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CANVAS Creative Arts Magazine Spring 2018

Canvas Creative Arts Magazine

Canvas Creative Arts Magazine

Dear Reader,

is a Bloomington, Indiana based publication that accepts the best visual and written work from undergraduate and graduate students at Indiana University. Each piece of published work is the property of the author or artist and may not be reproduced without his or her permission. The views represented in the magazine are not necessarily those of Canvas, Union Board, the Indiana Memorial Union, Indiana University, or the Board of Trustees.

We hope your time spent with the work on these pages is valuable and beneficial. These featured artists chose to labor over transpiring their individual ideas into meaningful work. We strive to fill the pages of this magazine with premiere art from Indiana University, to acknowledge the incredible work by students, and to engage readers in a creative dialogue. Our hope is that you enjoy the 2018 edition of Canvas and that it inspires you to create and grow.

For questions or to submit to the next issue, contact us at: canvas@indiana.edu

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Editor's Choice Award Canvas gives editor's choice awards to the best written and visual work submitted to the magazine each year. For this issue, we present this honor to Teresia Valle (31), Grace Richter (13), and D. Ross (76).

This award serves to recognize the high level of craft and creativity with which they represent their chosen fields and to thank them for sharing their exceptional work.

Alexandria Ruschman, Ria Rebein, Klancy Hoover Editors

Canvas Creative Arts Magazine

Visual Work Blake O' Brien

Brookeyln Barton Anne Beyer Heather Gwinn Grace Richter Katherine Warnock

07

15

Jonathan E. Christensen Carrington Houser Carrington Houser Phillisha Wathen

Luke Huling

22

Su A Chae

Erin Kimberley Ryan Blake O' Brien Lexie Bluhm Anna Hopkins Amelia McCann Lexie Bluhm

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34 37 38

Wesley T. Brown Katherine Warnock Danni Xu Tommy DeNardo Amelia McCann D. Ross

06

Teresia Valle

48

16

Ellise Smith

52

26

55

28

Ellise Smith Victoria O. Winniran

31

Chloe Fellmeth

62

33 39

Andrew Runyon

69

Vinny Corsaro

78 79

08 09 12

29 32

43 44 47 49 53 56 61

55 64 68 70

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Written Work Andrew Runyon Samantha Titus Samantha Titus Audrey Hopkins Lee Teresia Valle Teresia Valle Julianna Connelly Samantha Titus Julianna Connelly

40

46

E. J. Smith

60

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Selection Committee Bria Carter Jaleesa Elliot Maggie Gomez Klancy Hoover

Olivia Kalish Daniel Nicholson-Gardner Ria Rebein Alexandria Ruschman Ben Tasseff Christina Valenzuela

Directors Ria Rebein Editors Alexandria Ruschman, Ria Rebein, Klancy Hoover Designer Alexandria Ruschman

Publisher World Arts Inc. Cover Art Amelia McCann

Canvas Creative Arts Magazine

Stan Lee's Hero Andrew Runyon Stan Lee is sitting at a chess table, His barely-there silver hair is slicked back, Framing a face of hardened and leathery skin with an orange spray-tan color, only broken up by his well groomed gray mustache.

He puts on his gold-framed aviator sunglasses, just before his teenage friend Peter sits across from him, Stan announces in his gravelly voice, "It's been too long Peter. Why aren't you wearing your suit?"

Peter replies, "It's a bit conspicuous.

You know, you're not the only one who can see me, anymore.

Then Stan remembered, the day he decided to share Spider-Man with the world.

His mustache was dark, he was clad in a shiny silver jacket paired with denim blue jeans.

Sweating and panting, his dark hair bouncing up and down as he ran, his hands gripping a stack of recently drawn comics, all of a sudden stopping, Peter was standing in front of him in his red suit, And Stan painfully remembers his younger self so assuredly say, "You're about to get very busy, but I'm sure we'll see each other again soon."

Stan remembers the first time he saw him, Stan was a little boy, playing in his yard with a stick, eyes wild with wonder, he used the stick to twirl up cobwebs, just so he could watch the spiders crawl around.

He ran to show his brothers, but they shoved him, laughed at him, took the stick,

and smashed the spiders with their boot, just to watch him cry.

But he was ok, Peter was there in a red suit to comfort him, to show him where he could find other spiders to

play with.

Collage Brookelyn Barton Digital Drawing (Illustator)

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Canvas Creative Arts Magazine

Ear Flower Vase Anne Beyer Wood Fired Stonewear

Eye Bud Vase Anne Beyer Wood Fired Stonewear

Satisfaction Heather Gwinn Ink

Don't Forget

Smile Heather Gwinn Colored Pencil

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May Heather Gwinn Pen and ink

Party People Grace Richter Collaged photos, photoshop

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Canvas Creative Arts Magazine

Impish Grace Richter Clay, black velvet underglaze

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Days 6, 7 Katherine Warnock

G.f Grief

i .n

p Perpetuity

wool felted by walking for two days, sweat,

embroidery thread

Katherine Warnock

uouoe weave unen warp

dyed with Madder root, Lac, blueberries

Canvas Creative Arts Magazine

The Seance SamanthaTitus "So, you wish to commune with the dead?"

I watch Andrew nod and can't resist an eye roll.

Believe me, I'm trying to be supportive, but my patience has already withered away to nothing. I've watched him try five other mediums with varying degrees of credibility: two with booths in state fairs (extremely unhelpful), one based in the basement of a hippie novelty shop (slightly more believable, but not by much), and two who had ads in the paper, this being one of them. Her face is as wrinkled as a prune, and her fingers are unsettlingly long and bony. She extends them to Andrew, and hesitatingly, he takes her hands.

"I, uh...I have one of her possessions," he says nervously.

The medium shakes her head.

"I do not need a possession. I only need to know the name of the one with whom you wish to speak," she whispers to him softly, her face glimmering in the candlelight. I have no idea why she needs all the lights to be off, or why she commanded that Andrew come during the "twilight hours" or whatever. In my experience, ghosts are available for chatting at anytime of day."

"Her name was Wendy Cavanaugh," Andrew tells her, and she nods and closes her eyes, as though channeling the Other Realm requires prayer or something. I'm sitting in the chair between them, watching the proceeding silently. Neither one of them ever glances in my direction, which, to be perfectly honest, doesn't exactly bode well for the seance.

"Can you describe the deceased to me?" the medium asks in a wavering voice, barely above a whisper.

In my opinion, it sounds like she's fishing for information to lie about, but Andrew obediently begins rattling off traits.

"She was kinda short," he starts off, and I almost laugh.

"Shorter than me, anyway. She had reddish hair, she wor it short, and she had lots of freckles."

"What was her personality like?" the medium queried, and I stand up in a huff and walk away from the table.

She's clearly a flake, or else she wouldn't need all of this bullshit information. I turn towards the window and star at the street, creepily devoid of cars at this time of night.

"She was very...confident," Andrew says delicately, his voice sounding thicker than it had before and making my chest ache. "She was super dedicated to her career, never wanted kids, was always looking for the next opportunity to grow...she was nomadic, hated being in any one spot for a long time. We moved three times last year. She was stubborn, too; always thought her way was the right way."

I hear him stop and take a shuddering breath. "I'm sure she's still mad at me..."

I feel my heart crack. I don't want to turn and see him all broken down, especially not in front of a stranger. I've already watched him dissolve into misery every night before he goes to sleep, when he thinks nobody can hear him. I don't know how much more of that I can take.

Suddenly, the room feels much colder, so much so that even I notice it. I shiver and step closer to the door, wishing like hell that I could leave the room. This whole environment reeks of despair.

"Don't think you can walk away from me, girl," the medium says in an amused-sounding voice.

I halt, my brow furrowing. She can't possibly mean me.

Nobody's spoken to me since I got here.

"Are you gonna turn around or keep looking at that door?"

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I turn slowly and find the medium's eyes locked steadfast on me. She smiles in away that could be friendly but strikes me as smug. Poor Andrew is looking everywhere, his eyes roving the room like mad.

"Can you see her? Is she here?" Dried tears are caked to his cheeks, and I have to look away before it shatters me.

He and I are both technically wearing the same beatup suede jacket that Andrew has had since college. He'd retrieved it from the morgue after they found me, along with my keys and purse and other stuff the state didn't have the right to possess.

"Well of course I am," I say like it's obvious, because it was to me. "I'm wearing all the clothes I died in."

"Short redheaded stubborn woman, right?" the medium

asks, her tone implying that she finds all of this comical.

The words seem to hit him physically, and I feel like a

fucking idiot. Why did I have to bring that up? I knew "Yes!"

"Then that's her. And you'd be able to see her, too, if she joined the spirit circle."

Spirit circle, huh? I haven't heard that one yet before.

Feeling intrigued (and, despite my better judgement, a little hopeful myself), I walk towards the medium and sit back down where I had been before. Without hesitation, she lets go of one of Andrew's hands and takes mine. I

can't feel her body heat, but her hand feels solid in mine, like I'm holding a statue's hand.

Immediately, Andrew's eyes flick to my face, and his jaw drops. I stare back at him disbelievingly. There's no way he can see me. I've been trying to get his attention for

he was still blaming himself for it, no matter how hard I tried to knock over a plate or move a planchette on a Ouija board or in some spectral way convince him that it was not his fault.

"Wendy, I...." I see him swallow, his Adam's apple bobbing with the effort to keep it together. Andrew's always been a crybaby, and I'd teased him for it, but now it's making it very hard for me to keep myself together. "...I'm so sorry."

"Stop saying you're sorry," I practically beg him. "Please, I've listened to you say it every night, and it's driving me crazy."

"You've been here all this time?!"

"Yeah. I've been following you around since the crash."

months to no avail. I'd written itoff as impossible.

He's silent for a long time, and I don't know what to say either. I look at the table, feeling scrutinized and

embarrassed. God, and here I'd sat for weeks on end fantasizing about what I'd say to him if I got the chance,

Ah, dammit. I watch him wince again and wonder how many other incredibly stupid things I'll end up saying before this seance is over.

"I didn't mean to say that. I-"

and now all ofthose words have left me dry.

"You're...you're wearing my jacket," he manages to squeak out.

I look up, confused and feeling a little like laughing.

"No, it's fine," he croaks, "you have the right to talk about how you died." He sighs, his shoulders slumped, though he's kept his eyes locked on mine as though he's terrified to look away. "It's my fault you were out that night anyway."

Canvas Creative Arts Magazine

"No, it's not," I insist. "Stop saying that."

"But it is! You wouldn't've been mad if I hadn't-!"

Suddenly, his eyes flick over to the medium, who's been watching the whole proceeding with that same tiny smile this whole time. He doesn't want to say it all in front of a stranger, and I can't blame him.

"Look...," I say softly, and he looks back to me again. "I was mad at you. I felt...I felt like I wasn't good enough, or...I dunno, stupid things."

"You had the right," he tells me, his voice shaking. "I was

My job had demanded that I go to frequent meetings in other states, whereas Drew was a professor and needed to stay home. I nod along, trying not to let it sting. There'E no reason to hold a grudge now that I'm six feet under.

"What's her name?" I ask, fighting to keep my voice even.

"Victoria," he answers after a moment, still not looking at me. "She's a guidance counselor."

When he doesn't look back up at me, I put my hand on his cheek, not entirely sure that he'll feel it sitting there but hoping that he does anyway.

horrible, Wendy. I'm sorry."

"It's okay. I forgive you." I try to sound as sincere as I possibly can, so that he can stop torturing himself every night, and so I can stop listening to it. "I mean that, Drew.

I forgive you."

He gulps again, still staring at me, his expression unchanging. I can tell he doesn't know if I'm serious or not.

To my surprise, he looks up, his eyes wide."Is that you?" he asks, and I nod, not yet trusting myself to speak.

He doesn't feel warm; it's like I'm touching a slab of stone But I don't tell him that. I don't want to ruin this for him

any more than I already have.

"Drew," I say in the firmest voice I can. "I want you to do three things for me."

"I know she's been calling you," I say, even more quietly.

"Why haven't you picked up?"

"Because she ruined our marriage," he says, louder and more passionately. Apparently he doesn't care if the medium sees our dirty laundry anymore.

"Um, okay," he says, looking nervous.

"One, I need you to forgive yourself. No more of this staying-up-all-night-and-feeling-like-an-asshole crap."

"But I-"

"Did she know you were married?" I ask. I never got the chance to ask while I was alive. I was too busy yelling at him and calling him terrible names to even consider what his life with the Other Woman was like.

"No. If I hadn't been so immature and walked out on you I wouldn't've crashed my car."

He sighs, as if forcing himself to relax. "Okay, fine. What'

"Yeah, she knew," he says, his cheeks reddening and his eyes drifting to the tabletop. "She felt weird about it, but...I dunno, I wasn't thinking. I was so upset that you were always gone that I...."

the next one?"

Finally, progress. "Two, I want you to call Victoria back."

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"I don't-"

"But I love you," he chokes out, still not looking at me. I bite my lower lip to keep myself from crying.

"If you don't want to be with her that's fine, but you shouldn't freeze her out of your life just because you feel guilty about what happened to me," I cut him off, because if I don't say all of this now I might not work

"I love you too," I whisper. "I love you so much, Drew.

Which is why I want to see you happy again."

up the nerve to say it later. "Trust me. I've had a lot of

time to myself to think about this, and I don't care that you cheated on me. I really don't. I forgive you."

He shakes his head, looking away. "All right," he says, almost bitterly. "Now what's the last one?"

I gulp hard, feeling my chest tighten. I almost can't

He covers his eyes with his remaining hand, massaging his forehead.

"I'm begging you," I go on. "Please. Stop going to mediums. Stop isolating yourself from everyone. I can't move on knowing that you're going to spend your whole life feeling responsible for something that wasn't your fault."

even bring myself to say it.

"I need you to let me go."

He looks up at me, seeming both confused and sad.

"But...."

"For two reasons," I go on, not wanting to hear what

he has to say because it'll only weaken my resolve.

"One, because if you don't, it's going to emotionally haunt you for the rest of your life. Two, because I'll be physicallyhaunting you for the rest of your life."

He doesn't answer, nor does he remove his hand from his face. I'm starting to lose hope.

"I'd listen to her, if I were you," the medium chimes in, making both of us jump. "Don't live your life trying to change the past, Andrew."

He glares at her as if to say stay out of this, to which she merely shrugs and smiles.

"And now that I have your attention," she continues, "it would be prudent of me to inform you that I can only hold this spirit circle for a few more moments

"What do you mean?"

without losing consciousness."

I look away, feeling selfish. "I...I don't have any proof, but...I don't think I can move on until I'm at peace," I say in the calmest voice I can manage. "And I can't be at peace until I know you're going to be fine without me."

"Why didn't you say something before?!" Andrew asks, looking horrified.

He shakes his head, scrunching his eyes shut, as though he's in pain. I resist the urge to apologize or take my words back. I know he needs this. I know I

Andrew looks back at me, wide-eyed. "I don't want to lose

need this.

"I didn't want to worry you," she says, as though it's obvious.

you," he says thickly, as though the words themselves

terrify him.

Canvas Creative Arts Magazine

I shake my head, my heart feeling heavier by the moment. "You aren't," I say, wanting to wipe the tears from his eyes. "I'm always with you. Literally. I can't leave your side."

years waste away at the graves of their loved ones."

"Really? You follow me around everywhere?"

"Whatever you feel is a fair price."

"I don't really have any choice," I say, laughing a little.

Andrew leaves fifty dollars on the table, shakes her hand, and walks out the front door. I follow behind him like a dog on a leash. We both button up our brown suede jackets. I'd grabbed it off the railing on my way out the do to my car, not realizing that it was his. I'd been planning o: leaving him that night. I'm glad I didn't tell him that during the seance.

"It's like I'm tethered to you."

He smiles a little, but it seems forced. "You know what I mean," he says. "I don't want to lose you. You're the

love of my life. I just can't...I can't go on without...."

It's a bit of a graphic description in my opinion. Andrew doesn't comment on it. "How much do I owe you?"

"Yes you can!" I assert, my brow furrowing. "You're

barely thirty, Drew! There will be other women. There will be other loves of your life."

"But I can't just-"

"Please, Drew." I didn't want it to come to this, but... "I lost everything. I won't get the chance to live the rest of my life. Don't waste yours on me."

He opens his mouth to reply, but suddenly the

medium lets go of both of our hands with a cry of what sounds like pain, and instantly the room goes

I miss him. I miss him every single day, even though technically I'm right beside him. But things are nowhere near the same. He'll grow old and remarry and have kids someday, and I want that for him. It would mean everythir to me to see him happy again. But it still aches knowing that I won't have the same.

He gets into his car, and I follow, easing my spectral ass int the passenger seat. He buckles up (smart man; I should've thought to do that when I was alive) and starts the car, filling it up with warm air. I wait for him to pull away from the curb, but he doesn't.

back to its normal temperature.

"My apologies," she huffs out, as though she's been

He stares through the windshield with faraway eyes. I wisl I could tellwhat he's thinking. I fiddle restlessly in my seat

running. "Thatsapped much of my strength...."

waiting for him to do something.

Andrew looks like he might either cry or hit her, but

"Can you hear me?" he calls out, still staring ahead.

I watch him take a deep breath and say, "It's okay.

Thank you for that...really, I mean that. Thank you."

"You're welcome, dear. You should take her advice, you know," she adds sagely, color returning to her cheeks.

"I've watched dozens of men and women over the

"...Uh, yeah," I say. He doesn't react to me at all.

"I guess if you can, I can't hear you," he says sadly, looking back down at his hands. "But if you are here, then...I'm doing this for you. Not for me. I just want you to know that

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Puzzled, I watch him reach into his pocket and take out his phone, raising it up to his ear. After a few moments, I see him smile a little.

"Hey, uh, Victoria?" he says nervously, his free hand twitching nervously in his lap. "Yeah, it's Andrew, hi...nah, I just got out of a meeting with my, uh...my therapist." He listens for a moment, and I watch a smile e

if he won't admit it, he really does like her.

o

"Yeah, I'm sorry, it's just been hard...of course I know

in

that, I just needed...y'know, a bit of time alone." He swallows and looks back up again, seeming to have made some sort of vow. "But I'd really like to get im light up his whole face. It's infectious; I smile back. Even together and talk sometime. Would that be-? Oh, loo tomorrow? Uh, yeah, sounds good, my last class ends at 1i

My smile widens. Already, I feel lighter-more buoyant, like I could raise up to the roof. I'm not all the way untethered, though, not yet; Andrew still has some nt grieving to do. ve s two-thirty. You wanna get coffee?"

Still, I watch him laugh and chat, putting the car in gear M and pulling out onto the road. It's not perfect yet, but it feels pretty good.

at,

is

Canvas Creative Arts Magazine

Alzheimer's Delusion- Detail Luke Huling Mixed Media

-Li

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Alzheimer's Delusion .uke Huling

Ilixed Media

Canvas Creative Arts Magazine

Discomfiture Luke Huling Mixed Media

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Suspended Stress Luke Huling Mixed Media

Canvas Creative Arts Magazine

Just Before Bed Samantha Titus Your mistakes may ebb and flow at you, Like ash upon your tongue.

My dear, they do not know of you, Nor reflect what you've become.

Lemonade Set Erin Kimberley Ryan Porcelain Ceramic

House Shaker Set Erin Kimberley Ryan Porcelain Ceramic

Canvas Creative Arts Magazine

The Word Shop Man Audrey Hopk<ins Lee A/so p ublished by Penit'?ublications The Word Shop man loans out meaningless phrases all day.

He has seen them all.

Each word finds it's way back to the shop when it fall out of use.

Then the WordShop man takes care of the words again.

He uses them with care and caution.

One day a man came looking for a word the WordShop man didn't give away to just anyone.

The word had returned too beat up,

dented, and scratched along the syllables that live between the teeth and the tongue

time and time again So now the Word Shop man kept Love

locked up.

On the highest shelf.

Love's light illuminated his antiquate shop.

Whenever someone came in asking about it,

the Word Shop man quivered and remembered all that Love brought with it.

Yet something glimmered in the new man's eyes.

The Word Shop man felt the warmth like a tight embrace from the light of Love glowing high above.

He didn't need the young man to prove he wouldn't harm the

special word.

Painting w/ Meaning

So Love left the shop with the young man.

"I don't think I'll see that word crawling back to me

again." said the Word Shop man.

Blake O'Brien Oil, puzzle, books, silkscreen on and in canvas

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Canvas Creative Arts Magazine

Painting w/ Narra Blake O'Brien Oil, book, and string on and in canvas

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Eyes Closed Shut; Legs Wide Open I Tesa Valle Loose Lover with a wild, tired heart always giving parts of herself away.

Mental decay of a once decadent, blooming orchard of ripe, juicy fruit and loots of golden gratificationnow a bare, barren wasteland whosesoil is only capable of growing Seeds of Sin. Starves herself

because Momma said to "never be greedy. set the table for others: beautifully, perfectly, gracefully.

Let them sit first before you dare to include yourself.

Sit down. Cross your legs. Be polite. Be seen, not heard, unless you're agreeing or praising

God." In the middle of the table sits a bowl of shiny, red apples.

Finally, Dad says

"dig in."

Reach for red:

white teeth of a blue girl rips bare skin off Fruit of Sin. Agree with the sweet wetness that drips down the upturned, slightly, corner of lips.

Moan and praise God over, under the goodness of the bad and as that different wetness slips slowly down different set of

lips remember thatrespect is earned, given not.

As you're driven to the edge of pleasure remember tooaccelerate that car over the edge and scream obscenities and Praise at God, as the waves drown your sanity as you, momentarily, forget who you are or who you're with or what parts of yourself you'll leave behind Just remember, it is a lot easier to go knowing you were just as empty leaving as you were coming.

Canvas Creative Arts Magazine

Reckoning Lexie Bluhm Acrylic on canvas

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Eyes Closed Shut; Legs Wide Open I resia Valle skin soft, eyes wide arched back, strained sigh of a girl not ready to be woman-ed, yet

succumbing so technically she was already half way there. words taken, heavy breath mistaken for pleasure. when pain ensued, difference never told.

eyes closed shut, remembers a child, an innocent, a "not ready, to grow up." down yet another girl. forced into the hood of women, before learning the logistics. learning how to slide sleekly in the night. learning how to dim

the light within mouth sewed shut by sin, rather, the mere thread

of one. feeble fibers of her, unthreaded, bare, stripped sanity, left seething, unclothed, unreal.

just so she wouldn't be taken as the lighthouse

i

the next time. there always was.

Il I

she was scared, to ever attract as sinking boat needing guidance again.

blue wet drips down

reddened, raw cheeks. white teeth now scare her.

her legs were not a dock. r

he smirks, says "it was going to happen, why not now?" pray it to be a night mare ridden by distant jockey, who deemed it his job to debase;

pppp F fll IIII

f

tame the temptress

when temptress be his own made up fallacy, reality made her anything but.

I f

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Canvas Creative Arts Magazine

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Holy Anna Hopkins Photography

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Untitled Amelia McCann Oil on panel

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Canvas Creative Arts Magazine

Reality Lexie Bluhm Acrylic and oil on panel

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Poisonous Love

Jullanna Conneily Nicotine runs in his veins, climbing the ranks of his beautifully sculpted body like poison ivy on a rotting tree. He says he feels more alive than ever before, but I see the way his eyes glaze over when he's under its influence, the way his words come slowly, few and far between as if it hurts to speak whatever horrendous secrets he has buried under his skin. I feel the fervor of his movements as his hands search my figure for some hidden meaning, some treasure that he thinks is rightfully his. What he does not realize is that it's my

skin, my body, my life, my soul that he is poisoning. Every touch -hungry flames that eat me alive and leave me begging for more. This cancerous stick may be his drug, but mine is him -every smoldering, rippling, sinful, desirous, deadly ounce of his love coursing through my veins like chains encapsulating me. I am a bird that no longer sings and he, he is my cage

Canvas Creative Arts Magazine

Six Blocks

Astrid was six blocks away.

She could apologize for this, couldn't she? Even if it wasn't her fault. Even if it wasn't exactly fair. Even if it shouldn't even have been her job to apologize.

Every step felt like a gunshot being delivered directly into the ground. Each step was a compromise-if I do this, I don't ever have to do it again.Keep walking. At least I take comfort in saying I at least tried.

them-every kiss, every grope, everything that Portia had done in their bed without her-what if they pretended that none of it had ever happened? Would she be able to keep pretending forever?

She thought of her beloved-Portia, whose eyes sparkled like diamond chips and whose hands felt like satin on her skin. She imagined those satiny hands on someone else's body. It made her stomach turn.

There would be no forgetting this.

Five blocks away. Astrid could take responsibility for this. Sure, it wasn't her who walked out. It hadn't been her who had broken promises and trust and hearts. But she could force herself to take the blame. It wouldn't be hard. It was just like ripping off a band-aid. Besides, the alternative to not apologizing? Unthinkable.

Still, the only thing that mattered was repairing the damage. Astrid shuddered, zipping her coat up to her throat in a show of protection and modesty.

That had been the fight-modesty. Presenting oneself.

More specifically, how much of themselves either of them had presented to attractive strangers, and which of them had broken the promises that they made to each other. Whose responsibility was it to make sure that rules weren't broken, and that bonds remained sacred? Astrid wasn't completely innocent, no; she'd been curious

before, and she'd allowed her eye to lurk across dimlylit bars full of attractive patrons as much as Portia had.

The difference was that she hadn't acted on any of her

The crosswalk opened up to her, and she continued on.

Two blocks away. Portia's apartment drew near. She lived alone, and she'd claimed to never have guests, but that had been proven untrue earlier tonight. Astrid shuddered to think of the bloody battle: finding the stranger in bed, still clothed in whatever tight, metallic outfit Portia had found her in; the subsequent yelling and screaming and insulting and crying; walking out and leaving Portia to exact her anger on something else.

Astrid had done nothing to deserve her ire. Why was this her fault? Why was she going to apologize?

One block away. She was apologizing because no one else would. A life without Portia was a fate worse than death. At least, that's what she'd allowed herself to believe for most of her adult life. Portia had been her first and only girlfriend. Portia had accepted her for who she was when her parents wouldn't. Portia had been there through everything. Portia was everything.

instincts.

Portia had slept with someone else.

Astrid gulped, tucking her chin into her throat. Could she really forget this? Suppose she and Portia did repair the damage? Suppose they put the betrayal behind

Astrid felt her stomach rise into her throat and drop like a stone. She stopped for a moment, grabbing onto

41

a streetlamp, perhaps for support and grounding. Her steps still felt like gunshots; she had the faint notion that if she looked behind her, she would see holes in the pavement, like a perverse trail leading to this exact moment of her downfall. What was the point of trying?

What did she stand to gain?

Astrid's phone rang in her pocket. She fished it out and

"Well what?"

"Aren't you going to apologize?"

Astrid bristled. "Why should I?" "Because what happened wasn't actuallymy fault. You know that."

held it to her ear.

The world around Astrid seemed to tilt, and she ground "Hello?"

her teeth together.

"Hey, babe. Where are you?"

"Why isn't it your fault?" she asked in the most controlled voice she could manage.

Portia's voice poured forth like honey. Astrid sighed, trying to relax, but she couldn't settle herself.

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Portia scoffed. It was a harsh sound, like the report of a pistol.

"I'm, uh...I'm out," she told her, not willing to admit she'd been walking back to the apartment. "Where are you?"

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"Well, duh. I was wasted. And it's not like you were there to stop me. You didn't want to go drinking."

"I'm home." Thank goodness for that. "Listen, I'm sorry."

"For what?" Astrid asked tersely, her voice feeling thick.

"So that makes it my fault that you took someone else home?" Astrid demanded hotly. "Even you should be able to see that there's something wrong with that."

"For everything, okay? I shouldn't've gotten so mad at

you.

Astrid nodded, feeling the tension in her chest loosen.

"Good. I'm glad to hear you say that," she said, straightening a little.

There was a pregnant pause in the conversation. Astrid wondered if she should keep walking towards the apartment. She wondered if she was even still welcome.

"You were supposed to go with me to make sure I didn't do anything stupid! It's not my fault I got drunk and made out with someone else!"

She'd done a fair bit more than make out, but that was another beast entirely. Gulping hard, Astrid asked Portia, "Why couldn't you just make sure you didn't cheat on me yourself?"

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"Oh my God, are we really gonna do this again?! I wanted to get drunk. Big fucking deal."

"Well?" Portia said impatiently.

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"I don't care that you got drunk," she said harshly, her chest growing tighter by the minute.

"Thenwhat do you care about?! It was just sex! I don't even know her name!"

One...two...three...four...five blocks away. Astrid's shoes clipped the pavement. Her fingers shook in her pockets.

She didn't feel any better, but at least she didn't feel any worse.

Astrid was six blocks away. She didn't look back.

"Is that supposed to make me feel better?!" Astrid sighed hard through her nose, beginningto feel disconnected, as though watching the scene unfold from afar.

Just sex was a meaningless phrase. It was just betrayal.

It was just heartbreak. It was just an apology.

With Portia, nothing really meant anything.

"I don't think I can do this," Astrid said slowly. The night seemed to stall around her.

"Whatdo you mean?" Portia demanded, sounding afraid for the first time.

"It seems like you and that girl had a connection," Astrid continued, her words like molasses. "Andit doesn't seem like you really cared about me."

"That is so unfair. Don't be such a bitch."

"Goodbye, Portia."

"Don'tyou dare hang-"

Astrid pocketed her phone again. The chilly air fogged her breath up in front of her like a ghost. The world took on its rotation again. Cars once again passed her by, acknowledging her disaster that hung like a cloud.

It thinned with each passing vehicle, as though their tires were stripping the layers away.

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Your Children Come Before Min Jonathan E. Christensi Mixed Media

Stepping into a Culture Jonathan E. Christensen Mixed Media

Canvas Creative Arts Magazine

Peaches Julianna Connelly You were birthed in the land of the Great Wall, Where you lay dormant in the freezing temperatures, Until given the chance to see the world.

Your smooth exterior covered in fuzz, Akin to the silky skin of a newborn baby.

Delicate to the touch, but full of life.

When I first cast my gaze upon your flesh, I saw vibrant hues of orange, yellow, pink, and red.

Beautiful are they, yet only skin-deep.

I wondered who you were under the surface.

Slicing into your soft skin, juices bombarded me As if you thought I was the enemy.

Do you not realize your purpose here?

Perhaps it is I who is holding you back from thriving In this world where you barely have time to Live before you are destroyed.

47

Borough Market- London, England Carrington Houser Photograph

Canvas Creative Arts Magazine

IV intervening intravenously,

dripping deep into inner consciousness.

drooping eye lids, counter bidding counterfeiting

all that ever was set forth for you. never intending to

drown but always encouraged to float, weight bore heavy on empty heart intervening intravenously

start it pumping again start it falsely again anything to get it going anything to stop stagnation. ripples ripple, in the water of mind. frozen over by some cold, concrete... corrosive.. corollary artery, heart to be something given just as something taken. stop. breathe.

go again.

Roman Aqueduct- Segovia, Spain Carrington Houser Photograph

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Spanish Countryside Carrington Houser Photograph

Canvas Creative Arts Magazine Making a list to go to the store reminded me of two things: My anxiety and that I'm poor.

The sun shines on the painted lines of the parking lot Crooked cars of the old ladies that shop Metal baskets roam the open space like children without supervision The commercial air cools the shoulders I hide from the summer's rays I pick up my cart Aisle, after aisle, after aisle I see Snacks, sugars, prepackages food I look at my wallet and realize that the stretch of my dollar ends before the register But this brokenness has lasted all my life, I had to fight I had to learn to deal with stress and strife Because I never had it Momma always had to say no or feed us like she was always on the go Grab some chips, a swig of pop This food was for survival As I go up and down these aisles I look for a meal I prayed for a deal Anything that I could afford for a few weeks of this twenty-dollar bill But I was also looking to change my shape Shrink my waist To change the palate of men whom has disdain for weight Something to slim my figure I got to the point where I was tired of being bigger My breathing increases, my chest going up and down As I'm nervous someone might shout out "PUT THE CHIPS DOWN" I pass Doritos, cream cheese, ice-cream, and even honey I pass everything that would please me, break me down to my knees I pass up wine, as I whine because everything that looks divine Was out of the reach of mine Because I'm trying to slimdown my waist line Grocery store runs are harmless if the world ignores you They think you're purely human

Just

someone buying food

But when your funding is limited and your size is profound Simple grocery runs Can simply break you down

Grocery Run Elljse

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Roses & Wallflowers: Gutsy

Roses & Wallflowers: Uninvited Part lil Phillisha Wat hen Digital art

Canvas Creative Arts Magazine

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I'm a Pudgy Queen

Else Smith My rolls on my back are sweeter than any presented at a Sunday dinner The chins on my face highlight the deepness of my happiness My foot that spreads with every step I take The jiggle of my stomach simulates nothing of an "earthquake"

I find joy in the body I'm in as I embrace what they deem as flaws in my perfect skin It took twenty plus years to rid the fears of being myself Imagine taking twenty years to love yourself I sift through dust and shattered mirrors A forgotten lost and found hidden deep in my memory But yet, I found it turned upside down The jewels set in the headpiece were still in place Each dusted jewel holding a memory for my sake I polish each one holding up the golden mound I twist it over my locks of hair, my pudgy queen crown

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L'heure Entre Chien Et Loup Su A Chae Acrylic on wood

RIP Charlie Su A Chae Acrylic on wood

The Goat: Wild Beast Su A Chae Acrylic on wood

Canvas Creative Arts Magazine

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"WHO" Victoria 0. Winniran Who am I? Who are you? Who are we?

Made out but from muddy dust Am I, are you, are we what we should be?

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An iota of nothing but filth Yet filled with excessive hubris Covering the surface of the earth Generation of Julius Caesar's Brutus Albeit for a good cause, Conspiracy remains a weakness Sucking destruction with straws Know you not the repercussion?

In a world full of negative clause Vanity upon vanity and imperfection So why the anxiety, Down the track of divine damnation?

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61

I-Thou Series #4 Wesley T. Brown Ceramic

Canvas Creative Arts Magazine

"canada geese"

i think you're in cahoots with the canada geese that once made their home in

our front yard, lounging in the early sunday morning light, migrating south once the air got too crisp.

you see, we aren't with each other enough, you and i, but i know you best sitting in buttery summer sun, your bouncing leg, my immobile one, sweat dampon your sunburnt forehead and sticky on the back of my neck. those summer days -- i try to hold them close when august dies, after harvesting the teardrop tomatoes and flimsy cucumbers from the garden out back, next to the fence, next to the street.

it may hold enough food for three weeks of dinners, but it's got us in there, too.

we're buried in the dirt, among the roots. you've got a jacket for me when it rains, even if its thin sleeves are not quite waterproof;

we eat dinner at dairy queen, chocolate ice cream and cheese fries, if they have them;

we walk a mile and a half down to mass ave to watch a parade we've seen before,

only this time i don't hesitate to hold your hand. i've got long hair, and you've got a long face,

and when we fall asleep in july, window air conditioner blowing hot air uselessly across the room,

we're on opposite sides of my bed, beneath the thin blue sheet with a stain on its left side, our fingers intertwined, like in prayer.

sometimes your jointsache like they're eight decades old instead of two --sometimes the thought of anyone brushing against my skin makes me want to peel it off. you and i, we make it work. the truth is, you reminded me of someone else at first,

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when we shook hands that day in mid-june, amidst growing pains and headaches, your anxiety visible in your wide gestures, mine in my stiff shoulders. i used to think your blazing fire was enough to burn myself on, and i'm sorry, my dear, i was wrong. you're more glowing embers, more smokey hearth, more setting sun.

you leave with autumn, in early september as the grass grows yellow, just when the heater clunks on with a stench like rubber and burning dust, and all that's left is the sharp air that's rough on my lungs, the frost growing on my windowsill.

Chatelaine Danni Xu Sterling silver, Champagne garnet

Treasure What You Own Danni Xu Sterling silver chain, fine silver pendant, tourmaline,sapphire

Canvas Creative Arts Magazine

Speak Up Danni Xu Sterling silver,freshwater pearl

Vessel Set II Danni Xu Copper, sterling silver,freshwater pearl

Canvas Creative Arts Magazine

monolinearSkull Tommy DeNardo Digital (Vector Art)

69

Bear-Handed Bear Boxing

"It makes sense if you don't think about it." -- Unknown Have you ever been bare-handed bear boxing? I assure you it is really quite shocking. You have a man, who with his bare hands, boxes a big grizzly bear. I once saw bear, tear off a man's skin, and wear it around, as if it were his!

Have you ever been bare bear-handed boxing? It's an affair that's more than quite shocking. You have two nude dudes fight, with fists covered in fur, claws glistening bright, though where they get them, I'm not sure.

Have you ever been bare bear-handed bear boxing? Now this, my friends, is more appalling than shocking. You have a nude dude, clutching bear hands, taunting a bear, right where it stands. The bears always win, as ladies look on, waving their hands, in gowns made of fawn. And as for the skin, of then slaughtered nude men, the bears usually use it for socks.

Have you ever been bare bear-handed bare bear boxing? It is more sad than shocking. The bear is shaved, it is as nude as the dude, the dude tightens his bear paws, and raises them too. The bear bites off his face: the man bleeds to death, and the bear leaves to find some hair for his chest My heart on my sleeve. My brain in my head. They argue and argue, and cause nothing but dread.

Spate Amelia McCann Oil on panel

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Amelia McCann Oil on panel Featured Cover Piece

Torrent Amelia McCann Oil on panel

Canvas Creative Arts Magazine

Hidden D. Ross Digital photograph

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Medusa D. Ross Digital photograph

Canvas Creative Arts Magazine

Soladarity D. Ross Electronic waste assemblage

Presidential Behavior D. Ross Found object assemblage and collage

Canvas Creative Arts Magazine

What Am I to You? Vinny Corsaro "Are you sure you want to come in? I'm sure yours is cleaner, just warning you," said Jeff, intent on cracking his apartment's lock. He cautiously slid a thin metal card down the sides of his door hoping to bypass the locked door, which for some reason defaulted.

"Jeff, I'm not taking a rail cab to go to my apartment an hour away when we're here. I don't care if your house is messy." The red-haired woman that spoke dragged a cigarette before continuing. Jeff tried, and failed, to remember her name again, the woman he met earlier that evening at the Neon Canteen. He couldn't ask her at this point in the night. "Besides, I've never seen anyone break into his own house before."

"Does it make me look badass?" he asked in a faked macho voice as the card finally overrode the door's locking mechanism. He stood up, brushed off his sleeves, and beckoned towards the open apartment.

"Makes you look like an idiot with a broken door," the woman giggled in return. Her green eyes looked similar to Jeff's late wife when she laughed, with slight crinkles at the edges and a soothing light reflecting from her pupils.

Oh shit, Jeff thought as soon as he remembered his deceased spouse and realized the implication of the faulty lock mechanism. This is not good.

"Wait!" he called out as the woman started into the living room of his apartment. She stopped, turned around, and held her hands up as if to say 'what?' when suddenly a banana came shooting from the kitchen. It splattered violently just above the woman's red hair onto the white wall behind her.

"What the fuck is this?" she shouted, ducking her head as an orange came catapulting towards her again, a little lower than the first projectile. "And who the fuck is that?"

The woman was pointing towards a hanging picture of Jeff in a tuxedo on his wedding day. Next to him was another woman, dressed in a beautiful flowing white

dress. This was the only picture Jeff kept in his possession following the brutal cancer that took his computerprogramming wife away. The wedding was one of the last days he was happy. Especially after his wife found out about his long-going affair with his secretary.

This news caused his jealous wife to develop a program that would recognize any other woman in their apartment, an all-encompassing program that controlled everything from the printer, to the fridge, to the lights, to even the front door's locking system. He knew how paranoid Emily used to be, and he knew she hid cameras everywhere to ensure the system's success.

"Jeff," repeated the red-haired woman. "Are you married? You can-" Her words were cut short as a spurt of hot coffee came shooting from the automated machine, this time hitting the intended target. Jeff watched in horror as the green-eyed woman screamed, obviously in pain from the recently heated beverage.

On Jeff's living room TV screen, Emily's face appeared without warning. She was furious, her green eyes blazing with rage. She repeated the same sentence over and over again as her husband watched terrified. He hadn't heard her voice since they put her in a breathing machine. Hearing it again crushed his unsuspecting heart.

"Wait till I get home, Jeff. Wait till I get home," she droned. It hurt Jeff even more knowing that she wasn't going to get home after all. There wasn't going to be an ugly fight because there were no more fights to be had.

"That's it, I'm leaving, you sick fuck," exclaimed the woman Jeff met at the Neon Canteen. She started walking out the door in a fury, dripping black coffee onto the clean, white carpet.

"Wait!" Jeff called. He wanted to tell her about his late-wife. He wanted to tell her how it was all mistake. He wanted to tell her he hadn't even hugged a woman since she left. He so desperately wanted any sort of physical connection with anyone.

79

But when she stopped, he found nothing to say.

His heart caught thickly in his throat, and Jeff turned around and walked back into the blaring living room. He didn't hear the woman leave, or the printer print

a sheet of paper with the word "WHORE" fifty-five times.

He drank all night on the couch, watching Emily say she'd be home soon, knowing she wouldn't, wishing she would. He fell asleep alone again.

Crows

E.J. Smith That night I listened to the crows fight, the cacophony of their language silencing me.

I was always told that crows were bad omens, especially for those whose luck had run out as early as mine had, some time before my bones had taken their intended shape. I shouldn't listen to their chatter, they told me, but I found myself among the crows constantly.

Until that night, I believed what they said. That black feathers painted blue by the dawn were not to be followed. That I was to bring my hands to my ears if one crossed my path because these birds whispered, too.

But that night I listened to the crows fight and I imagined their wild strength in wings of my own.

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