what little time was left between us. And if not, then he was just a man. Every rite of passage he led me through was nothing more than a loss of innocence, but maybe that’s all they are for any of us.

With the changes that come without crescendo, perhaps we always lose more than we gain. Maybe we let go of the child we were to create the empty space that waits for who we will become. And whether we close our eyes or not, we start to see things differently.

2

3 1 2 3 4

1

Bottle (Edition 1/5), etching. 10x14” One Kiss (Edition 2/5), etching. 8.25x8” George (Edition 3/5), etching. 10.25x9” Dr. Pepper (Edition 2/5), etching. 8.25x8.5” Hannah Clark Ringgold, Georgia, fourth-year, BFA photography

4

Port City Review Issue 03

57

I tilted my head to the sun and apologized once more. His agitation intensified and my arms grew tired.

“When I was your age, my father told me to sink or swim.

You’re lucky you know that?”

Soft bubbles trickled up over my eyelids and I became weightless.

Certain feelings seem to stick. Being ashamed of failure. Wanting to survive, to please someone. They’re the things that make us human. Shame has no age limit and luck had very little to do with the way Lloyd loved me.

He pulled me up by the collar, “You can’t lie to people that care about you. Do you understand that?”

I nodded.

“And don’t tell your mother. She isn’t like us.”

Later in life, I wondered if his efforts to force me to mature were because he knew he was going to leave. He needed to make the most of what little time was left between us. And if not, then he was just a man. Every rite of passage he led me through was nothing more than a loss of innocence, but maybe that’s all they are for any of us.

With the changes that come without crescendo, perhaps we always lose more than we gain. Maybe we let go of the child we were to create the empty space that waits for who we will become. And whether we close our eyes or not, we start to see things differently.

2

3 1 2 3 4

1

Bottle (Edition 1/5), etching. 10x14” One Kiss (Edition 2/5), etching. 8.25x8” George (Edition 3/5), etching. 10.25x9” Dr. Pepper (Edition 2/5), etching. 8.25x8.5” Hannah Clark Ringgold, Georgia, fourth-year, BFA photography

4

Port City Review Issue 03

59

2

7 3

5

1 Alexiythimia, monoprinting. 9x12” 2 Alexiythimia, monoprinting. 9x12” Ankit Darda Yavatmal, India, second-year, Masters of Architecture 3 4 5 6

Diamonds and Gold, acrylic on panel. 12x12” Figure, acrylic on panel. 12x12” In Motion, mixed media. 48x72” My Heaven, mixed media. 45x73” Desiree Palermo Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, MFA painting

7 Olivier Sauvage, packaging.

4

6

Tayler Aitken Alexandria, Virginia, fourth-year, BFA graphic design

Port City Review Issue 03

59

2

7 3

5

1 Alexiythimia, monoprinting. 9x12” 2 Alexiythimia, monoprinting. 9x12” Ankit Darda Yavatmal, India, second-year, Masters of Architecture 3 4 5 6

Diamonds and Gold, acrylic on panel. 12x12” Figure, acrylic on panel. 12x12” In Motion, mixed media. 48x72” My Heaven, mixed media. 45x73” Desiree Palermo Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, MFA painting

7 Olivier Sauvage, packaging.

4

6

Tayler Aitken Alexandria, Virginia, fourth-year, BFA graphic design

Port City Review Issue 03

61

FICTION

CUSTODIAL Allison Eddy Sugar Hill, Georgia Fourth-year, BFA animation

Sam stood in the hallway and pulled out a pack of Lucky Strikes. She struck a match with a sulfuric hiss and breathed in deeply, letting the blue smoke drift upwards to wreathe around her hair. I watched, fascinated. Sam could speak silent volumes with the smoke from a cigarette. She breathed out a cloud like a question.

“The Assembly is soon.”

I started.

She let a curl of smoke drift in front of my eyes. “You’ve been here awhile. Are you going?”

“I haven’t been given notice,” I stammered quickly, thinking of the letter tucked away under my mattress. Something that may have been fear uncoiled in my stomach.

“Shame. I’m going to join them this year.”

I would like to say I’ve been here for three years. It’s hard to tell time in a place that exists outside of it. I can remember when I arrived, sputtering and choking, desperately trying to dog paddle my way off the front lawn where I had surfaced. It was at this moment I became officially enrolled in purgatory, somewhere between community college in the summertime and a worn out rec center, trying to figure out what to do with my afterlife. Later, when I had drained the water from my shoes and lungs and my mortal terror had given way to morbid embarrassment, the counselors learned I was too fidgety for endless contemplation and steered me toward work study.

Somehow I wound up in custodial. With Sam. Sam wasn’t really her name. She may have been the oldest here, and her name was in a language that had died a long time ago, a long string of unutterable consonants that clinked together like shells or bones. But, she said, Sam was close enough.

The dead are fairly tidy, released from the inevitable messiness that comes from living. It was the new arrivals that really gave us work. Some appeared peacefully, simply strolling in, with the impressions of loved ones’ fingers curled around their hands. Others came in still smoking. Or the worst, those jigsaw puzzles of people, trying to fit the pieces of themselves back together. Sam was the one who taught me how humming could quiet my thoughts while we mopped up afterwards, to be careful not to breathe through my nose, and how to be patient with the difficult ones. “It’s not their best day,” she would whisper after someone had kicked over my bucket after finding out who kicked theirs.

Not everyone here was young and stupid like me. We had the very old and the very young, who seemed to take things in stride the best. Those patched up creations, those Frankenstein’s monsters wandered the hallways, too. The occasional vampire, unkempt, with dark circles bruising their eyes, exhausted by eternal youth. There was bit of a stir recently when Virgil brought a friend, a lanky young man with olive skin made pale under the glare of the fluorescents. I’m ashamed to admit we might have crowded him a bit, maybe hoping some of his life would rub off on us. Perhaps because of this we learned he was prone to fainting spells. Sam shoved a few crumpled bills into my hand and pointed me to the soda machine. It took its time before coughing up a lukewarm can of ginger ale. When I came back, she had made him sit with his head between his knees, counting backwards from ten in Latin.

Or maybe Italian. “Grazie” he said as I handed him the soda.

“Where do you think they’re going?” I asked Sam after the odd pair had disappeared down the corridor.

“Further and deeper,” she said, punctuating the statement with ring of smoke. She paused for effect before ditching the vague bullshit. “Nowhere good” The yellow buses had arrived that morning, out of the mist and up to the curb. Bright yellow patches in our faded landscape.

They didn’t belong here. Outside the gym, a poster listed the names of those who would be leaving. I wasn’t. I acted like I didn’t have a choice.

Port City Review Issue 03

61

FICTION

CUSTODIAL Allison Eddy Sugar Hill, Georgia Fourth-year, BFA animation

Sam stood in the hallway and pulled out a pack of Lucky Strikes. She struck a match with a sulfuric hiss and breathed in deeply, letting the blue smoke drift upwards to wreathe around her hair. I watched, fascinated. Sam could speak silent volumes with the smoke from a cigarette. She breathed out a cloud like a question.

“The Assembly is soon.”

I started.

She let a curl of smoke drift in front of my eyes. “You’ve been here awhile. Are you going?”

“I haven’t been given notice,” I stammered quickly, thinking of the letter tucked away under my mattress. Something that may have been fear uncoiled in my stomach.

“Shame. I’m going to join them this year.”

I would like to say I’ve been here for three years. It’s hard to tell time in a place that exists outside of it. I can remember when I arrived, sputtering and choking, desperately trying to dog paddle my way off the front lawn where I had surfaced. It was at this moment I became officially enrolled in purgatory, somewhere between community college in the summertime and a worn out rec center, trying to figure out what to do with my afterlife. Later, when I had drained the water from my shoes and lungs and my mortal terror had given way to morbid embarrassment, the counselors learned I was too fidgety for endless contemplation and steered me toward work study.

Somehow I wound up in custodial. With Sam. Sam wasn’t really her name. She may have been the oldest here, and her name was in a language that had died a long time ago, a long string of unutterable consonants that clinked together like shells or bones. But, she said, Sam was close enough.

The dead are fairly tidy, released from the inevitable messiness that comes from living. It was the new arrivals that really gave us work. Some appeared peacefully, simply strolling in, with the impressions of loved ones’ fingers curled around their hands. Others came in still smoking. Or the worst, those jigsaw puzzles of people, trying to fit the pieces of themselves back together. Sam was the one who taught me how humming could quiet my thoughts while we mopped up afterwards, to be careful not to breathe through my nose, and how to be patient with the difficult ones. “It’s not their best day,” she would whisper after someone had kicked over my bucket after finding out who kicked theirs.

Not everyone here was young and stupid like me. We had the very old and the very young, who seemed to take things in stride the best. Those patched up creations, those Frankenstein’s monsters wandered the hallways, too. The occasional vampire, unkempt, with dark circles bruising their eyes, exhausted by eternal youth. There was bit of a stir recently when Virgil brought a friend, a lanky young man with olive skin made pale under the glare of the fluorescents. I’m ashamed to admit we might have crowded him a bit, maybe hoping some of his life would rub off on us. Perhaps because of this we learned he was prone to fainting spells. Sam shoved a few crumpled bills into my hand and pointed me to the soda machine. It took its time before coughing up a lukewarm can of ginger ale. When I came back, she had made him sit with his head between his knees, counting backwards from ten in Latin.

Or maybe Italian. “Grazie” he said as I handed him the soda.

“Where do you think they’re going?” I asked Sam after the odd pair had disappeared down the corridor.

“Further and deeper,” she said, punctuating the statement with ring of smoke. She paused for effect before ditching the vague bullshit. “Nowhere good” The yellow buses had arrived that morning, out of the mist and up to the curb. Bright yellow patches in our faded landscape.

They didn’t belong here. Outside the gym, a poster listed the names of those who would be leaving. I wasn’t. I acted like I didn’t have a choice.

Port City Review Issue 03

63

1

Everyone arrived for the Assembly at noon in the gymnasium.

A makeshift stage had been dug out of a closet and folded down on the three-point line. Some poor soul had tried to tape up streamers, which now hung limp in the humidity. All of the residents were lined up for the ceremony, freshly scrubbed and newly souled, fidgeting with their newfound grace. I hung in the back of the gym, toeing the out of bounds lines, twisting the broom handle in my hands, as the councilors droned on endlessly about new beginnings, fresh starts, and grace.

Something shifted in the air, drew it taut with anticipation.

In unison, the graduates filed up in rows, waiting for some invisible cue. And then the chorus opened up and everyone, young and old, opened their mouths and a deep noise welled up from the bottom of their being. The sound rolled down from the stage in waves, filling up the auditorium, splashing into corridors and tumbling into throbbing eddies. I pinwheeled my arms in front of me, fighting to keep my head above the current, but I slipped under and the deepest dark of my lungs was filled up with music. As I drifted down in this ocean of sound, I thought I heard Sam’s familiar hum and wanted nothing more than to join them. It was like a fishhook in my heart. If I didn’t get closer, some vital part of me could be torn out.

The sound receded, and the graduates began to file down the steps and out of the auditorium, away to the street curb where those yellow buses were waiting to ferry them on to where? The crowd parted around me as I hung back, trying to catch a glimpse of Sam. I might have seen her. I couldn’t be sure. Don’t leave me, I wanted to say, or maybe it was wait for me. I could see myself climbing the steps looking for Sam, sitting next to her, watching the doors snap shut. But I knew that if I got on, I could never go back and that thought pinned me to the curb, watching long after the last bus disappeared from sight, carrying my only friend with them. I headed back to the gym, where wilted confetti would be littering the floor and cluttering corners, where the only voice humming would be my own, because someone had to stay to clean up after.

1

2 1 Rango, watercolor on acid free watercolor sheet. 6x12” Abhishek Singh Jaipur, India, first-year, BFA visual effects 2 Pitot Garden, digital, Adobe Photoshop.

6x12” Jess Marfisi Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, third-year, BFA animation 3 Ties, digital chromogenic print. 20x24” Timothy Hutto Elizabeth City, North Carolina, fourthyear, BFA photography

3

Port City Review Issue 03

63

1

Everyone arrived for the Assembly at noon in the gymnasium.

A makeshift stage had been dug out of a closet and folded down on the three-point line. Some poor soul had tried to tape up streamers, which now hung limp in the humidity. All of the residents were lined up for the ceremony, freshly scrubbed and newly souled, fidgeting with their newfound grace. I hung in the back of the gym, toeing the out of bounds lines, twisting the broom handle in my hands, as the councilors droned on endlessly about new beginnings, fresh starts, and grace.

Something shifted in the air, drew it taut with anticipation.

In unison, the graduates filed up in rows, waiting for some invisible cue. And then the chorus opened up and everyone, young and old, opened their mouths and a deep noise welled up from the bottom of their being. The sound rolled down from the stage in waves, filling up the auditorium, splashing into corridors and tumbling into throbbing eddies. I pinwheeled my arms in front of me, fighting to keep my head above the current, but I slipped under and the deepest dark of my lungs was filled up with music. As I drifted down in this ocean of sound, I thought I heard Sam’s familiar hum and wanted nothing more than to join them. It was like a fishhook in my heart. If I didn’t get closer, some vital part of me could be torn out.

The sound receded, and the graduates began to file down the steps and out of the auditorium, away to the street curb where those yellow buses were waiting to ferry them on to where? The crowd parted around me as I hung back, trying to catch a glimpse of Sam. I might have seen her. I couldn’t be sure. Don’t leave me, I wanted to say, or maybe it was wait for me. I could see myself climbing the steps looking for Sam, sitting next to her, watching the doors snap shut. But I knew that if I got on, I could never go back and that thought pinned me to the curb, watching long after the last bus disappeared from sight, carrying my only friend with them. I headed back to the gym, where wilted confetti would be littering the floor and cluttering corners, where the only voice humming would be my own, because someone had to stay to clean up after.

1

2 1 Rango, watercolor on acid free watercolor sheet. 6x12” Abhishek Singh Jaipur, India, first-year, BFA visual effects 2 Pitot Garden, digital, Adobe Photoshop.

6x12” Jess Marfisi Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, third-year, BFA animation 3 Ties, digital chromogenic print. 20x24” Timothy Hutto Elizabeth City, North Carolina, fourthyear, BFA photography

3

Port City Review Issue 03

65

1 Your Roots and Where to Find Them, gouache on illustration board. 17 x 25” Alyssa Maria Gonzalez Miami, Florida, second-year, BFA Illustration 2 One World, digital.

Feng Huang Wuhan, China, MA animation

2 1

Port City Review Issue 03

65

1 Your Roots and Where to Find Them, gouache on illustration board. 17 x 25” Alyssa Maria Gonzalez Miami, Florida, second-year, BFA Illustration 2 One World, digital.

Feng Huang Wuhan, China, MA animation

2 1

Port City Review Issue 03

67

1 3

1 Royal, felt (made of wool, merino, silk blend, roving), beads and thread.

Carla González Asencio Gurabo, Puerto Rico, fourth-year, BFA fibers 2 Self-contained Groundscraper, Revit architecture modeling.

Ankit Darda Yavatmal, India, Master of Architecture

2

3 Broken Dreams, gouache on stonehenge paper and digital painting.

Andrés del Valle Mexico City, Mexico, third-year, BFA Illustration

Port City Review Issue 03

67

1 3

1 Royal, felt (made of wool, merino, silk blend, roving), beads and thread.

Carla González Asencio Gurabo, Puerto Rico, fourth-year, BFA fibers 2 Self-contained Groundscraper, Revit architecture modeling.

Ankit Darda Yavatmal, India, Master of Architecture

2

3 Broken Dreams, gouache on stonehenge paper and digital painting.

Andrés del Valle Mexico City, Mexico, third-year, BFA Illustration

Port City Review Issue 03

69

2 1 Identity Theft, ink and watercolor. (top) 7.25x7.45” and (bottom) 8.2x6.2” Kat Lanser Raleigh, North Carolina, third-year, BFA illustration 2 DBOMB Magazine, print. (each page) 11 x8.5” Mengwei Zhao Beijing, China, third-year, BFA graphic design

1

Port City Review Issue 03

69

2 1 Identity Theft, ink and watercolor. (top) 7.25x7.45” and (bottom) 8.2x6.2” Kat Lanser Raleigh, North Carolina, third-year, BFA illustration 2 DBOMB Magazine, print. (each page) 11 x8.5” Mengwei Zhao Beijing, China, third-year, BFA graphic design

1

Port City Review Issue 03

71

FICTION

A M ANHAT TAN EXCLUSIVE

in undetected due to the TV fortunately being too audible. I leave the door ajar for minimal sound. I place the bags on the counter and turn.

“Honey, I need you to clean your room.”

Cuss. She has a hectic and hasty look on her face.

“Why?” “Because people are coming over? So we have to clean? So you have to help your mother for once?”

“People are not going to be in my room.”

She stares with disgusted gawk. “...I really do not need to deal with this stress right now. Could you just do what I ask?”

I imply a “sure” by moving. Frank looks into my soul and questions my significance. I open his cage and he hops onto my hand with gusto. We go into my room and I play Mr. Mister’s “Broken Wings.”

“Take these broken wings, and learn to fly again, learn to live so free.”

I have two functioning windows. One broken window. On the ground, five stories below the broken window of my room, lies Frank. The champion parrot. My champion parrot. The song was so moving.

“What happened to my window?”

“My hand is bleeding.”

“Where is Frank?”

“He rose to the crescendo.”

Brooks Tompkins Kennesaw, Georgia Second-year, BFA writing

The NY Times says Manhattan is home to 850,000 apartment buildings with 8.5 million windows. Me, my mom, and our parrot Frank have three windows, giving us 0.00000035 ownership of all the windows in Manhattan. Harrowing. More windows, more vulnerability. I can’t innocently pick my nose in my own home without thinking there is someone teehee-ing over my shoulder. No matter what floor you are on third, fourth, twohundred-seventy-second, somebody has an eye on you. Frank is shy and never says anything, but I can always feel him looking at me. I don’t care though. I’ll pick my nose in front of him.

That is what makes the elevator so swank though. No windows.

No eyes. Just me, my nose, and some nice elevator music. A Manhattan exclusive getaway.

I hated elevator music. Never really understood why someone would form a band and play something so uninspiring it made you want to sit. But now I can fully comprehend. I have a need for elevator music now. My mom takes great joy in reiterating every little drama and fact on TLC or HGTV, like how Tracy cheated on Dan and why that’s good because she was told by her best friend Monica (who is 43, single, 30% plastic, and still single) that Dan needs to get his “priorities straight”; or how much the Thomas family saved money by not choosing “House A: Beachside Lagoon” over “House B: Gangster’s Paradise” because it’s a win-win being closer to Joe’s work and his grandparents’ cemetery. So whenever I think she will spew everything there is to know about shows I don’t want to know anything about, I ask if she needs anything, retreat to the elevator, and sit down criss-cross-apple-sauce.

But now I must brave the firing squad. I already got everything she asked for: a box of red wine and everything bagels. I walk

Jazz Night, digital, Adobe Photoshop. 10.5x13” Jess Marfisi Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, third-year, BFA animation

Port City Review Issue 03

71

FICTION

A M ANHAT TAN EXCLUSIVE

in undetected due to the TV fortunately being too audible. I leave the door ajar for minimal sound. I place the bags on the counter and turn.

“Honey, I need you to clean your room.”

Cuss. She has a hectic and hasty look on her face.

“Why?” “Because people are coming over? So we have to clean? So you have to help your mother for once?”

“People are not going to be in my room.”

She stares with disgusted gawk. “...I really do not need to deal with this stress right now. Could you just do what I ask?”

I imply a “sure” by moving. Frank looks into my soul and questions my significance. I open his cage and he hops onto my hand with gusto. We go into my room and I play Mr. Mister’s “Broken Wings.”

“Take these broken wings, and learn to fly again, learn to live so free.”

I have two functioning windows. One broken window. On the ground, five stories below the broken window of my room, lies Frank. The champion parrot. My champion parrot. The song was so moving.

“What happened to my window?”

“My hand is bleeding.”

“Where is Frank?”

“He rose to the crescendo.”

Brooks Tompkins Kennesaw, Georgia Second-year, BFA writing

The NY Times says Manhattan is home to 850,000 apartment buildings with 8.5 million windows. Me, my mom, and our parrot Frank have three windows, giving us 0.00000035 ownership of all the windows in Manhattan. Harrowing. More windows, more vulnerability. I can’t innocently pick my nose in my own home without thinking there is someone teehee-ing over my shoulder. No matter what floor you are on third, fourth, twohundred-seventy-second, somebody has an eye on you. Frank is shy and never says anything, but I can always feel him looking at me. I don’t care though. I’ll pick my nose in front of him.

That is what makes the elevator so swank though. No windows.

No eyes. Just me, my nose, and some nice elevator music. A Manhattan exclusive getaway.

I hated elevator music. Never really understood why someone would form a band and play something so uninspiring it made you want to sit. But now I can fully comprehend. I have a need for elevator music now. My mom takes great joy in reiterating every little drama and fact on TLC or HGTV, like how Tracy cheated on Dan and why that’s good because she was told by her best friend Monica (who is 43, single, 30% plastic, and still single) that Dan needs to get his “priorities straight”; or how much the Thomas family saved money by not choosing “House A: Beachside Lagoon” over “House B: Gangster’s Paradise” because it’s a win-win being closer to Joe’s work and his grandparents’ cemetery. So whenever I think she will spew everything there is to know about shows I don’t want to know anything about, I ask if she needs anything, retreat to the elevator, and sit down criss-cross-apple-sauce.

But now I must brave the firing squad. I already got everything she asked for: a box of red wine and everything bagels. I walk

Jazz Night, digital, Adobe Photoshop. 10.5x13” Jess Marfisi Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, third-year, BFA animation

Port City Review Issue 03

73

1

1 Ana Cris, Adobe Photoshop. 8x8” 2 My Friend the Balloon, Adobe Photoshop. 8x10” Juan Acosta Quito, Equador, fourth-year, BFA sequential art 3 Identity Burglar, ink on bristol board and Adobe Photoshop. 7x10” Ugis Berzines Kalamazoo, Michigan, fourth-year, BFA sequential art

2 3

Port City Review Issue 03

73

1

1 Ana Cris, Adobe Photoshop. 8x8” 2 My Friend the Balloon, Adobe Photoshop. 8x10” Juan Acosta Quito, Equador, fourth-year, BFA sequential art 3 Identity Burglar, ink on bristol board and Adobe Photoshop. 7x10” Ugis Berzines Kalamazoo, Michigan, fourth-year, BFA sequential art

2 3

Port City Review Issue 03

75

2

3 1 Canis Major, acrylic paint over tissue paper on board, glazed with candlewax, gysophilia and original text. 8x10” Melissa Walton Savannah, Georgia, second-year, BFA illustration

1 2 Gua, Gua!, monotype stencil print and Adobe Photoshop. 9x12” 3 Man’s Best Night Light, monotype stencil print and Adobe Photoshop. 9x12” Alyssa Maria Gonzalez Miami, Florida, second-year, BFA illustration

Port City Review Issue 03

75

2

3 1 Canis Major, acrylic paint over tissue paper on board, glazed with candlewax, gysophilia and original text. 8x10” Melissa Walton Savannah, Georgia, second-year, BFA illustration

1 2 Gua, Gua!, monotype stencil print and Adobe Photoshop. 9x12” 3 Man’s Best Night Light, monotype stencil print and Adobe Photoshop. 9x12” Alyssa Maria Gonzalez Miami, Florida, second-year, BFA illustration

Port City Review Issue 03

77

2

1

1 Dancing Didot, mixed media, typography. 11x17” Tayler Aitken Alexandria, Virginia, fourth-year, BFA graphic design 2 Roxy Surf n’ Sun, packaging.

Marisa Taphouse Traverse City, Michigan, fourth-year, BFA graphic design 3 Western Snow, metallic thread, wool roving, various yarns, deer antlers. 18x26” Christian Roy Fort Lauderdale, Florida, third-year, BFA illustration

3

Port City Review Issue 03

77

2

1

1 Dancing Didot, mixed media, typography. 11x17” Tayler Aitken Alexandria, Virginia, fourth-year, BFA graphic design 2 Roxy Surf n’ Sun, packaging.

Marisa Taphouse Traverse City, Michigan, fourth-year, BFA graphic design 3 Western Snow, metallic thread, wool roving, various yarns, deer antlers. 18x26” Christian Roy Fort Lauderdale, Florida, third-year, BFA illustration

3

Port City Review Issue 03

79

2

1 Bristol Kit Festival, digital animation.

Feng Huang Wuhan, China, MA animation 2 Steel/Ash Ply Coffee Table No. 1, laminated ply

wood, steel and ashwood. 18x19x20”

Michael Avenancio Staten Island, New York, fourth-year, BFA industrial design

2

Port City Review Issue 03

79

2

1 Bristol Kit Festival, digital animation.

Feng Huang Wuhan, China, MA animation 2 Steel/Ash Ply Coffee Table No. 1, laminated ply

wood, steel and ashwood. 18x19x20”

Michael Avenancio Staten Island, New York, fourth-year, BFA industrial design

2

Port City Review Issue 03

81

NON-FICTION

A SLOW BOAT TO CHINA

Brooks Tompkins Kennesaw, Georgia Second-year, BFA writing

I thought moving away would make a man out of me. It did not.

Before I left home, my mother told me, “You are in the Great White now. Toronto isn’t Georgia.” How valid. She had to make sure I knew.

I signed a year-lease to a colossal walk-in closet containing a bathroom, a fridge, and a crock pot. My parents had allowed 18-year old Brooks to move out of the country. I don’t know why. Maybe they had faith in me.

My dad moved me in and flew back home. Then I optimistically walked out to town to get a grown-up’s nightlife. I assured myself with a pep-talk. I slapped my face.

“Here you are Brooks. On your own now. Now, whenever you want to talk to someone… Do it. If you see a good-looking woman… You talk to her. Whenever a man needs to be put in check… Do it. You have some chest-hair. You have to shave your face. You enjoy a good steak. You are almost a man.”

“I can do that.” I said to myself. I talked out loud.

I took the momentum from the stairs and drifted down the town. With sanguine gusto, I haphazardly walked looking left and right.

I was doing just fine until I saw a pretty lady. We were about to cross each other and I was already on fumes from my little pep talk. I told myself to do something. So with timid determination, I smiled stiffly, and she looked at the fence next to us.

There climbing on the fence– a dilemma. A raccoon stared me down. I took off running. Her face was lost in the raccoon’s eyes. All I heard was her laughing at me.

I figured I was a product of Hunter S. Thompson, Ernest Hemingway, Jack Kerouac and Co. shipped off into the 2000s to do my worst. I asked for their approval before I did anything.

But oh, the contrast; I was far from their breed. I was Brooks Tompkins— the man equally scared of a girl as he is a raccoon.

I made my way down the road and zig-zagged around the smell of alcohol. A party of three rounded the corner and walked in front of me. They were a band of gigglers that consisted of one guy and two girls. I wanted to intuitively tell the guy “one for you, one for me” but I couldn’t think of anything better to initiate with other than “sup?” Both girls were eyefuls, but based off the back of her head, I concluded that the girl on the right was clearly a keeper. I was getting ready to give her some apple butter flattery, but all I had in my bank of things to say were cheesy pick-up lines and the classic and simple “sup.”

Older men like your uncles tell you how easy it is to converse with beautiful women. “Just go right up and talk to her,” they say. “They are just waiting for a guy like you,” they say. “No, all the girls I like fall for the dickhead,” I say. Hairy-chested men like David Hasselhoff might do this, but not me. No one does that, and your nerdy uncle who got married by default sure as hell didn’t do that.

I gathered my guts together just as the gigglers giggled their way up some stairs and into a bar called Pour Girl. I pulled out a cigarette and stood still like a dormant volcano staring at the door. Then I told myself I was an unstable lunatic and walked on. Brooks-0, girls and raccoons-3.

“Welp, that settles that.” I said to myself. I was overheard.

“Settles what?” It was behind me. I turned around merrily. It was some dude.

“Nothing,” I said. He laughed. I lowered my head and continued on. I thought about how long I was going to be in Toronto. I thought about my friends back home. Wherever I am not, it was easier to talk to girls there. At least my friends back at home can’t laugh at me right now.

I was making my way back home when an old man in a ragged ball cap and battered letterman jacket walked in front of me. He had his arm around his woman. They giggled too.

I was in the middle of a bunch of chipper gigglers. I turned around and went to find that bar.

I stood in front of Pour Girl and carelessly threw up my cigarette like James Dean with a balloon. My girl was in there, and I was going to talk to her. I was hoping she didn’t remember me as the fat fish from earlier. I pulled myself up the stairs and there she was, sitting with all her friends. Who knew if she was really enjoying herself? Maybe she was sick of all the conservative

Port City Review Issue 03

81

NON-FICTION

A SLOW BOAT TO CHINA

Brooks Tompkins Kennesaw, Georgia Second-year, BFA writing

I thought moving away would make a man out of me. It did not.

Before I left home, my mother told me, “You are in the Great White now. Toronto isn’t Georgia.” How valid. She had to make sure I knew.

I signed a year-lease to a colossal walk-in closet containing a bathroom, a fridge, and a crock pot. My parents had allowed 18-year old Brooks to move out of the country. I don’t know why. Maybe they had faith in me.

My dad moved me in and flew back home. Then I optimistically walked out to town to get a grown-up’s nightlife. I assured myself with a pep-talk. I slapped my face.

“Here you are Brooks. On your own now. Now, whenever you want to talk to someone… Do it. If you see a good-looking woman… You talk to her. Whenever a man needs to be put in check… Do it. You have some chest-hair. You have to shave your face. You enjoy a good steak. You are almost a man.”

“I can do that.” I said to myself. I talked out loud.

I took the momentum from the stairs and drifted down the town. With sanguine gusto, I haphazardly walked looking left and right.

I was doing just fine until I saw a pretty lady. We were about to cross each other and I was already on fumes from my little pep talk. I told myself to do something. So with timid determination, I smiled stiffly, and she looked at the fence next to us.

There climbing on the fence– a dilemma. A raccoon stared me down. I took off running. Her face was lost in the raccoon’s eyes. All I heard was her laughing at me.

I figured I was a product of Hunter S. Thompson, Ernest Hemingway, Jack Kerouac and Co. shipped off into the 2000s to do my worst. I asked for their approval before I did anything.

But oh, the contrast; I was far from their breed. I was Brooks Tompkins— the man equally scared of a girl as he is a raccoon.

I made my way down the road and zig-zagged around the smell of alcohol. A party of three rounded the corner and walked in front of me. They were a band of gigglers that consisted of one guy and two girls. I wanted to intuitively tell the guy “one for you, one for me” but I couldn’t think of anything better to initiate with other than “sup?” Both girls were eyefuls, but based off the back of her head, I concluded that the girl on the right was clearly a keeper. I was getting ready to give her some apple butter flattery, but all I had in my bank of things to say were cheesy pick-up lines and the classic and simple “sup.”

Older men like your uncles tell you how easy it is to converse with beautiful women. “Just go right up and talk to her,” they say. “They are just waiting for a guy like you,” they say. “No, all the girls I like fall for the dickhead,” I say. Hairy-chested men like David Hasselhoff might do this, but not me. No one does that, and your nerdy uncle who got married by default sure as hell didn’t do that.

I gathered my guts together just as the gigglers giggled their way up some stairs and into a bar called Pour Girl. I pulled out a cigarette and stood still like a dormant volcano staring at the door. Then I told myself I was an unstable lunatic and walked on. Brooks-0, girls and raccoons-3.

“Welp, that settles that.” I said to myself. I was overheard.

“Settles what?” It was behind me. I turned around merrily. It was some dude.

“Nothing,” I said. He laughed. I lowered my head and continued on. I thought about how long I was going to be in Toronto. I thought about my friends back home. Wherever I am not, it was easier to talk to girls there. At least my friends back at home can’t laugh at me right now.

I was making my way back home when an old man in a ragged ball cap and battered letterman jacket walked in front of me. He had his arm around his woman. They giggled too.

I was in the middle of a bunch of chipper gigglers. I turned around and went to find that bar.

I stood in front of Pour Girl and carelessly threw up my cigarette like James Dean with a balloon. My girl was in there, and I was going to talk to her. I was hoping she didn’t remember me as the fat fish from earlier. I pulled myself up the stairs and there she was, sitting with all her friends. Who knew if she was really enjoying herself? Maybe she was sick of all the conservative

Port City Review Issue 03

Canadians and needed some random bundie from Georgia to shake things up for her. Who knows. I made my way to the bar.

I sat in solitude at the corner. I ordered a rum and coke.

“Should I make it a tab?” the bartender asked.

“Yes,” I said.

I sat at the bar for a while and had felt clever enough to talk to the cute bartenders some.

“You came all the way from Georgia, Nathan?” she asked using my fake id name. I acted civilized and twenty-two.

“Yep. It’s my first night here.” Twenty-two year olds talk short.

“Well, at least you found the bars first night. Welcome to Toronto!”

I shed a small smile. “Glad to be here.”

I made an empty glass and looked through it as I spun it underneath my finger. I saw pretty dimes being spun around by the kind of shallow men who get a cup of confidence from every drop of beer. One of the girls was my dime. She glanced my way some. The bartenders felt bad for me and introduced me to other helpless clydes around the bar. They took shots with me to make me feel at home, but I was far from it. Lauren was a good-looking bartender. She had sympathy for me. She threw on “Sitting on the Dock of the Bay” and looked across the bar to me.

“This one is for you, Nathan,” she said. It was very heartwarming to hear that. I just imagined she said my name instead and said thank you as she diverted her attention to an empty pitcher.

I knew girls like Lauren. They are real charmers. She smiled to men with money and got tipped great for it. I heard “Sitting On the Dock of the Bay” about 4 more times that night. They played it just because it was the only song they knew that had Georgia in it. “I left my home in Georgia/Heading for the Frisco Bay.” Me and Otis Redding were heading for two completely different areas, but I sure as shooting knew what he meant when he sang that with all his soul. I am here, though. I already signed the lease and I’m here. I have to stay.

I made some great genuine temporary best friendships that night. The ones where you meet someone who knows one song

by Led Zeppelin when you know Led Zeppelin as the band who gets you and has a special venue in your heart but you disregard your differences and solemnly swear to each other “WE ARE GOING TO HANG OUT LIKE EVERYDAY” in that drunkyelling voice only to wake up the next day and dig through your soggy brain asking yourself ,“What was his name?” I made those kind of great temporary best friendships that night. It was great.

One guy (logically guessing his name was Aaron) showed me great lessons every Torontotonian needs to know such as: how to pee on the back of a bar and not look suspicious, how to smoke a joint behind a bar and not look suspicious, and how to walk red-eyed and bumbling and not look suspicious.

83

I was sure that every night would look a little like this, so I made my way back home to my walk-in closet apartment. Maybe I would say “sup” to that girl next time. I was about halfway home before I even realized I had said absolutely nothing to her.

That’s when a paralyzingly overwhelming urge to squeeze the lemon–if you will–came upon me. It was like lightning itself came down like hellfire to the bladder. I scanned for potential tinkle spots, but hark, there were none. I thought about what cultured Aaron would do in this situation, but was running out of time. So I improvised. I acted in urbane fashion, and while walking, peed off to the side. It was during that time that I came to discern what exactly I was doing. I wasn’t just peeing while walking, which is considered an aesthetic in some societies. No, it was much greater than that. I was peeing and ultimately defiling my new home. It was just my first night in the great kind North, and I had already peed my name in cursive about four or five times on it. I was irreverent to everything but me, and until then I had no idea that was what I was doing. I zipped up my pants and picked up my chin.

My drunken stupor got me to continue thinking. It was time for the assertive and drunk Brooks to come in and say what was really going on, what I really needed to change, because flat boring sober Brooks was a timid little Girl Scout. A raccoon was digging through some trash and he stared me down. I stared daggers right back at him, raised my eyebrows and waved in a “remember me?” manner.

I was a man, I decided. A man who is a man and respects his surroundings. A man who is a man and is not scared of a raccoon who is scared of him. I may not have much chest hair, and maybe I still made a scrunched and curdled face when I tried to quaff some scotch, but I was more of a man than I ever was then.

I was a block from my apartment, which was on Church street, which had a plenteous amount of churches. These churches were big, like Constantine’s Basilica big. I looked at a behemoth church under construction. St. Michael’s Cathedral.

I hopped the fence and began climbing up the scaffoldings. At first I told myself that men do this, but then I had to revise my statement “to men like me do this.” It was about a forty-story climb, and I made my way to the top. There were raccoons all around but I was under the impression that we came to an unspoken concession to put up with each other. I closed my eyes while the cool wind slapped my drunken face. “Thank you, Jesus” I said, “thank you God. Thank you, Mom. Dad. Thank you St. Michael.”

St. Michael’s Cathedral was my Mt. Zion for a succinct second and I was lulled to bliss and sleep as the wind whispered, “You’re welcome.”

Port City Review Issue 03

Canadians and needed some random bundie from Georgia to shake things up for her. Who knows. I made my way to the bar.

I sat in solitude at the corner. I ordered a rum and coke.

“Should I make it a tab?” the bartender asked.

“Yes,” I said.

I sat at the bar for a while and had felt clever enough to talk to the cute bartenders some.

“You came all the way from Georgia, Nathan?” she asked using my fake id name. I acted civilized and twenty-two.

“Yep. It’s my first night here.” Twenty-two year olds talk short.

“Well, at least you found the bars first night. Welcome to Toronto!”

I shed a small smile. “Glad to be here.”

I made an empty glass and looked through it as I spun it underneath my finger. I saw pretty dimes being spun around by the kind of shallow men who get a cup of confidence from every drop of beer. One of the girls was my dime. She glanced my way some. The bartenders felt bad for me and introduced me to other helpless clydes around the bar. They took shots with me to make me feel at home, but I was far from it. Lauren was a good-looking bartender. She had sympathy for me. She threw on “Sitting on the Dock of the Bay” and looked across the bar to me.

“This one is for you, Nathan,” she said. It was very heartwarming to hear that. I just imagined she said my name instead and said thank you as she diverted her attention to an empty pitcher.

I knew girls like Lauren. They are real charmers. She smiled to men with money and got tipped great for it. I heard “Sitting On the Dock of the Bay” about 4 more times that night. They played it just because it was the only song they knew that had Georgia in it. “I left my home in Georgia/Heading for the Frisco Bay.” Me and Otis Redding were heading for two completely different areas, but I sure as shooting knew what he meant when he sang that with all his soul. I am here, though. I already signed the lease and I’m here. I have to stay.

I made some great genuine temporary best friendships that night. The ones where you meet someone who knows one song

by Led Zeppelin when you know Led Zeppelin as the band who gets you and has a special venue in your heart but you disregard your differences and solemnly swear to each other “WE ARE GOING TO HANG OUT LIKE EVERYDAY” in that drunkyelling voice only to wake up the next day and dig through your soggy brain asking yourself ,“What was his name?” I made those kind of great temporary best friendships that night. It was great.

One guy (logically guessing his name was Aaron) showed me great lessons every Torontotonian needs to know such as: how to pee on the back of a bar and not look suspicious, how to smoke a joint behind a bar and not look suspicious, and how to walk red-eyed and bumbling and not look suspicious.

83

I was sure that every night would look a little like this, so I made my way back home to my walk-in closet apartment. Maybe I would say “sup” to that girl next time. I was about halfway home before I even realized I had said absolutely nothing to her.

That’s when a paralyzingly overwhelming urge to squeeze the lemon–if you will–came upon me. It was like lightning itself came down like hellfire to the bladder. I scanned for potential tinkle spots, but hark, there were none. I thought about what cultured Aaron would do in this situation, but was running out of time. So I improvised. I acted in urbane fashion, and while walking, peed off to the side. It was during that time that I came to discern what exactly I was doing. I wasn’t just peeing while walking, which is considered an aesthetic in some societies. No, it was much greater than that. I was peeing and ultimately defiling my new home. It was just my first night in the great kind North, and I had already peed my name in cursive about four or five times on it. I was irreverent to everything but me, and until then I had no idea that was what I was doing. I zipped up my pants and picked up my chin.

My drunken stupor got me to continue thinking. It was time for the assertive and drunk Brooks to come in and say what was really going on, what I really needed to change, because flat boring sober Brooks was a timid little Girl Scout. A raccoon was digging through some trash and he stared me down. I stared daggers right back at him, raised my eyebrows and waved in a “remember me?” manner.

I was a man, I decided. A man who is a man and respects his surroundings. A man who is a man and is not scared of a raccoon who is scared of him. I may not have much chest hair, and maybe I still made a scrunched and curdled face when I tried to quaff some scotch, but I was more of a man than I ever was then.

I was a block from my apartment, which was on Church street, which had a plenteous amount of churches. These churches were big, like Constantine’s Basilica big. I looked at a behemoth church under construction. St. Michael’s Cathedral.

I hopped the fence and began climbing up the scaffoldings. At first I told myself that men do this, but then I had to revise my statement “to men like me do this.” It was about a forty-story climb, and I made my way to the top. There were raccoons all around but I was under the impression that we came to an unspoken concession to put up with each other. I closed my eyes while the cool wind slapped my drunken face. “Thank you, Jesus” I said, “thank you God. Thank you, Mom. Dad. Thank you St. Michael.”

St. Michael’s Cathedral was my Mt. Zion for a succinct second and I was lulled to bliss and sleep as the wind whispered, “You’re welcome.”

Port City Review Issue 03

85

3 1 Good Fortune, photography. 8x10” Madison Gross Breckenridge, Colorado, second-year, BFA graphic design 2 National Geographic Kids Network Identity, Adobe After Effects, Adobe Illustrator, Cinema 4D, Sound Miner.

1

Fyn Ng Singapore, Singapore, fourth-year, BFA motion media design 3 For the Love of Cereal, photography. 8x10” 4 Red, White and Food, photography. 8x10”

2

Sheena South Jacksonville, Florida, third-year, BFA photography

4

Port City Review Issue 03

85

3 1 Good Fortune, photography. 8x10” Madison Gross Breckenridge, Colorado, second-year, BFA graphic design 2 National Geographic Kids Network Identity, Adobe After Effects, Adobe Illustrator, Cinema 4D, Sound Miner.

1

Fyn Ng Singapore, Singapore, fourth-year, BFA motion media design 3 For the Love of Cereal, photography. 8x10” 4 Red, White and Food, photography. 8x10”

2

Sheena South Jacksonville, Florida, third-year, BFA photography

4

Port City Review Issue 03

Suds and Smiles, photography. 16x20” Samantha Lashelle Fortenberry Scottsboro, Alabama, third-year, BFA photography

87

Port City Review Issue 03

Suds and Smiles, photography. 16x20” Samantha Lashelle Fortenberry Scottsboro, Alabama, third-year, BFA photography

87

Port City Review Issue 03

89

2 1 Expressions around the table (series 2014), archival inkjet on photo rag paper. 11x16” Gabriela Iancu Târgu Jiu, Romania, MFA photography

1

2 Monocle Mantis, Adobe Photoshop. 14.7x22.7” Candice Broersma Yucaipa, California, Master of Architecture

Port City Review Issue 03

89

2 1 Expressions around the table (series 2014), archival inkjet on photo rag paper. 11x16” Gabriela Iancu Târgu Jiu, Romania, MFA photography

1

2 Monocle Mantis, Adobe Photoshop. 14.7x22.7” Candice Broersma Yucaipa, California, Master of Architecture

Port City Review Issue 03

91 1 Foreclosure, monoprinting.

Ankit Darda Yavatmal, India. Master of Architecture 2 Beehive Head, pen and ink on illustration board. 15.72x22” Jennifer Brogger Kalamazoo, Michigan, third-year, BFA illustration 3 Hula-Balu, sensory intelligent toy family.

Rodrigo Miguel San Salvador, El Salvador, fourth-year, BFA industrial design Andres Santanilla Bogota, Colombia, fourth-year, BFA industrial design

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Port City Review Issue 03

91 1 Foreclosure, monoprinting.

Ankit Darda Yavatmal, India. Master of Architecture 2 Beehive Head, pen and ink on illustration board. 15.72x22” Jennifer Brogger Kalamazoo, Michigan, third-year, BFA illustration 3 Hula-Balu, sensory intelligent toy family.

Rodrigo Miguel San Salvador, El Salvador, fourth-year, BFA industrial design Andres Santanilla Bogota, Colombia, fourth-year, BFA industrial design

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Port City Review Issue 03

93

POETRY

CAKE Samantha Williams St. Augustine, Florida Second-year, BFA visual effects

I want a piece of chocolate cake.

I want it moist, decadent, rich.

I want to spend a week’s paycheck to sit in a fancy bistro amongst the Mr. and Mrs. Moneybags with their yapping lap dogs and overwhelming stench of dollar bills and disapproval, wrapped up tight in my slinkiest, fanciest dress.

I want to throw my fork and napkin to the floor and crush them beneath my heel.

Forget social decency, I want to eat with joyful childish abandon.

Dig in, fingers first, tearing the frosting-skin from chocolate bones.

I want to shovel it in by the handful and lick the trail like a dog.

I want icing caked under my nails and crumbs piling up in my lap, a mountain of bodies freshly slain in my rampage.

I will not be satisfied until the entire cake is down my gullet and the entire restaurant is frozen in awe and I stand in my glory to lick the plate clean and bow to my audience.

I want to break my bones and climb free from my doll-body that is just like all the others’ and walk anew as someone who does not give a shit.

I want that goddamn piece of cake.

Keep it Simple, hand-woven, naturally grown and colored California cotton.

Natalie Tribble Gray, Georgia, fourth-year, BFA fibers

Port City Review Issue 03

93

POETRY

CAKE Samantha Williams St. Augustine, Florida Second-year, BFA visual effects

I want a piece of chocolate cake.

I want it moist, decadent, rich.

I want to spend a week’s paycheck to sit in a fancy bistro amongst the Mr. and Mrs. Moneybags with their yapping lap dogs and overwhelming stench of dollar bills and disapproval, wrapped up tight in my slinkiest, fanciest dress.

I want to throw my fork and napkin to the floor and crush them beneath my heel.

Forget social decency, I want to eat with joyful childish abandon.

Dig in, fingers first, tearing the frosting-skin from chocolate bones.

I want to shovel it in by the handful and lick the trail like a dog.

I want icing caked under my nails and crumbs piling up in my lap, a mountain of bodies freshly slain in my rampage.

I will not be satisfied until the entire cake is down my gullet and the entire restaurant is frozen in awe and I stand in my glory to lick the plate clean and bow to my audience.

I want to break my bones and climb free from my doll-body that is just like all the others’ and walk anew as someone who does not give a shit.

I want that goddamn piece of cake.

Keep it Simple, hand-woven, naturally grown and colored California cotton.

Natalie Tribble Gray, Georgia, fourth-year, BFA fibers

Port City Review Issue 03

95

POETRY

WHAT I DID WHILE YOU WERE IN PHOENIX

Lily Avery Ranger, Georgia Fourth-year, BFA writing

July was miserable, Just like the fruit flies and the cat piss And Putin.

We smoked too many cigarettes and Drank too much wine and Thought about boys who wear flannel And are too cool to say how they feel But write poems that make us cry.

I forgot about the red Toms sitting on my back porch And learned that cows really are best left alone.

You forgot about your dishes sitting in her room Except you didn’t because they’re repulsive But you want them back.

They’re yours.

It’s only fair.

August has been disgusting But I’ve had some good sex And pissed on the beach And we’re trying to market ourselves And I’ve seen you cry (that in itself is a blessing).

September is barely existing Like clouds, like smoke, Like the Blue Ridge Parkway, Like you.

Shy Girl, digital photograph, digital C-print. 11x14” Kelia MacCluskey Denver, Colorado, third-year, BFA photography

Port City Review Issue 03

95

POETRY

WHAT I DID WHILE YOU WERE IN PHOENIX

Lily Avery Ranger, Georgia Fourth-year, BFA writing

July was miserable, Just like the fruit flies and the cat piss And Putin.

We smoked too many cigarettes and Drank too much wine and Thought about boys who wear flannel And are too cool to say how they feel But write poems that make us cry.

I forgot about the red Toms sitting on my back porch And learned that cows really are best left alone.

You forgot about your dishes sitting in her room Except you didn’t because they’re repulsive But you want them back.

They’re yours.

It’s only fair.

August has been disgusting But I’ve had some good sex And pissed on the beach And we’re trying to market ourselves And I’ve seen you cry (that in itself is a blessing).

September is barely existing Like clouds, like smoke, Like the Blue Ridge Parkway, Like you.

Shy Girl, digital photograph, digital C-print. 11x14” Kelia MacCluskey Denver, Colorado, third-year, BFA photography

View all the digital pieces in action, and read more about each of the artists by downloading the free app version of this journal.

Visit ThePortCityReview.com

The Savannah College of Art and Design exists to prepare talented students for professional careers, emphasizing learning through individual attention in a positively oriented university environment.

The Savannah College of Art and Design, an institution with distinctive yet complementary locations, will be recognized as the leader in defining art and design education. By employing innovation in all areas, SCAD will provide a superior education through talented and dedicated faculty and staff, leading-edge technology, advanced learning resources and comprehensive support services.

View all the digital pieces in action, and read more about each of the artists by downloading the free app version of this journal.

Visit ThePortCityReview.com

The Savannah College of Art and Design exists to prepare talented students for professional careers, emphasizing learning through individual attention in a positively oriented university environment.

The Savannah College of Art and Design, an institution with distinctive yet complementary locations, will be recognized as the leader in defining art and design education. By employing innovation in all areas, SCAD will provide a superior education through talented and dedicated faculty and staff, leading-edge technology, advanced learning resources and comprehensive support services.

PRODUCED BY DISTRICT SAVANNAH COLLEGE OF ART AND DESIGN