Second Story Journal XII by UNCW Honors Publications

XII

honors arts & literature

EDITOR’S NOTE I am honored and thrilled to present this issue of Second Story Journal as the new Editor-in-Chief. I completed my training last year, but we had to make the tough decision to pause the publication as we coped with changes to the semester during a pandemic. I am deeply appreciative of the patience we received from our submitters during the time, and I am excited to carry some of those submissions from last year into this year’s issue. I stepped into new territory as Editor-in-Chief—my first position even on the staff of a literary magazine. I entered the Fall of 2020 as the only staff member of Second Story Journal. This magazine was my sole responsibility. I was fortunate enough to quickly find a layout editor, Krista Balint, and I am extremely thankful for her involvement that went beyond her role as she helped me brainstorm ways to further the magazine. Neither of us had any prior experience with Second Story Journal, so it was certainly a learning process on how to navigate the creation of this issue. I would also like to thank Abigail Celoria for participating as a volunteer staff member and helping with the selection process and developmental edits.

One of my primary goals for this year was for Second Story Journal to reach every honors student. I had spoken to many who did not know about its existence, and I did not want their creative endeavors to remain unseen. I created an Instagram, @secondstoryjournal, and sent out emails about upcoming submission deadlines. I was excited by the following we received in such a short time and how many submissions appeared in my inbox within the same week. I can only hope that this magazine continues to grow and becomes a space to celebrate the works of my fellow honors students. I trust that this magazine is evidence of the interdisciplinary interests and cultivation of creativity that is characteristic of our honors college program. This issue exhibits the interests of UNCW Honors students—nature, travelling, surfing—through the creative platforms of photography, poetry, and fiction, and I am forever grateful to have been a part of their creative journeys.

All Best,

Jenna Johnson Editor-in-Chief

editor-in-chief

JENNA JOHNSON is a second-year student in the UNCW Honors College. She is double majoring in English Literature and Creative Writing with a concentration in poetry. She will also minor in French and earn a Certificate in Publishing. She is the Poetry Editor for Atlantis. Her poetry has been published in Atlantis, UCLA’s Westwind, and UCSB’s Spectrum Magazine. Aside from writing, she enjoys painting, cooking, reading, and surfing.

layout editor

EDITORS AND STAFF

KRISTA BALINT is a second-year student in the UNCW Honors College. She is double majoring in Computer Science with a concentration in security and Statistics. She also has minors in math, data science, forensic science, and psychology. She took part in undergraduate research through UNCW’s FYRE program, studying the prominence of deep-fake technology online and analyzing public awareness. Along with her love for STEM, she has a soft spot for the arts. She enjoys singing, puzzles, video games, and is always listening to music.

SELECTION VOLUNTEER ABIGAIL CELORIA is a freshman at UNCW pursuing a double major in Creative Writing and Film Studies. She has been enthusiastically writing since the fifth grade and has been published four times with Burning Coal Theatre Company, NCTEA, and Raleigh Fine Arts Society. As both an Honors student and an artist, she has relished the opportunity to volunteer with Second Story Journal.

EXPIRED SUMMER morgan greene

Somewhere in the midst of stars, the steady, mellifluous piping of crickets and the vehement applause of innumerable cicadas compels one to wonder whether or not these insects were created solely to satisfy ecological niches or rather to produce inimitable music for ears still listening in the damp humidity of summer expired Somewhere decidedly under the stars, as clouds like bloated irises smother the echo of the moon and its celestial ensemble, one is compelled to ponder the smugness of buggy street lamps, and the naivety of pride in all its forms, equivalent always to the egocentricity of sidewalk gum and stairwell dust illuminated by the sun of summer expired Somewhere never truly hidden from stars, on a rain-laden tapestry of grass and wildflowers strewn before the silhouettes of pines and cedars, one is compelled to believe that the restless rhythm of the night could actually be the brilliant, intricate, passionate craftsmanship of the One who tunes crickets, redeems dust and ignites stars;

And if not, then why is one compelled to believe there is beauty in summer expired?

TAKING A WALK samuel hagestrom

turn around. kyla parillo “don’t look back, just keep moving forward.” great advice, really. minus the first half, that is. it’s easy to feel weak when you only see your problems one at a time. you’re tricked into thinking that what you can’t hold is just the one thing that you have in your hands. but what you can’t see is the countless other things being piled onto your back. and even though you can’t see them you can still feel their weight, so you mistake that as a result of what’s in your hands. you think that you must be so weak if you can’t even hold this one thing without feeling like you’re going to break. but if only you could see what you’re actually holding. then you’d realize just how strong you really are. so promise me that you won’t forget to turn around every now and then. because i want you to see all that you’ve carried on your way to where you are and to know that you’re strong enough to keep going once you turn back around.

SCRATCH ART PAPER delaney dow

Is not feeling a feeling? I know anger with its clenched fists and fingernails digging into my palms. I am intimate with joy with its open-mouthed laugh and limbs made of helium. I understand sorrow with its solemn weight draped across my shoulders like a shawl.

But I also know not feeling these feelingsI know not feeling anything at all. I know emptiness but not like a blank canvas. That’s too reminiscent of a fresh start. I know emptiness like a piece of scratch art paper that has been scraped and scribbled on until nothing is left but a swirling mass of colors that I struggle to sift through.

I have experienced love with its flushed cheeks What feeling is that? and smile that won’t quite leave my lips. I recognize fear with its racing pulse and tremors that run through my fingertips. I am familiar with hope with its bright eyes and heart as light as a feather.

GOLDEN GATE BRIDGE alison loftis

WANDERLUST katie barton

Sawyer fiddled with her ring. The right rim of her forehead was pressed against the passenger seat window, the build-up of pressure giving her just enough of a headache to keep out whatever forbidden stream of consciousness might betray her composure. The light breeze from the A/C kicked curly red strands of hair around her face. “Just a little over five miles now.” Rowan’s voice cut through the static that had been filling her head for the past hour and a half. “Should be no more than ten minutes.” Her husband adjusted the rearview mirror, shot a glance at the traffic behind them, and craned his neck forward to examine the red SUV ahead. “That is if this guy decides to get off his damn phone and step on the gas.” He jammed his palm against the car horn and stuck his head out the rolled-down window. “Hey! Move it, asshole! The rest of us have places to be!” Sawyer grabbed Rowan’s right arm and yanked him back into the car as he guffawed at his own inappropriate behavior. “Jesus, do you want to get keyed?” Sawyer said. She shielded her eyes from neighboring cars and sank deeper into the passenger seat. “I wasn’t aware keying cars was 7

such an issue on road bridges,” Rowan jested, then shrugged with a laugh and drummed his fingers on the wheel. “In that case, I say let them key ‘er. If all goes as planned today, I give this gal a month before she’s a cube of junk resting in some garbage patch.” “Right,” Sawyer muttered. She returned her gaze to the window, shifting her attention to a flock of seagulls as they disappeared below the bridge with a dive toward the chopped waters below. Part of her wished she could follow them. “Act a little excited, Sawyer,” Rowan interjected, almost sounding a little hurt. “This is an adventure!” He took a hand off the wheel to shake her shoulder. “I am excited,” Sawyer insisted as she nudged his hand away, trying to add a little lilt to her voice to further sell it. “I’m just tired. That’s all.” “You’re always tired,” Rowan muttered as the car in front of them began to move. He pressed on the gas. Sawyer’s phone buzzed, bouncing about in the cupholder beside her. She clasped it in her hands as the car tires jolted over the metal seam between road-and-bridge. “Your mother?” Rowan asked with a quick glance in her direction. “As always,” Sawyer sighed, rejecting the call and placing it back in the cupholder.

She settled herself back against the window and closed her eyes. “Have you told her yet?” “Nope.” “Well, why not?” “I’m not sure she’d be too thrilled to hear her son-in-law quit his well-paying job and put the house on the market so that he could buy a yacht and whisk away her only daughter to travel ‘round the world with no financial plan whatsoever,” is what she wanted to say. Instead she remained slumped against the door, not meeting her husband’s gaze. “Not sure.” They drove past beach houses with faded paint jobs and clusters of palm trees—each one swaying in uneven motions against the dark storm clouds gathering in the sky. A cat sat on one porch, eyeing them with suspicion. An old woman tended to her garden, one hand placed on her wide brim straw hat to keep the wind from snagging it away. “You know, I was thinking,” Rowan finally said. “We should start up our old travel blog again. Remember that?” Sawyer nodded. How could she forget? It was their primary source of income for so many years. An unreliable source of income. That she remembered clearly. “It will be hard to access the internet in the middle of the ocean,” she said. Rowan laughed. “Well, obvious

ly we’d have to wait until we reached port somewhere. Hopefully we haven’t lost too many readers during our brief stint of inactivity. But just in case, you can always pick up your freelance again. People still read National Geographic, right?” “I sold my camera,” Sawyer reminded him. “We needed money for the baby crib.” This time she turned to look directly at him, but his darkened eyes were kept purposely on the road ahead as he gripped the steering wheel. There was that familiar silence. She knew what he wished he could say: how she should have sold that thing months ago, how it only brings back painful memories, how it only sits collecting dust. She also knew he was smarter than that, and the last thing he wanted to do was instigate another “episode” of hers. “Well, I’m sure we’ll figure something out,” he said instead, offering her a quick glance. “We’ll be saving some money, no longer needing to pay for health insurance and all—maybe I’ll use some of those funds to buy you a new one. Would you like that?” Sawyer flashed him a faint smile. “Sure.” Rowan returned the expression, before shifting his attention ahead to enter a parking lot. “And here. We. Are,” he said. Sawyer leaned in to get a better 8

look at the rows of boats lining the adjacent docks. Everything from sunfish to catamarans to cuddy cabins bobbed up and down on dark, choppy water. “There she is!” Rowan’s eyes were caught on what had to be a fifty-foot-long sailboat, complete with two towering masts that cast shadows over a weather-protected cockpit. “What do you think?” He studied Sawyer for a reaction. “Worth the three hundred grand we settled on?” “Looks promising from here,”Sawyer commented, arms crossed. Her eyes drifted to an older man in a worn-down raincoat standing on the dock beside the vessel. He flipped through the pages on his clipboard and took a visual sweep of the parking lot. “Well, it better be,” Rowan laughed as he followed her gaze. “After all the hours on the phone I spent with this guy.” He turned off the engine and ducked out of the car before beckoning for Sawyer to follow him. “Err, actually-” Sawyer shifted uncomfortably in her seat, unsure how much more of this pretending she could take. “I’d rather stay in here.” She noticed his brows furrow in confusion. “If that’s alright with you.” She rolled her eyes playfully with a compulsory smile and fluttered her pointer finger toward the window. “The … storm.” “Oh,” Rowan said. “Right.” 9

He flashed a look at the boat dealer and turned back to his wife. “That’s fine. I mean, I’m sure it won’t rain for another thirty minutes, but whatever makes you most comfortable. I’ll just-,” he took a breath through his nose and drummed the top of the car, “leave you here then.” He pointed at the dock with his thumb as he took a slow step back. “I’m right over there if you need me.” Sawyer smiled and nodded as the door slammed behind him, leaving her alone in the car. She watched as Rowan approached the boat dealer—then letout a deep, trembling breath and shook out her shoulders. In. Out. In. Out. She practiced the breathing exercises her therapist had taught her. Several moments passed before the crushing weight in her chest had faded to a dull throb. She glanced around the car for a bit, then raised her chin toward the rearview mirror and lifted a finger to tap the braided-rope sloth ornament dangling from it. The sloth bobbled back and forth for a moment before taking a slow spin to observe the car. The words Pura Vida were stitched into the side in faded green lettering. Which trip to Costa Rica was this one from? Sawyer couldn’t remember. They had all started to blend together in her memory. Rowan probably knew. He probably remembered what they had for breakfast that morning and the name of the hotel they were staying in.

He probably remembered the conversation they had with the cajero and how many colóns the trinket cost. It didn’t look old enough to be from their first trip ten years ago, back when they were just two college students seeking the thrills of studying abroad. Back when they first met—a couple of twenty-year-olds with far too much wanderlust to stay in one place too long. Sawyer closed her eyes, trying to transport herself back to those times. Rowan and Sawyer. A match made in heaven, everyone said. Nobody was surprised when they got engaged after graduation. Nobody, that was, except Rowan, who proposed on a whim in the middle of a canal cruise in Amsterdam. Sawyer found his spontaneity charming The sloth’s revolution ended with it facing her. Its faded eyes met hers, unblinking. Sawyer realized she was holding her breath. Next thing she saw were her fingers wrapped around the knitted animal’s head, the sloth’s delicate face squished within her palm, and her wrist yanking down. There was a snap and then the threads came tumbling apart as her hand dropped to her lap, starting at the frayed ends of the broken loop before unravelingdown the head. She watched as the sloth’s face turned into a disorganized mass of rope. And she felt nothing. Her other hand reached for the

dashboard to open the glove compartment. She dropped the disheveled thing among stashed-away travel brochures and educational pamphlets on destinations ranging from Iceland to the Galápagos—places Rowan still wanted to go. Places he likely blamed her for never visiting, even if he didn’t say it aloud. “Whatever makes you happy, Sawyer,” he had said the day they hit “publish” on their last blog post and filed away their worn passports—over two years ago now, she realized. She had convinced herself the resignation in his eyes was nothing more than a product of her own insecurity. That once he was settled into his new desk job and they had a baby on the way, he would see the appeal of the new adventure she had spelled out to him. One far more exciting than backpacking across Europe or trekking through the Amazon or freediving in the Great Barrier Reef. Sawyer tried to close the glove compartment, seal away the brochures forever, but her hand was frozen in place as her eyes kept drifting toward a purple pamphlet stuck between the pages of Afar magazine. She slid the piece of parchment from its hold and held it so it hovered just above her lap and out of Rowan’s line of sight if he cared to glance back. At the top of the pamphlet in dusty white letters: Whole Family Adoption Agency. 10

She ran her fingers over the cover, sending particles flying into the air, and admired the picture hiding underneath. A man and woman with wide grins and outstretched arms and an equally excited little girl sprinting across a fresh green lawn to fall into their embrace. Notes in Sawyer’s handwriting marked the margins of the information inside. A smeared list of phone numbers covered the back, penned by their doctor from the fertility clinic. “Maybe someday.” Rowan’s words, ones Sawyer had heard time and time again, wrapped themselves around her brain. “But let’s focus on today.” Sawyer jolted upright at the beep-and-click of the car unlocking. She shoved the pamphlet deep into the sea of papers and thrust the glove compartment shut with a clamorous slam. At the same moment Rowan opened the driver’s seat door. “What’s that?” “Nothing.” Sawyer slid her hands down from the dashboard and folded them neatly in her lap. “Just looking at our old travel brochures.” Was that an expression of relief she saw in her peripheral vision? “That was fast.” She forced her shoulders to relax and turned to face her husband. “So?” Rowan held up and waved a stapled batch of papers. “We’re the proud 11

new owners of a forty-nine-point-four cutter ketch!” The pride in his eyes as he opened his arms for a celebratory hug sent pain through Sawyer’s chest. Sawyer smiled and leaned over the center console to wrap her arms around her husband. She let out a happy “hmm,” eyes closed as she rested her chin on his shoulder, then added in a quieter voice, “I know you’ve wanted this for a really long time.” Which was probably the first thing she said all day that she meant with her whole heart. She tried not to choke on the words as she pulled back to her seat. She thought she caught Rowan’s eyes glance up at the empty space below the rear-view mirror as he settled into the driver’s seat, but if he noticed what was missing he didn’t say. Instead he just cleared his throat and turned the key. The tip-tap sound of rain hitting tempered glass turned Sawyer’s attention back to the passenger seat window. She pressed her left palm against the cold pane, admiring how the damp rays pooling in from Rowan’s side flecked shadows across the back of her hand. Her ring clicked against the glass as the engine started. In this light, for a passing moment, she yearned for it to shine.

ATMOSPHERE andrew bahhouth

A rose blossoms beneath the sea: scarlet amidst sapphire. Bubbles swirl languorously, evanescent fire. Eyes are wet, lips are dry, the sun has set, there is no sky. Words can’t fill stifled space; bleak and chill, of life no trace. Scarlet amidst sapphire: anger amidst desire.

BIG SUR alison loftis

INFLUENCES morgan greene

My influences? Oh, too many too many to name, and if I try I’m sure to leave something out. I cannot take a step a glance, a breath without my pliable, terracotta soul being smoothed, puckered, stretched, compressed, cracked, and undeniably influenced by everything from the way each tree sways just so under the fading autumn sky, each unique leaf cusped with strings of sunset, to the fumbling of moths about a porchlight, the curious quest of a millipede, the epiphanies of fireflies striving to outshine the streetlights. From the ceaseless drumming of the ocean pounding away on its sand and seashell tambourine to the roar of the mountaintops retorting with formidable gales that taste of riddles and sky. From the boldness of that single star still visible through the urban glow to the chorus of the cosmos someplace the waking world forgot. From shared laughter with friends, familiar and freeing, to the embrace of family, so assured and yet so necessary. From the words someone chooses to say “hello” with to the expression on their face when they say “goodbye.” From that person I passed by too quickly to plant their face in memory to the person I’ve known since before memories learned to take root. From that moment that set my fears into motion (and I never saw it coming) to that moment that reminded me of a time before and that there will be a time after. 15

From the illustrations and imitations that sing and dance their way into the crevices of my brain to the first time my fingers raced glissandos up and down the piano keys, the first time I tapped my foot to a familiar melody, the first time I laced some words together just so and they suddenly splintered the page –

*eyes widen*

Oh What is this? What is this that I have found? I have been influenced by everything every noun and adjective in every language has changed me from the moment it first reverberated in my ears or fell under the gaze of my perpetually literate eyes. Everything with a name and everything without has restructured my soul by incalculable degrees, altering the intensity of my smile the tone and tempo of my voice the way I breathe, the way I think, the way I blink, the way my heart beats. And for all the influences in my life, moment to moment, I have never been the same way twice. And I am better for it. And I am broken for it. I am simultaneously shattered and reborn day to day to day. Maybe I’ll be whole by the end of it. Or maybe wholeness can only come from somewhere else. Somewhere deeper than the influences. Someone not influenced. Someone who predates and eclipses my influence.

and will doubtlessly outlive 16

POWER LINES julia lutton

WORN OUTfelicia helmlinger

SPIRITS delaney dow

Metal limbs laden with glass leaves. Olive, red, cobalt, clear, the bottles rest on their cast-iron framework. Surrounded by authentic foliage and leaves rustling in the wind. Not a clink can be heard. The bottle tree stands unmoved and impassive. Designed to ward off evil and capture malicious spirits, the synthetic sapling stands intricate but empty. Never again to be filled with rich, red wine or flowing with smooth, honey-colored bourbon Leftover from a time when protection from vengeful haints was as essential to a safe home as a locked door. Now reduced to an eclectic yard decoration unable to fulfill its antiquated purpose. Until the clouds break, and the tree limbs above shift just so, and the bottle catches a ray of sunlight. Red turns to ruby, olive to emerald. Perhaps the worth of the bottles is not designated by their contents, or by their purpose, but simply by their existence. 21

CARDINALIS CARDINALIS alison loftis

ROAD WORK julia lutton

CONTRIBUTORS ANDREW BAHHOUTH is a first-year student at UNCW who is interested in majoring in Biology. In his free time, he enjoys playing shogi and chess as well as writing poetry occasionally. In fact, he is starting a shogi club at UNCW. He is currently the Vice President of the Asian Students Association and the Secretary of the French Club. He is also an educator on the Seahawk Leadership Advisory Council (SLAC).

KATIE BARTON is a rising junior of the Honors College at UNCW and is double-majoring in Biology and Environmental Science with a concentration in environmental conservation. Despite her STEM-centered education, she has a passion for artistic expression and enjoys creative outlets in the form of writing (with a soft spot for fiction), digital art and animation, which she’s self-taught in. Apart from her hobbies, Katie is involved in undergraduate research in wildlife biology through the EVS department and works for the Office of Admissions as a campus tour guide.

DELANEY DOW is a sophomore in the Honors College majoring in Communication Studies and minoring in Creative Writing and Psychology. She is VP of Ratio Christi, VP of Phi Eta Sigma, a member of Swingin’ Seahawks, and works as an HON 110 mentor. She loves going to Wrightsville Beach, playing volleyball, reading and writing poetry, learning American Sign Language, and hopes to learn how to surf soon.

MORGAN GREENE is a sophomore in the Honors College majoring in biology with a minor in creative writing. She lives in Raleigh, North Carolina and loves everything about the state, from the mountains to the sea to the Krispy Kreme donuts. She started her first blog, The ArthroBlogger, in the summer of 2020, because what else are you supposed to do in the middle of a pandemic?

SAMUEL HAGESTROM is a 20-year-old sophomore in the Honors College of UNCW. Growing up in Carolina Beach, he has been constantly inspired by his surroundings to capture unique moments. Most of his photography features scenes of the beach, international travels, and the occasional portrait, but each picture captures a unique moment. Sam’s cameras of choice are 35mm canon ae-1 on land or a nikonos iv-a in the water. He prefers a majority of his photography to be on film because he believes that the time and effort it’s takes to produce a picture strengthens the beauty of the art form.

FELICIA HELMLINGER is a first-year honors student. As of right now, she is unsure about what she intends to study, but loves to try different experiences to expand her perspective. She is the secretary of UNCW’s Habitat for Humanity and an undergraduate researcher in the First Year Research Experience. She is planning to travel with GIVE Volunteers this summer to volunteer in Thailand and Laos.

ALISON LOFTIS is a senior at UNCW, pursuing a BS in Marine Biology and a BA in Music. This semester she is an intern at the Karen Beasley Sea Turtle Hospital. Growing up in different places in the United States sparked a love of the outdoors, a passion for travel and exploring new places, and fostered a curiosity about the world around her. A self-taught amateur photographer, Alison enjoys SCUBA diving, hiking, and volunteering with the nonprofit Gold Star Teen Adventures. You can find her photography on Instagram @alison.loftis_photography.

JULIA LUTTON is an Honors College senior who is graduating from UNCW in spring of 2021. She is an artist who primarily works in ceramics but also enjoys photography and painting. She is earning a BA in Studio Art with a minor in Entrepreneurship. After graduation, Lutton is planning on relocating to Tallahassee, FL to further her experience in the art field before pursuing her own ceramic small business.

KYLA PARRILLO is a rising sophomore in the UNCW Honors College and is planning on majoring in Criminology with a minor in Psychology. She enjoys true crime and is passionate about making an impact on the Criminal Justice System someday. When it comes to a creative and emotional outlet, poetry has always been her go to. For her, poetry is a way to create something meaningful from her experiences and struggles. Kyla is also currently working on a poetry book she hopes to publish in the future. She is looking for artists to help her with drawings for her book so if interested, please reach out.

SECOND STORY

JOURNAL a UNCW Honors Media Publication

CALL FOR SUBMISSIONS

get published, get exposure, & add to your résumé

SSJ is looking for quality work from Honors College and Departmental Honors students in scholarly research, foreign language, poetry, short fiction and nonfiction, visual art, digital art, and photography. Submissions are NOW OPEN for Second Story Journal. Please send your work to secondstoryjournal@gmail.com as an attachment. Include your name and title(s) of your work in the email. Attachments should not include any type of identifying information of the submitter. SUBMISSION REQUIREMENTS SCHOLARLY ESSAYS: No longer than 3,000 words each, titled. Essays submitted must be original works in .doc or .docx format with sources cited in MLA format. FOREIGN LANGUAGE: No longer than 3,000 words. Only one foreign language submission per student. Original work must be accompanied by a translation, with appropriate acknowledgements to translator (if applicable), titled, and in .doc or .docx format. POETRY: No longer than 5 pages each, titled, and in a .doc or .docx format. SHORT FICTION AND NONFICTION: No longer than 3,000 words each, titled, and in a .doc or .docx format. VISUAL ART: Photographs of two- or three-dimensional works, titled, and in .jpeg format. DIGITAL ART: Original, titled, and in .jpeg format. PHOTOGRAPHY: Titled, and in .jpeg format. Submit all visual files in the highest resolution possible, please. Visit www.uncw.edu/honors/newsletters1/second-story-journal.html for more information.

Second Story Journal is the arts and literature publication of the Honors College at the University of North Carolina Wilmington, located on the second floor of Randall Library. We print and promote the creative voices of our students and support experiential learning experiences by the marketing, editing, and design of our annual publication. Submissions of art, photography, poetry, fiction, nonfiction, and scholarly work by UNCW honors students are read by a blind committee composed of volunteer staff members. All works should be emailed to secondstoryjournal@gmail.com as an attachment with the submitter’s name and genre of the piece submitted. Attachments should not include any type of identifying information of the submitter. We accept submissions year-round.

This issue of Second Story Journal was designed by Krista Balint. Text is set in Avenir Next and Baskerville. Printed by UNCW Print Services, Wilmington, North Carolina. All rights revert to contributors upon publication. Copyright © 2021 Honors College at the University of North Carolina Wilmington.

University of North Carolina Wilmington Honors College | 2021

Second Story Journal XII

Articles inside

Contributors

Road Work by Julia Lutton

Cardinalis Cardinalis by Alison Loftis

Worn Out by Felicia Helmlinger

Power Lines by Julia Lutton

Big Sur by Alison Loftis

Golden Gate Bridge by Alison Loftis

Taking a Walk by Samuel Hagestrom

Editors and Staff

Editor's Note

Beach

Atmosphere

Expired Summer

Scratch Art Paper

Wanderlust

Turn Around