Amendment Literary and Art Journal 2020 by VCU Student Media Center

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literary and art journal

social progression through artistic expression

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A lot of my work attempts to subtly reframe the traditions and tropes of the western art canon. Looking at Our Lady, I’m questioning, “What does the traditional royal portrait become without the face?” The association from portrait to person has always been primarily linked to the recognizability of the sitter's face. Any ambiguity surrounding the identity of the sitter immediately degrades the power dynamic that royal portraiture is supposed to enforce. By eradicating the head itself I put myself in a unique challenge to vouch for my sitter's power and distinguishability. Through these precise adjustments, I’m examining the juxtaposition of the "old" inherited by the "new” which is also largely intertwined with my use of unconventional figures. With this piece I’m looking at the dialect between a history of aristocratic representation and the use of portraiture as a statement of power and the individual’s sense of empowerment. Here I elevate this figure to a level of high culture that is classically unavailable to her because of her place as a black female. I paint her with such surety so that her place and regalness are unquestioned. But simultaneously something about Our Lady still delves into the realm of fantasy, which I think says a lot about which roles are accessible based on one’s ethnic identity. One artist this piece was inspired by is Kehinde Wiley. I particularly looked at the sensitivity of his figures and his depiction of urban identity. This is really relevant because identity is a recurring theme for me. I often impose my own self-identity on the figures in my work and explore the contrast between self-identity and social identity. This dissonance between the world that you know, what you mean as a symbol in public, and the imposed identity society places upon you, gives that strange and uncanny feeling of having to adjust for this double consciousness. Our Lady breaks free from this imposed identity and explores new ranges. Another reason I decided to impose such anonymity on my figure (by hiding the face) is because I didn’t want to make this African figure a single identifiable person. This would make her more representative of an anomaly, which is the opposite of my intent. Instead, she is representative of a collective group of people and the possibility to attain high status. Furthermore, In this piece I see myself as creating an invented space where I examine the point where different cultures/ social groups converge. Through the combination of an African woman, luxurious Elizabethan fabric, high-keyed European jewels, and faux family shields I create a space where both parties are celebrated and recognized for their individual beauty.

ABOUT THE COVER

Our Lady

Amuri Morris

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AMENDMENT STAFF

Co-Editors-in-Chief

Director

Barjaa Brown Sonnet Garcia

Allison Bennett Dyche

Art Director

Mark Jeffries

Literary Editor

Sales and Business Development Manager

Syd Lewin

Abby Walsh

Creative Media Manager

Dominique Lee

Outreach and Digital Media Coordinator

Business Manager

Multimedia Editor

Jayce Nguyen

Preksha Jerajani

Howman Pagola

Owen Martin

Designer

Staff

Walter Anyanwu Ashley Barnhill Helen Rose Binder Robert Crotts Emily Dingman Cecilia Doss Byron Edge Kelly Freeman Cheryl Anne Fries Calvin Graves Emily Henderson Brezaja Hutcheson Piper Johnson Jason Leung Malyk Monteria Sami Moore Zoe Perry Michael Price Anya Sczerzenie Jiana Smith Logan Sullivan Julia Weichlein iv

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MISSION

AMENDMENT /ə�men(d)mənt/ 1. An annual literary and art journal that seeks to promote thoughtful discussion on issues such as equality, class, race, gender, sexuality, ability, and identity. 2. A socially progressive student-run organization at Virginia Commonwealth University that advocates for social change through artistic expression, as well as provides a platform for historically marginalized voices in the artistic and literary community. 3. What you’re holding in your hands.

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LETTER FROM THE EDITOR

Amendment has been one of the most constant things in my life. Despite how crazy and stress ridden my schedule was, every Friday I left Cabell at 3:40 PM to head to the Annex for our 4 to 5:30 meeting. Because of my social anxiety, I would carry a scrap sheet of paper covered with notes I’ve scrawled in response to that week’s submissions. For the first month, I rarely talked. I was terrified of interaction. I was satisfied with sitting at that long table and voicing my opinion with my raised hand. When I sat in the third chair from the head of the table, I felt at home. It didn’t matter whatever I had gone through that day, or would be going through later, as soon I began the trek up the Annex’s creepy ass stairs, my burdens left themselves at the door. Over the years, I have seen Amendment grow in unimaginable and wonderful ways, and, consequently myself as well. If you were to tell my freshman self that I would willingly become one of Amendment’s coeditors in chief, I would have laughed in your face and proceeded to list a myriad reasons for why I would be unfit. It is because of this publication, the amazing staff, and enthralling submissions that I have the courage and confidence to submit my own work and proudly say why I am right for this job. I’ve finally found a place where I belong and can accept it. In these tumultuous and uncertain times, it is difficult to imagine ever being able to come this far. Seeing this journal come together, despite everything, makes the late nights and early mornings worth it. The tears, anxiety, heart palpitations, it has all been worth it. To think that this journal would be still going strong, that incredible contributors would be willing to trust us with their lifeblood time and time again, for seventeen editions, is unfathomable. I want you to feel at home in these pages, just as I do. Best, Barjaa Brown Co-Editor-in-Chief

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ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Lately, I feel like I have been saying my "I miss you"s before I've gotten to say my “goodbye”s. I’ll miss the days we could comfortably gather at the annex: reviewing pieces, crafting zines, and just being in company of each other. Talking about the hottest memes and TikToks, and gifting the occasional “clown” card to one another. But every conversation past is still held with the same gratitude and content I value every day. Thank you to the editorial staff, friends old and new: Cheryl Anne Fries, Zoe Perry, Robert Crotts, Helen Rose Binder, Ashley Barnhill, Piper Johnson, Jason Leung, Anya Sczerzenie, Kelly Freeman, Michael Price, Malyk Monteria, and Julia Weichlein. While I could name each and everyone I’ve met, the bounds of this spread are withholding me from making this a list of names. But it’s not just a list of names. It’s the space and voice each one of you has held in my and one another's hearts and minds. It’s the words exchanged. It’s the openness to be vulnerable and trusting of our peers. We understand - especially within the past eight months - the burnouts from spending entire days at zoom university are taking its toll on all of us, by each weeks’ end. But I commend all of you for logging in every Friday afternoon, dedicated to giving each submitted piece of art and literature care and attention, as we piece together this journal. Thank you to our upper staff members. To Abby Walsh, Syd Lewin, and Howman Pagola - who I will continue to affectionately call, my children - well after I graduate. Thank you for your dedication to chaotically sort through the chaos, as we parse and piece submissions. To Preksha Jerajani - it was a rough few weeks into the semester without a social media/outreach coordinator, but I’m grateful you stepped up to the plate. Both our Instagram and Twitter are blooming once again with content and engagement, and I love that. To Barjaa Brown - thank you so much for being unofficial (?) partners in crime as Co-editors in Chief. From those late nights shadowing Emily Henderson, our previous Editor-in-Chief, as we organized the previous journal - to repeating once again during work-study. It will forever be funny as our staff dealt you the “clown” card, while I slipped by. But in all seriousness, I’m so grateful to be Co-editors, as I could never imagine doing this on my own, having each other's back. And the next time someone frustrates you, I’ll back you up in the event you want to fight.

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We would like to thank the staff at the Student Media Center. To Allison Bennett Dyche - while this was your last year serving as Director, we would like to take this special occasion to thank you for all your support, as we give space for artists and writers to express themselves. To Mark Jeffries, Creative Media Manager - for striking up a conversation as we cross paths, and with your team of designers, help make our journal able to exist in the physical world. To Owen Martin, Business Manager thank you for helping and discussing ways in which we can get our name and publication out in that world. And a special thank you to our advisor Liz Canfield. While Amendment continues to live on without your oversight, we will continue to honor the feminist roots of our publication, as it grew to become socially progressive for all who are disenfranchised. Thank you to the contributors in this journal, for your courage and willingness to share your works - full of emotion, reaction, and energy our way. Amendment wouldn’t be able to exist without all of you, as you inspire and help us better understand our world, society, and the ripples of challenges that you endure. For another group of individuals to thank for making this journal what it is - are you: the readers. Just as the pieces each contributor has made on the surfaces of every page, each person reading and turning through this book, made this production process meaningful. Alike to us and our staff, you have taken the time and energy to open your own hearts and minds, to read/view, process and empathize, and grow in understanding to the voices around you. Those, whose voices broke through the silence of personal comforts. This ability, alongside that of relating to shared experiences, is what makes this not just another socially progressive journal - but Amendment. Before I hit those bounds mentioned earlier, I would like to thank everyone mentioned above. Each of you has taught me to live with consideration, compassion, and to converse with and in respect of others. You all have also taught me how to express myself, and let me know that there will always be someone, ready to listen. To read. To lookout. Best, Sonnet Garcia Co-Editor-in-Chief ix

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TABLE OF CONTENTS

Content Warning Amendment Art Award Winner Amendment Literary Award Winner

Literature 16 18 22 27 32 35 36 39 40 42 46 49 50 54 56 66 74 76 82 99 132 135 142 146 148 150

Transient Being Reduced to 206 fertility/sterility Dear Elizabeth, Love your Terrified Best Friend You Only Have to Walk Two Blocks to Her Place The Drill M.S.: I’m a white nationalist A Thousand Souls For One He Who is Wtihout Deaf Noise timeshare salesboy: a sestina Paired With Shades of Pink did i wake you? Ivy, Sumac, and Two Black Boys in Love #12 globalization is the white man’s disguise for colonialization The River How Can I Choose? Good Little Church Girl Firestorm what is this? What Would I Even Tell Her? I Have Nothing to Say The Curative Power of Destruction augmented vision device Green

Colton Adrian Abby Walsh Ashley Harden Cheryl Anne Fries Syd Lewin Colton Adrian Alexzane Taylor Ashley Barnhill Logan Sullivan Colton Adrian Colton Adrian Abby Walsh Barjaa Brown Byron Edge Cheryl Anne Fries Sonnet Garcia Ariel Mack Cheryl Anne Fries Janae Witcher Cheryl Anne Fries Barjaa Brown Cheryl Anne Fries Cheryl Anne Fries Cheryl Anne Fries Barjaa Brown Sonnet Garcia

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Literature 153 160 164 168

Halloween On Being Diagnosed Bipolar In Response to Eternal Flight 2020

Cheryl Anne Fries Cheryl Anne Fries Sonnet Garcia Malyk Monteria

Zines 69 103

Catalyst City of Richmond v. United States

Sika Bonsu Adam Lockett

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TABLE OF CONTENTS

Art 15 17 19 23 24 25 26 30 31 33 34 36 38 41 44 48 51 53 55 59 60 61 72 73 80 96 97 98 102 130 131 133 134

The Making Anthropocene in the Rockies Pubic Party (series) Forbidden Fruit Typesetting Killer Babe Coming Out Charles Sierra Comforted Interconnection Proud Liberian Buried Determined Little Cocksparrow The Female Gays Lavender Menance! Petrichor Nemophilist Sundays at Twilight Studios Day and Night Lay Her Down (series) Truly A Brother's Keeper Freedom of Education Heaven in Hell (series) God's Grace Liberia Burning Baton The Cataclysm is Chronic Our Lady Mine, Not Yours Medicinal Chill Pill

Alexzane Taylor Summer Doss Maia Langheim Eric Agyemang-Dua Jr. Cassie Grace Sid Estelle Emily Woodard Sarah Divita Sarah Divita Colleen Topping Valeria Moreno Alexzane Taylor Alexzane Taylor Alexzane Taylor Sid Estelle Emma Schmidt Syd Lewin Alexzane Taylor Alexzane Taylor Rice Evans Emily Woodard Valeria Moreno Eric Agyemang-Dua Jr. Eric Agyemang-Dua Jr. Valeria Moreno Eric Agyemang-Dua Jr. Alexzane Taylor Audrey Hale Audrey Hale Amuri Morris Eric Agyemang-Dua Jr. Nora Shaheen Nora Shaheen

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Art 141 144 145 147 151 152 155 163 166

Before/After (series) Yosemite Monument Valley Emergent Beautiful Dreamer Wading Woman Brown Beauty (series) Red Between the Lines Westover Plantation: An Investigation on Truth Telling

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Assigned Angry at Birth

Carleigh Ross Summer Doss Summer Doss Maggie Colangelo Eric Agyemang-Dua Jr. Colleen Topping Valeria Moreno Brooke Young Blake Sneed Hannah Sahr Gina Clark Vis Sothy Syd Lewin

Featured Artist: Mark Williams 84 88 90

Inside Out Queen of the Earth Faces of Fear

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The Making

Alexzane Taylor

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Transient Being Colton Adrian

My body is not a temple, it is a quarantined animal in an experiment. My body is not a temple, it is locked up, masked up, forgetful and afraid. My body is not a temple, it is finally figuring out the Second Act Sacrifice when an ambulance siren screams by and fire trucks come to dose the dumpster fire outside my window. My body is not a temple, it is one sneeze or spit or cough away from being a super-spreader. My body is not a temple, it is a twenty-four hour clinic where the doctor deals medical masks and toilet paper under the table. My body is not a temple, not anymore, it is a corner store risen from the ashes, complete with— hookers homeless helpless hopeful hateful hurting— people, ritual, litter, bumming change, sparking cigs during an respiratory pandemic, cursing God, blessing God My body is not a temple, it is a left swipe on Tinder, foggy glasses from mask breath, stomach bubbling with chicken grease, biscuits, pizza acquired from required no contact delivery. My body is not a temple, it is zero parts holy it shits and sweats and doesn’t sleep and is riddled with testosterone that makes it yell when a mug is knocked over, or when a shower curtain falls or for no good reason at all. My body is not a temple, it is The Family Inn where Old Faith contracted Covid, where she coughs all night in room 106, which we get to by crossing the train tracks and rocky ground to get in and close the blinds to let the cockroaches start the conversation, 6-feet apart no doubt, telling stories, ideas, about how to make life certain in uncertainty. 16

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My body is not a temple, but it is something to be aware of, something that expires long before a temple and faster if America doesn’t get it together. If we all don’t get it together. The temple is in my body, And yours is too and even if bodies are temporary and fleeting and ephemeral, there’s no reason to worry.

Anthropocene in the Rockies

Summer Doss

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Pubic Party I → Maia Langheim

Eating Disorder

Reduced to 206

Abby Walsh

Look at your abs! i’m starving

I can fit my hands around your waist i’m starving

You have a thigh gap i’m starving

I can pick you up no problem i’m starving

You’re like a feather i’m starving

I wish I had a body like yours i’m starving

i wish i looked like that again

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Pubic Party II 20

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Pubic Party III 21

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fertility/sterility

Ashley Harden

Open my guts, And see the defect there. Preternaturally fertile, Less so with life, But more so with fear. In me, you’ll find Red. Not of the dawn, Or of the uncertain brood, But only of My heart’s unwitting tomb.

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Forbidden Fruit

Eric Agyemang-Dua Jr.

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Typesetting Cassie Grace

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Killer Babe Sid Estelle

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Coming Out Emily Woodard

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Self Harm

Dear Elizabeth, Love Your Terrified Best Friend

Cheryl Anne Fries Dear Elizabeth,

Why do I think of holding your hand so often And more importantly, Why does it make me feel sick? Best friends always hold each other’s hands And yet whenever you touch me I shy away from the forest fires your fingertips create because I grew up with Smokey the bear and I know I cannot light a fire in the middle of summer, and I never see you in the winter I do my best to avoid your knee touching mine because the last time it did, your kneecap sent energy sparking beneath my skin and set off the Aslan fireworks that cascade behind my heart, fireworks that only ever went off when David made me laugh It feels so wrong I don’t know what it even is You hug me when I walk through your doorstep and my chest burns -but it’s a sweet burn compared to HersIt must be the ashy California air in my lungs It must be the smell of your childhood home filling me with memories of your family’s love -of your loveMy thoughts haze when I look at you -but not the haze that my demons use to suppress me as soon as my fingers reach for the skyMy mind quiets when I feel your smile in my soul When I hear your laugh from the other room -god, it’s such a beautiful soundIt must be the jet-lag, it’s 3am Virginia time I’m probably just dehydrated, my mother always tells me I never drink enough water 27

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I see you asleep in the other bunk and I am filled with a softness I have never felt before Closely followed by the blizzard of my terrified thoughts that you can read the words behind my eyes that I become dslyexic for when I look in a mirror I know I love you, but why am I so scared of my love for you? We’re best friends, we knew each other before we were born My favourite part of the year is when I see you It always has been I distinctly remember, when I was in fifth grade, staring out the window of my bus at the high school I would one day fall apart in -I could see the hall that She abandoned me inThe sun streamed through the chunks of hair that were my only friends on those afternoons, surrounded by a whirlwind of laughter that I could not be a part of And I thought the only reason I can be happy is because I have my Elizabeth My Elizabeth You were my only friend until I met Her in eighth grade I abandoned everyone for Her If She had asked I would have left even you -isn’t it ironic how it was me that was then left behind?And yet I didn’t kill myself in those days when my heart was ground into the dirt under the tree She and I once laughed under during fire drills, our giggles drifting up into the sky as clouded as my eyes Those days before I could lift the weight of my mother’s spatula and unstick the pieces of my heart from between the roots of that massive oak -even though I am still searching for that final pieceI didn’t kill myself because of you Because it meant I would never again feel the safety I feel around you

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Did you know I feel safe around you? Not just in the way I can be myself in your mere proximity -you could be across the room and yet the vibration of your soul still puts me at easeBut safe from the paranoia that eats my brain alive at night like a starved parasite and turns my frightened tears into blood on my wrists Dear Elizabeth, There are no monsters under the bed when I am with you If your presence at my side makes me feel safe, secure, and grounded for once in my life Why does the touch of your hand terrify me so goddamn much? You dragged me around your church to meet your friends and I almost cried Not out of my normal jealousy that you have other friends that I am convinced you love more than me -even though that should not bother me as much as it does but I am too insecure in who I am to be satisfied as anything less than the best anything other than perfect even though I will never be anyone’s number one not even yoursBut out of fear A fear I still cannot put a name to not even five years later I have no idea why I was so scared Why I am still so scared What is it about you that makes me so scared? What is it about you that makes me come alive? Love, Your Terrified Best Friend

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Charles

Sarah Divita

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Sierra

Sarah Divita

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Abusive Relationship

You Only Have to Walk Two Blocks to Her Place Syd Lewin

She has told you kissing is weird at first. She is right, but only halfway. She didn’t take your hands in the moonlight And explain that first kisses are rough, darling. They start with you having no time to think While her hands are grabbing your face And then her mouth smashes into yours With the force of the riptides moving fast towards a target That has only just realized it doesn’t want this. But now your mouth is full of her tongue And your heart is full of her magics And you can’t quite talk like this. She has done this a million times before. And you, you have not, and so you listen To her gasped directions and the weight of her breathing Until the time runs out and you’re expected home for dinner. She shoves you out the door again To find the words you dropped on the way to her basement.

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Comforted

Colleen Topping

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Interconnection Valeria Moreno

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Gun Violence

The Drill

Colton Adrian

The siren reminds us more of an oven letting us know the brownies are done than whatever emergency it thinks is happening. The School Shooter walks in our classroom and we look at him sleepily. It is Monday. It is cloudy. We ask him if he’s the Dodge poet for today. He says he is not. He says he does not know what that means. He points his semi-automatic at the head of Sleeping George, hits him with the end of it, says, “Wake up!” Sleeping George looks up, says, “You first,” and puts his head back down. Impervious Chase yawns, Bored Ashley blows a bubble, it pops. The School Shooter fires the gun at the back wall above our heads, unloads the semi-automatic. The bullets invisible until they hit, fireworks gloriously beaming toward us making a halo levitate upon our poetry circle and we all say, “This is a very convincing reading.” We ask him, “How do you get into the speaker’s mind so well? How can we incorporate your passion and emotion into our own words and phrases and stanzas? Do you like coffee? Kind Ryan brought doughnuts.” And The School Shooter puts down his gun and pulls up a chair.

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M.S.: I’m a white nationalist

Alexzane Taylor

“Do you really believe the things you say/post?” She swiped up on his Snapchat. She had to know if he said the things he said for attention or just to get under people’s skin. Or, if he actually believed that white people were superior to minorities, that fat people didn’t deserve the right to vote, that the Americas were rightfully conquered not stolen, that immigrants were dirty job-stealing terrorists or any of the many horrible comments and rants he had said over the years. “Yes,” he replied quickly.

Proud Liberian

Alexzane Taylor

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“Why?” A part of her didn’t want to believe it. How could she know someone like that? How could she have ever been intimate with someone like that? She wasn’t shocked, but she was heavily disappointed. ~ She remembers summer 2019, laying in his bed, her fingers running through his hair while Star Wars played on the tv in the background. He sang the praises of her intelligence, beauty, kindness, and positivity. He said he had always thought he must be bad, but he was sure that it was true because he thought she was so good and he was nothing like her. She was taken aback. He was being so honest and open, a side he rarely showed. With a hand on his cheek, she looked him directly in the eyes with a newfound ferocity to help. She wanted to help him express a part of him that he was proud of. If he really wanted to be a better person, she was willing to help him achieve that goal. It didn’t matter much that he was a Republican and she was most definitely not; he was asking for help and she was going to try her best. Sure, he had said some more-than-sketchy things in the past, like when he told her multiple times that he would kill himself if she didn’t date him or when he talked about shooting up their high school, but she could feel that he was being sincere. He wanted to turn over a new leaf. ~ “I’m a white nationalist,” he said. Merriam-Webster defines white nationalist as: “one of a group of militant whites who espouse white supremacy and advocate enforced racial segregation.” If he could truly believe in all of those things, then what the hell did he want with her? She was a Liberian-American immigrant; a black woman in American. The very existence of everything she was and everything she would ever be cringed at his answer. Her skin crawled. How could someone be filled with so much hate? She blocked him for the final time. 37

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Buried

Alexzane Taylor

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Gun Violence

A Thousand Souls For One

Ashley Barnhill

What has he wrought here? Souls are pushed out of vessels By small, silver tips. That man being the trigger And his rage bearing the deaths.

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He Who Is Without

Logan Sullivan

He who is without Stands tall on top of a cliff. Without the resolve to fall, Not even the courage to look. Without the resolve to fade, Not even the courage to face. He just stands there, Unable to sink Or swim, Unable to change, Or breakaway. Just standing there, Not knowing what to do.

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Determined

Alexzane Taylor

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Deaf Noise

Colton Adrian

I hear the static between Adam’s finger and God’s while standing on the same spot Anna Sheppard threw up. I hear the overhead projector spark a little before catching on fire and the laughter of my classmates when the ceiling sprinklers turn on. I hear the sizzle of my own brain as I inhale a Marlboro Twenty-Seven cigarette. I hear the twelve gauge blast while watering the geraniums and then I hear the most silent thing there is to hear: the stygian air before the cow hits the earth, followed by the solid thud vibrating under my boots. I hear the school bus beeping as it backs up on Hickory Court and wonder how many coffins can come from one fully grown tree. I hear the bubbling of crystal meth in a glass pipe between 1st and West Main, under a wall mural that says, The World is Yours. I can still hear the creaking of my 6th grade locker at James Blair, the folded notes from Emily Ripshire slipped through the crack. I hear the door slamming when I’m in bed and wish the sunset wasn’t so beautiful. I hear loud Italian laughs in Nanny’s kitchen at Christmas, when the doorbell was my favorite thing in the world. I hear Ricky Carlotta’s jaw crack after Sean Evans clocks him at the bus stop one morning after Ricky tries to take Sean’s cherry Pop-Tart. I hear the moon and its phases and Mary Bodeker blaming her mood on it.

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I hear the dartboard that was just a circle Andy drew on the drywall at the Lake Powell house, the constant Spanish music two doors down, the psilocybin mushrooms growing in the humid attic and the heirloom tomatoes sprouting in the big backyard. I hear protesters yelling that Black Lives Matter, and mine my own voice yelling it back. I hear the showers in Virginia Peninsula Regional Jail and the crusted semen peeling between the calcified bricks. I hear metal bearings in the urethane wheels of the first Powell Peralta skateboard I had ever seen beneath the feet of Cory Minor, pushing on hot asphalt with the balance neither of us had yet. I hear the questions on the timeshare salesman real estate exam, and Judge Killilea when she asks me how I plead. I hear the loudest thing I’ve ever heard: the car ride home after Carolyn Rose tells me she’s moving. I hear myself talking and wish I could rehearse conversations before they happen. I hear that little hm sound Emma Destin makes when she’s half asleep, lying in the grass watching a nuclear missile hum through the blank sky. I hear Ms. Sheldon’s French-tipped fingernail pointing at my poems, saying, show, don’t tell.

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Little Cocksparrow I Sid Estelle

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Little Cocksparrow II Sid Estelle

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timeshare salesboy: a sestina

Colton Adrian

The smoker’s section is where we don’t have to act. We talk tales of trash sales and how to pressure. But then someone says, “at least they get presents.” That someone’s left on the smoker’s section sidewalk and even that someone will sell to an orphan. If his credit gets approved then who needs to apologize? So he didn’t get approved but no one needed to apologize. He didn’t like the smoker’s section, and he didn’t like to act like he was unwanted, but it makes money being an orphan. “Sure wish I coulda vacationed with mom,” he puts on the pressure. He walks them out, bending around until they’re at the end of the sidewalk, because even if they didn’t want the gift, they still get the presents. They get them regardless, these presents. Sometimes we have to apologize for taking them the long way around the sidewalk. That’s just an act. That long walk just builds the pressure like the long wonder that knows the orphan. Imagine life without vacation being a child without parents, an orphan: You do not get presents. The pain is subdued to a constant, dull pressure. Don’t worry and don’t run and don’t apologize, you know all there is to life is the act. Take them down that sidewalk.

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Show them your relatable soul on that sidewalk. If you have to pretend you’re an orphan, then that is how you act. Watch the peasants give the presents. The reason we all apologize is because we think there’s too much pressure. It doesn’t matter, the pressure because someone’s pissing on the sidewalk, they don’t apologize, they had an orphan, they bought him presents, he loved only because he couldn’t act. Sometimes there’s a pressure to act, some attempt to apologize to the orphan, who sleeps on the sidewalk and dreams birthday presents.

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The Female Gays

Emma Schmidt

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Paired With Shades of Pink

Abby Walsh

i. orange Soft bodies, hard bodies, checked shirts, short hair. Sunsets. Sunrises. Sorbet. Acts of resistance disguised as acts of love. I see Bree and her surety in herself, her unwillingness to be anything else. And I want that. I crave a hole shaped like me. A space where I fit perfectly. Venus calls me and I reach for her, my fingers brushing her breast before I fall. Something keeps me from stepping fully into her light. Fraud. Invader. Fake. I just want to know. ii. blue and purple Soft bodies, hard bodies, checked shirts, short hair. Dusk. Dawn. Dense forests. Acts of resistance disguised as acts of love. I see myself and her former surety in herself, her unwillingness to be anything else. And I want that, I crave a hole shaped like me. A space where I fit perfectly. Mars tugs at the back of my mind, reminding me of those I’ve loved before. Self-hatred seethes through me and I want to scream and run away. Not enough. Too much. Defector. I just want to know.

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Lavender Menace! → Syd Lewin

Self Harm

did i wake you?

Barjaa Brown

untangling the itchy sheets from my limbs eyes wide, staring at the ceiling breathing uneven heart beating to a 2/4 rhythm throat closing did i wake you? swinging my body to the edge of the bed testing my weight footsteps inching forward my hand grasping the door knob floor boards creaking, a ghost crawling home did i wake you? cold tile pressing into my toes cold air biting at my exposed skin hand reaching in the darkness searching for the light switch harsh white light flooding the bathroom did i wake you?

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a door separating your sleeping form from my distressed one hollow eyes staring forward in the mirror breath ragged and hiccuping clenched teeth to try to hold it in a hand at my throat did i wake you? fabric drifting to the floor fingers prodding soft flesh scars and stretchmarks adorning this corpse fingers tense, itching to feel something nails digging into skin for that familiar bite did i wake you?

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Petrichor

Alexzane Taylor Amendment Art Award Winner 53

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Abusive Relationship

Ivy, Sumac and Two Black Boys in Love.

Byron Edge

Once my body didn’t belong to me. My skin no longer mine to run my hands over. My mouth still drips with the venom you spat into it. I did everything I could reclaim the territory that I call my flesh. I remember dancing in the dark, our forms moving, shaking and jumping, like zealots under a full moon. I could feel the heat building in my stomach. That nauseating, intense feeling told me I wanted you. I found myself praying at night, praying that you would never leave me. Prayer the only way to get you touch me. In the dark and in love I found my voice, the one that I would use to scream and curse you. In the cover of the shadows, in my bedroom you came to me. In my dreams you broke me apart between your fingers, shoving them into your mouth just to hold onto the taste. Your mouth must burn now, your throat must be tight, tongue sitting heavy in your mouth like stone. I steeped myself in poison that day. I sewed ivy and sumac into my skin, took cyanide with my coffee, bathed in ammonia. You will never enjoy me, or the thought of me, again. You made sure of that. With time I’ve grown again. I’ve ripped the poisoned leaves from my skin. On days when you think of me, I hope you can handle that acrid taste, and the bile that rises into your throat. I want you to know I loved you once. I want that taste to always linger.

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Nemophilist Alexzane Taylor

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#12

Cheryl Anne Fries Hello Elizabeth I love a girl Yes I love a girl -and it doesn’t make me sick to think those words anymoreAnd oh is she the best girl in the world She is smart, and funny, and so so beautiful -I have never met Aphrodite, but I can’t imagine her being more beautiful than this girl I so desperately want to be mineShe is caring, she has such a big heart, she loves all and everything in between -she has even set a little bit aside for me wrapped the little package of her love in a breathable linen stitched with the words of her reminders that I am loved by so many people, that my life has such incredible worth, even if I cannot see it yet and tied with a strand of silk from the golden lasso of truth, proving to me the weight of those words and set that package on one of the empty shelves in my heart as she slowly replaces what was burned by the first girl I now realize this heart lovedShe is strong, she can accomplish anything she puts her mind to and she puts her mind to so many amazing things -the world will one day quiver from the weight of change that follows in her footstepsI love her so so much, and I need you to know that To know that I would love her to the best of my ability, and hopefully more than anyone else ever has or ever could And all I can do is hope you will understand Because I know you will never agree But oh

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Do I love her I love her more than I've ever loved anyone before More than I thought this china heart and butcher knife soul could ever possibly love I want to run across the miles that separate us and arrive on her doorstep with her favourite flowers and her favourite meal I want to lean against her white fridge covered in childhood school portraits and team soccer photos and post-its and Christmas cards from 2002 I want to watch her as she once again teaches me how to make banana fosters I want to laugh wildly with her as the alcohol in her pan turns into a fire that reaches for the wooden cabinets above I want to hold her hands in my own Hands that could trace constellations of life across the burned hills she lives among I want to shield her from the world, from the horrors that exist in this terrible world, to ensure she never experiences what I have experienced in this horrific world I want to be the sword she brandishes against her own demons while she is the spotlight that reduces the territory of which in mine can hide I want to hold her tight and never let go I want to love her in the open Let the world behold her and show everyone why I love her I love her I love her I love her But it is a fantasy Her church may accept the people who paint more than their skin in rainbows May have promised me and all her children that rainbows are gifts from God So of course, Any hearts He paints in such a myriad of life Of His most favourite creation Would be not just welcomed But adored

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But my church? They wouldn’t even bother to pierce me to a tree because that punishment is reserved only for saviours of the world And I am an abomination An obscenity To everything in His sight My church would place stone upon stone upon stone upon stone upon my chest until my ribs splinter from the weight of their words and the scars upon my wrists would become lacerations under their steel tongues sharpened weekly by the whetstone of hatred from the pulpit They would not bother to grace my tomb with a headstone I may love her But I would never be able to love her in the open And I could never read to the world from my list of reasons why I love her So I will keep that list in my heart Until one day -one magnificent dayI can be brave enough to read that list to the world and be proud in my rainbows refracting across my healed heart

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Sundays at Twilight Studios

Rice Evans 59

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Day and Night Emily Woodard

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Lay Her Down (Series) Valeria Moreno

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der Menace

Syd Lewin

globalization is the white man’s disguise for colonization

Sonnet Garcia

why is it so difficult to find anything about my “self ”? am i not using the right keywords? or are there no documents on transgressions against asian americans? i can’t use “xenophobia” as that’s not synonymous to this diaspora, manifest destiny feeding us that term, as an umbrella to minimize our struggles but yet we still continue to experience this “otherness” felt, both from our oppressors, as well as within our own homes. call it successful assimilation, or in-progress measured by our silence that has been fostered for years since our infant-hood force-fed this narrative of “the land of the free” taught alongside the rotting foundation, built on the strife of stolen land and stolen people. they didn’t have freedom to say no, not even given a choice. if we speak out against those who gave us our “opportunity” then we are deemed ungrateful is that what you call it? “opportunity”? was it opportunity when they groomed us into a career path, that has become an underrated, but inescapable joke? or the other inevitable professions as the help, who were my “role models” around the classroom? or when they took away one of the earliest filipino-towns, only to “regift” that small neighborhood, but five hours away? 66

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im not going to let them continue to wave our nations’ flags in my face, that “asian persuasion” being the only marketing factor to attract me. you gave me the knowledge and constant experience of silent berate-ment, and so the illusion doesn’t work. parents, tired of our constant pleading for a better life, retort with “why are you here then? why don’t you leave?” we ended up here for the very reasons you decide to leave. you thought you were choosing the best chance, but you really chose the better of two evils. actually, you benefited off of this toxic relationship. albeit a mutually parasitic one, where no one can discern who’s leeching off who. you update me of our relatives perpetual strandedness for the green, but yet you refuse to acknowledge the stagnant reality of immigration. amongst the bans and backhanded schemes, you started truly embodying their ideals, “if you don’t see it, then it doesn’t exist.”

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Catalyst →

Sika Bonsu 68

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Truly A Brother's Keeper

Eric Agyemang-Dua Jr.

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Freedom of Education

Eric Agyemang-Dua Jr. 73

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The River

Ariel Mack

The river is a term and concept and feeling that is consciously working through us. It doesn't stop. As hard as we try to submerge, it always wins. It is the ancestors avenged. Avenged is the right word that I want to use. The negative connotation comes from the oppressor working within you. Every negative thought about ourselves comes from the oppressor. The oppressor has no gender. The oppressor can do nothing more than oppress; that is their title; that is their life. To expose that is radical, to bring light to that is beautiful. Quite strange that a race that holds light whiteness to the level of godliness and righteousness is angered quickly when the light of the truth is brought to them with words. Language. Differences. Similarities. Whiteness. Miseducation. Hood Scholar, the river is working through you. Oral knowledge passed on to me, to be passed onto you. Young, gifted and black Laurraine spoke to Nina and Nina spoke to me. This was not a game of telephone. You see, this was the spiritual manifesting something greater than I could have ever imagined. We could have ever imagined. I feel toxic at times, abusive at times. Ancestors please help me to do the work to heal and forgive myself first. This is hard work unlearning, forgiving, re-learning, re-educating. It’s hard, but not impossible. Our double consciousness is constantly in a state of trauma, being abused by our oppressors and in return sometimes abused by our own kin. How do we escape the cycle, break the curse? Recognize that none of this abuse is our fault. It is not your fault. Forgive yourself. I believe you can do it, you can do it. They know you can do it. THEY know you can do it. Self-doubt is another trait brought to you by the oppressor and in return brought to you by yourself. You have to believe in the power of you and the power of me too.

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Ubuntu: I am because we are. We are the river and the river is us. Redirect the miseducated to the river, for the river though within them too the false stream of whiteness is working. Individually the fake stream can flow so much that we shrink our mighty river within to fit in that. That is what a stream is, a form of river. But a river is bigger. Stronger, powerful. Don’t you know where you come from? You come from the river. The drinking gourd, laying down our burdens by the riverside. That is what they meant. The man knows that’s where our strength comes from. “Don’t be afraid of water,” I say to myself when I go in the ocean, when I go to the beach, we all feel that as we wade in the shallow end. You know what I'm talking about. Wading in that water just like they did to get the oppressor off their tracks. Wade, wade, wade Ancestors, you have not been allowed to rest because we have not taken our freedom, you know they ain’t gone hand it to us. We’ve got to take it, and take whoever else ain’t free with us. No one can be left behind. I am because we are. Common unity, a phrase often used by Dr. T, Tanya PetifordWatts. How do we find our own rainbows amongst the streams and clouds of whiteness? The river. In the river we see ourselves we see our reflection we see our ancestors look back at us. We find ourselves.

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How Can I Choose?

Cheryl Anne Fries

I am bisexual and a Roman Catholic and I don’t know how to feel about that. I haven't felt truly Catholic for years. I don’t know if I ever have. At least, not past the time when the only face of God I knew was someone who created rainbows out of joy to tell Noah that the world had begun anew and sent a dove back to his truest believer with the holy gift of an olive branch hanging between its precious beak. Long before I found comfort in storms and ran from the shame and guilt I now associate with rainbows. I have always felt like an outsider within my own parish. I sat in the pews and knew everyone was staring at me because they knew I was wrong. Even if I hadn't yet figured out what was wrong with me. I try not to cry during youth group because I have no one to talk to, I try to convince myself I have no one to talk to because I don’t make the effort to meet new people. Not because they also know something is wrong with me. I have never truly felt welcome by my church or by my youth group. Even though they preach love, I have seen too much hate fall from the lips of believers to trust the men behind the gilded granite pulpit. Every Sunday I would sit on the edge of a knife, sitting in fear of the God-loving teens around me led by passionate adults who found God and let Him save their life. Next to those who would shout their belief in the father, the son, and the holy spirit so loud that even the devil would shake in fear. And me? I sit next to them, waiting for them to announce that they have finally discovered why I am destined for Hell. Sunday Mass. So much anxiety attacks my shattering heart with just those two words alone. I have learned to hide terror behind dispassionate words and an attitude of ambivalence, behind grunts, and silence, and “I feel sick”. Even if I see a rainbow flag hanging behind the stone altar. I do not know how else to approach church. It is an automatic response trained from years of hiding. I have always felt I was hiding from them for as long as I can remember, but I never could figure out why. It wasn’t until November 2019 that I finally figured out why. I thought it was because I believed different things than many of the parishioners and priests. I thought it was because I was learning how to love myself at night like all teenagers do. I thought it was because I enjoyed seeing the blood run freely from my thighs and wrists. I thought it was because of many things. But never this. Lord help me never this. For all of the reasons to burn in hell, why must it be this one. Hell. That's a place I’m not sure even really exists. I don’t doubt its existence because I’m scared

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of it, but because I don’t really believe in Heaven either. And why would one exist without the other? I have always believed we don’t have it exactly right, but one of the few things I do think we got right is the idea of balance. With extreme evil must come extreme good. I have seen that in my own life and now I’m seeing it at play in our world and country. I believe in balance and yet I don’t believe in Heaven or Hell. Why would an absent God create a limitless afterlife with three locations if he can’t even be bothered to check in once a decade on his creations? If God ever was real, he’s either dead or a bastard. I am on the edge of rejecting my religion and everything I have ever been taught. I prayed before every family dinner, I never missed a Sunday mass, not even if there was snow on the ground and I pleaded with my parents to let me go sledding with the other kids. I fell asleep to lullabies proclaiming Jesus’s love for his little lambs. Turns out that wasn’t enough. Maybe I should have switched to that private Catholic school with my little sisters. If I had, maybe I wouldn’t be what I am now. I am the worst thing a Roman Catholic can be. Queer. I like women. I do, I really do. The thought of a woman caressing my face with her soft palms and gentle lips makes my soul bloom like a flower in the first glimpse of springtime sunshine. The thought of a woman tracing her fingers along my palm as we sit on our front porch and watch the deer along the edge of our cottage’s meadow feels like the gentle steam of your hot chocolate fogging up your glasses as you sit beside the fire after playing in the snow for hours. I will walk past a man and not blink twice, only turning my head if I have known him for a very long time and know him deeply and his soul intimately. Like David from 8th grade math. I had a crush for years. The only other crush I have ever had is with my best friend. My female best friend. Who has a steady boyfriend. My her. And this has been my strongest crush. I have been in love with her for years. Finally explains why I was so terrified to hold her hand in church as she introduced me to her friends and the members of her parish with wispy gray hairs. Even though their wrinkles were formed from smiles and not the scowls I am so used to. Even if their eyes searched for reasons to tell you just how much God loves you instead of the judgement they are so eager to pass. A random lovely lady can walk past me in the supermarket with her hair in a messy bun, wearing an oversized, stained t-shirt, grey yoga pants, and the ugliest pair of neon green Crocs I have ever seen and I can barely keep from staring

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as she turns the corner, leaving me stranded and alone and floundering in the frozen foods aisle as she moves on to baking. Fighting with this piece of me. And I don’t know what to do with this piece of me. Am I expected to shove this piece down within me and deprive it of warmth and sunshine and the nutrients of a kind woman’s smile? Am I supposed to turn my back on this intrinsic portion of myself because some men in a dusty old book tell me it’s wrong? Am I supposed to hate myself for this too? What’s even so wrong about this? It’s love. So what if our genitals don’t oppose the other. So what if while opposites attract, I’m not attracted to the opposite as much as I am the similar. I want to stop hating myself, I have worked for years to move on from the idealized vision of perfection within my mind, to accept the true, flawed version of myself, and to love it. And I am so close. So close. And now I have to deal with all this bullshit? From my religious community, I’m destined to burn in hell for all of eternity if I ever act on these atrocious feelings. From the community that’s supposed to accept me, I’m not gay enough. I don’t know what to do. I know my mother thinks gay marriage being legalized is good and the discrimination against gay couples is wrong. But when confronted with the idea of her own daughter belonging to that community the word that left her mouth was “disappointed”. And that’s just one fourth of my immediate family. There are no openly gay memebers of my family at any level, in any state. I don’t know if I’m brave enough to be the first. I don’t know what my father would say, if my mother was disappointed, I’m frightened of how this could hurt him if I ever tell him. My grandmother, I have no idea whether she even accpets the gay communtiy as human. I have been too scared to ask, even before I started asking my own questions. She has never commented either way. One Aunt I think will start to argue about how it's wrong, even though she hasn’t been to church in decades. Even though I have no evidence of her beliefs to go on. I think I’m scared of my other Aunt’s reaction the most. I think she’ll want to support me, but I can’t be sure. If she thought I was doing something wrong, she would not hesitate to tell me and she would not hold back. I don’t think I could bear her hate. I think most of my cousins would be okay with it, but not all of them. Lily knows and I think she’s okay with it. She seems like she’s okay with it, but I’m still not really sure. Cristin, gosh Cristin. I’m so scared she’ll hate me more than she already does. Her religion is everything to

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her and if I openly defy it? More than I already have been? And in the worst way possible? What if that causes a break I can’t fix? I’m not ready to risk that. I don’t think I ever will be. They are everything to me. The thought of bringing someone home to Thanksgiving, or to Christmas, it makes me so happy. The thought that I might, one day, be accepted and welcomed by my family for who I truly am gets me through the long Sunday morning speeches and dry hymns that lack the life I am continuously chasing. The thought of introducing and showing off my significant other, someone with whom I am deeply and truly in love with, showing everyone the best that they can be, and how happy they make me everyday, how wonderful and beautiful they are, it gets me through each early morning service. But it inevitably comes crashing down around my sinful ears when that final sobering question makes itself known. “But will you still be welcomed, will you still be loved?” How can I know if I don’t test the waters? How can I test the waters without them suspecting? How can I survive the suspicion without my disappointed mother’s support? I’m tortured by the thought of being good enough, but how can I be good at all if I live in the sin of same-sex attraction? How can I love, even live, with myself if I choose this “lifestyle”? It feels like I have two choices. My religion. My bisexuality. My religion, which raised me, which taught me the inherent goodness and value in my fellow human beings. Which taught me how a sunrise will always follow the darkest night. Which taught me to love above all. My bisexuality, which brings me life. Which makes me happy to still be alive. Which gives me a purpose I have lacked all of my life and an answer to the questions I have asked since I was ten. I must choose between who I have been and who I can be. They cannot co-exist. I hate the past and yet I fear the future. I don’t know if I can choose between the two. As much as I want to blend the two together, to make them peacefully coexist, I don’t think they can. There is just too much hate directed at me, by others and by myself. I know who I want to be, but I don’t know if I have the strength to be them.

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Heaven in Hell I Valeria Moreno

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Heaven in Hell III

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Good Little Church Girl

Janae Witcher

There was a little girl not to long ago who sat quietly in the church pew with her hands folded ever so perfectly, her legs kept still instead of swinging backing and against the wood, and her big brown eyes were staring straight ahead trying to focus on the words being spoken by the strange man up front even though she didn’t really understand what was being said. Since her conception she was trained to be the very definition of perfect. Her hair must always be pristine, no baby hair out of place and no bun or braid could ever come undone. Her clothes need to be fresh and clean, crisp and refined, a way of showing others in her congregation that she cares about her appearance. Her speech can not sound as if she was raised stupid, their words not hers, and she has to have the lord’s prayer memorized and get it right everytime. In public she had to show restraint and exude self control at a young age, she couldn’t participate with what the other children were doing, lest she be seen as wild and unruly and undesirable. They taught her that everything she was doing was to please God in his eyes and make her suitable for heaven, a place that only accepted those who followed his law without fail and even the slightest deviation from that could land her in Hell just like that. If she sinned she would die, if she didn’t associate with the “right people” she would be a social outcast, if she didn’t say and do the right things 24/7 she would have to endure punishment in order to be redeemed. She had to study her bible every single day and memorize key scriptures by heart, her school work would be put off until this was done first. She wasn’t allowed to be sexual, her body though her own could not be indulged, even looking at her naked body in the mirror was a sin. She must remained covered at all times, keeps wandering eyes from grasping her in. This continued until he little girl became a grown woman and all the while no one knew that this task of being a perfect little angel was killing her. In her task to be the image of God’s light she constantly stressed herself out to the point that she would wake up from nightmares of self doubt and hatred towards herself. She would make herself sick daily, anxiety rising in her throat and pushing itself out in a fit of rage. She would go to sleep at night crying because she didn’t know if people were talking behind her back about how badly she messed up in their bible study meetings. If she made even the slightest infraction she would go into a full on panic attack, something that not even her mother could help her control and they congregation would just assume she was crazy. She would lie awake for hours on end trying to calculate in the depths of her

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mind what she has to do to get back into a perfect standing so much so that it would make everyone forget what she did wrong in the first place, that is if they were even paying attention to her to begin with. She wouldn’t eat half the time, and she would shut herself out from the people she held close because she didn’t think they would understand what was going on in her mind. In fact, suicide called to her like an old friend begging her to come near, until something else pulled her away from it. She would wonder if people even noticed her efforts to be this perfect person, this infallible image of God’s goodness and light despite the fact that she was filled with so much darkness and despair. Did they even appreciate her, or see who she had become??? She had been pushed to the corner, cramped there with no room to move, no chance of her to become something more than a good child in a pew seat. All she wanted was the chance to be free. For that good little church girl to know that its ok to mess up. Its ok to not say the right thing all the time. Its ok to scream and cry and yell when you feel trapped. Its ok to not to impress everyone, because everyone doesn’t have your best interests at heart. Its ok to touch your body and love yourself, because in everyone is the desire to be loved and to feel beautiful. It's not a sin to love ourselves and we won’t go to hell because of one mistake. In truth she let the words of others dictate her life so much so that she nearly drive herself to insanity trying to appease them rather than doing what's best for her soul and her soul alone. Her parents never made her feel this way, their love for her very existence is what reminded her that the words spewed out by those who didn’t really know her were more poison than sugar. And if there is a God out there or some higher being, she would like to believe that their destiny for her was never to be dominated by the words of poisonous men, but for her to look inside of herself and say to that good little church girl “Whether I am wild or docile, I am me”.

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Inside Out

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featured artist Mark Williams I am a sophomore majoring in Poli Sci with a concentration in civil rights. I’m from a little bit of everywhere because my family moved around, but RVA is home. My mom got me a DSLR for my 16th birthday and it just took off from there. My work is often inspired by the pop culture of my childhood as well as incorporating aspects of current social issues/trends in our society.

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FEATURED ARTIST

Inside Out

Mark Williams Inside Out is a self-portrait. I took it a few weeks after the national shutdown, when I was really just overwhelmed with feeling isolated and frustrated that I couldn't go outside. So the only solution was to bring outside in. I wanted the pictures to feel almost surreal, like I was in the land of Blue’s Clues. I chose to add a white picket fence but one made of paper, as something widely accepted to be strong and stable, that can do the job of containing what it’s meant to. I wanted the fence to mirror my attitude towards our government and the systems that were designed to contain a pandemic. Something widely accepted to be strong and stable, and able to do the job of containing what it's meant to, until it was put to the test and proved to be fragile. 86

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FEATURED ARTIST

Queen of the Earth

Mark Williams

I got the idea for Queen of the Earth after watching a documentary about the impact of fast fashion on our climate. In our world we prioritize our appearance over everything. Whether it’s the clothes we wear or which generation iPhone we have, our decisions are driven by the way we wish to be perceived, despite those actions being detrimental to the climate. So I thought a good way to have that message be visualized was by putting a beautiful woman in a gown made of trash bags surrounded by all the trash she’s produced. 88

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FEATURED ARTIST

Faces of Fear

Mark Williams, Featured Artist Faces of Fear is my favorite project that I’ve worked on. The photos were taken at a gun rights rally in RVA in January of this year. I wanted the photos to have an emotional connection as well as somewhat of a shock factor. The weapons being toted, although shocking in size and capability, are not the real issue. The issue is the system and the laws, or lack thereof, that allow for someone to unabashedly carry a military grade weapon through a city street in broad daylight. Gun reform can no longer just be a political talking point that comes up every four years, it has to be something we actively fight for. and although I personally do not agree with guns, the right to own one cannot just be reserved for white people. We've seen gun rights advocates stand up in defense of the senseless killing of Trayvon Martin, yet remain silent in the case of Breonna Taylor. We must not only fix our gun laws but in doing so we have to make sure they truly apply to all people and do not further marginalize black and brown communities. 91

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God's Grace

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Liberia Burning

Alexzane Taylor

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Baton

Audrey Hale

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Death

Firestorm

Cheryl Anne Fries A world crossbred with Death’s sweeping orange cloak, with her tall, pointed hood that we see above the broken trees every night as She hunts us down. A world where forest fires replace evergreens, where even the surface of the remaining oceans are slick with flames and melting plastic. A world encased in a bright orange, torrid mist, suppressing the once vivid rainbows of life. This is the world that was bequeathed to us. My hands shake as I feel the heat through the concrete walls. As I see the light from the exploding fires thrown across the walls of our basement. As the dirt floor bubbles between my toes as the Earth is forced to reform herself. I can’t hear their screams. Did they even have a chance to scream? I didn’t know it would be our last sunset by the lake. I didn’t know we’d huddled around the campfire for s’mores and ghost stories for the last time. I didn’t know I would never again hear my mother’s horribly off-key voice entwine with Bruce Springsteen’s. Last night, as I lay on the rocky sand, serenaded by the night music of the Earth and the gentle lapping of the lake, I didn’t know it was the last time we would see the stars. I didn’t know it was the last time the moonlight would cast silver shadows across the fields thick with grass and wildflowers. I didn't know I would never again stare up in awe at Orion’s belt. I didn’t know I would never again watch it fade into the night canvas the gods painted nightly like Pollock. I didn’t know I would never again know night. If I had, I would have spent that night trying to remember everything, from the way the cicadas screamed in chorus to the way the sun sat above the hills in a burst of tame fire before Mother Earth turned her face to the moon. I would have tried to memorize the world as I spinned with it instead of letting it spin around me. I would have spent the rest of my life memorizing the laughs of my sisters and the look of unfettered joy in my dog’s eyes as he dragged a branch twice his size from the lake. I would have asked my mother why dragonflies were her favourite animal. Maybe it had something to do with being able to fly away from the snapping jaws of the predator beneath you. Maybe it had something to do with how everytime we kayaked around our little lake they would perch on her paddle and sing to her with the thrum of their wings. I wish I had asked. I wish I had wanted to ask.

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At 15 I learned what regret was, and it was the Firestorm that taught me. It’s clouds of fire spread across the land, turning everything it touched to a barren ash. It left nothing in its wake but embers on stagnant winds. Our lake dried in the first onslaught of the Firestorm, leaving me surrounded by the scant supplies in our basement. I was surrounded by the cool concrete walls, wrapped in a bright blue towel and hair sending droplets of water to the dusty ground, my family playing in the lake, when I learned Death didn’t come cloaked in black. She came in a blinding flash of orange. Orange the colour of beasts and demons, as if Hell itself exploded from the flimsy blanket of soil upon which we walked. The explosion threw the world to its knees, demanding a final confession as Death swarmed, drenched in swirling shades of orange, her eyes a vermillion inferno. The Firestorm’s scorching, ballooning clouds swept across the Earth, and Death, She led the charge. This is the world we were bequeathed. I will never again see the light in my little sisters’ eyes or hear my father’s giggle as he teases my mother. I will never again feel my dog’s wet nose push against the back of my knees as he tries to force his way between my feet. I will never know why my mother loved dragonflies. Unprotected from the surge, people vanished where they knelt. Their ashes swept away by the copper tinged flash, leaving nothing behind but the air they had yet to inhale. Their final act to shelter the children from the blaze. The children that have been left behind. Those children have been left to wander the now desolate Earth. Left to wail at the loss of everything they knew, of everyone they loved. Left to own nothing more than the dust upon their feet and the blisters upon their backs as they struggle to survive in the decimated world awarded to them by their parents. The Firestorm burned brighter than a collapsing star ever could, its flames singing a tale of hatred and annihilation. It set the sky ablaze and painted the land with crimson shadows dark as blood and scorched highlights of glowing embers across the buildings left behind. It clawed the ground apart, leaving behind gaping wounds so deep that the Earth bled forth her own liquid fire. Gone now are the green hills and white roses framing the dead lakebed, cracked like a shattered mirror. Gone are the songs of birds and crickets, ashen wings and silenced voices leaving behind a frightful silent audience fit for the song of orange death.

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I left the cold protection of our basement in search of my sisters’ remains but was left with nothing but my tears, which have since been stolen. My tears no longer have the chance to run from my cheek to my chin, as the Firestorm’s heat demands even the moisture from my eyes. Leaving the lakebed behind, I crossed over the hills into the nearby town. Dead lilies turned to ash beneath feet branded from the hate of my elders. A hate that was now stitched into every inch of the seared skin of Mother Earth. I found a young child cowering in the shadows of a cavern created when the Firestorm shook the Earth. The burns along his arms revealed the thin bones beneath. Bones blackened by flames his parents’ bodies could not entirely shield him from. I held him as we hid from the fire surrounding us, from Death hunting us in Her swirling haze of orange. I held him as we cried for all that we had lost, for all that had been stolen from us. As our dehydrated bodies tried to cry. As our sobs came in whispered prayers for the dead and the missing. As we mourned the living. This is the world that was bequeathed to us. The once cool air burns our lungs as we breathe fire from the sky. Our skin bubbles and vision swims as if the decimated world we loved was lashing back at the lone survivors of the ones who did this to Her. Because we did. We dropped it. We dropped the Firestorm. We always said our world would end. The oceans would rise, the sun would expand, Yellowstone would finally blow it’s top, aliens. You name it and we’ve cried in terror that it would destroy us. But the one thing we never feared is what consumed us in the end. Did we ever really think we would annihilate ourselves? How could we have believed we deserved the responsibility of holding the key to something meant for such utter destruction? How could we not have seen the greatest danger of all? Blinded by our hubris, we set the world ablaze, and now the children must pay. This is the world we have bequeathed to them.

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The Cataclysm is Chronic

Audrey Hale.

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City of Richmond v. United States

Adam Lockett

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Our Lady

Amuri Morris

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Mine, Not Yours

Eric Agyemang-Dua Jr.

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Self Harm

what is this? Barjaa Brown

Why do you feel like this? What are you looking for? At the very least, I know it is not something you can find in someone else. What is this longing? This hollowness? Emptiness? Neither of those seem like fitting words. It’s not that deep. It’s more like a small hole. One that aches from time to time. What goes there? How did it come to form? Was it created when you were? Has it developed as time has progressed? How can you find what will fill it? Is that even possible? You can picture yourself with a knife, a scalpel in hand. Standing in front of the mirror. Breathing as steady as you can manage. Eyes darting around your reflection, wondering where the best place to start will be. The heart? Lungs? Wrists? Tongue? Mind? Throat? Is it something tangible within you? Is it possible to excise without being an arbiter that chooses which part lives and which part dies? The blade brushing just under your collarbone, skin unstitching slowly. How interesting to watch your body yield to such a solid object. Just a place to test. Slowly at first. Just a few spots here and there. Your eyes staring back at you from the mirror, blank at first, then changing. Fascination at skin, tissue, and blood gives way to frustration. Where is it? Where is it? WHERE IS IT? Your nails are digging into your wrists. Who knew that a little prolonged pressure could leave scars? But even those start to fade eventually. You need something else. You want to know, need to know. Your knife digs deeper and deeper. Trying to satisfy its lust for pain and blood. You are no longer in control. More digging. Light thin strokes are now harder and more haphazard. But you don’t mind. You give very little thought to the hurt. Scraping against bone, cutting open veins, puncturing organs. Soon the knife isn’t enough, your hands dive into your chest, fingers poking and probing flesh. Pushing this and that out of the way. What is the best way to get in? To go deeper, to the very core? Blood has stained your hands. You are making a mess, but none of it matters. No matter how deep you go, you will never find it. 132

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Medicinal

Nora Shaheen

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Chill Pill

Nora Shaheen 134

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Self Harm, Suicide

What Would I Even Tell Her? Cheryl Anne Fries

#6 Hello Elizabeth I don’t like myself I don’t see what other people see in me I don’t even believe them half of the time I’ve learned to take a compliment Not because I believe them But because I’m tired of fighting them Because the uncomfortableness of accepting an untruth is preferable to the silence that follows my disagreement The look in their eyes The lack of understanding that understands far too well So I just nod my head and smile and thank them Because I’d rather hate myself in silence Then try to convince others why they’re lying #16 Hello Elizabeth It’s been awhile since I wrote to you I had to force myself to stop after you called me your sister All the experts say the key to getting over a broken heart is distance and time It’s been over eight months since I realized I loved you Over eight months since I realized my greatest hope was an impossibility And maybe three months since I realized just how much space I would need Maybe three months since you defined our bond as sisters and I smiled with the cracks of a shattering heart echoing in my lonely ears -It’s not a coincidence that we’ve only talked once since your birthdayI once wrote that your laugh is the helium in the balloon of my soul and That I would wake to a cotton candy sky whenever I fell asleep to thoughts of you

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For many years the memory of your laugh has lifted me from the stones beneath my feet, allowing me to see beyond the trenches I so often find myself in and For a few months my mornings were nothing but vivid pastels and glimmering early morning sunshine, giving me a reason to once again love the sun and the beginnings he brings I have come so far from that little girl we both once knew The little girl you led by the hand throughout your church The little girl with the traitorous heart that burst with unanswerable questions that I refused to listen to The little girl who wielded razors and matches like armour against the demons inside her ruby red veins The little girl who was scared to live I am still terrified of you holding my hand, especially in a church The only difference between me now and that little girl 7 years ago is now I have asked those questions that were buried behind the concrete fortress of a terrified child’s heart I have allowed them to thrive in the sunshine and watered them daily I have given those questions not only tender care, but permission to exist I no longer turn weapons against my own skin And I am excited to be alive Realizing I love you has lifted a weight I did not realize I was carrying I may still be holding up my own sky up with trembling hands, but now the chains are gone and the cliff I stand beside is no longer crumbling I am in the process of healing from so many things my dear Healing from the imbalance of chemicals in my brain Healing from the demons that choked me nightly Healing from the paralyzing fear and paranoia of having a life I couldn’t make myself worthy of living Healing from Her words Healing from scars Healing from my 21 years of living And I have only begun to heal my heart

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Considering it took me like 7 years to accept that I was in love with you, it’s probably gonna take me a whole lot longer than the three months I have already taken before I am well and truly over you Before I think of you as my sister first and soulmate second And I’m okay with that One of the things I’ve learned over the past 5 years is that you can’t force healing It comes in it’s own bittersweet time I will smile around these lemons between my lips and I will teach myself to love their sting Until one day, their acid no longer sears my tongue and I can sweeten them with the sugar of my heart Sister I am learning I am practicing filling up my own balloon with the precious air from my lungs Not thoughts of yours I'm learning how to paint the skies with early morning birdsong, my own peace, and the fire in my veins Not the way your eyes smile up at me I am learning how to love myself in lieu of loving you It hurt not to write to you on nights when I cried, or when I drank maybe a little bit too much And I’m sorry I didn’t reach out these past few months, but it helped that you didn’t reach out either I will always love you, I will still do anything for you, and I will always be there for you You are my best friend Our souls are still intertwined, but now I know how We were already sisters in everything but blood and legal documentation But now I think I am ready to be just your sister I will never tell you of course But, I think I’m moving on So, hello again, how are you?

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#33 Hello Elizabeth There’s something I have never told you -Or well, anyone really And no, it's not the fact that I’ve been hopelessly in love with you for over seven years Because I have told people about that, just not youIt’s about when I was in the psych ward You were the first to call me And I will never forget that When I heard the phone ring, I just ignored it, because no one had any reason to call me Only my family knew where I was, and they had been here every visiting hour in the past two days I had made sure no one else knew where I was -my head was already swimming from the Latuda, I could barely keep my eyes open I thought maybe Mommy was calling me, maybe she had thought up some follow up point about how she loves me and would be totally destroyed if I did successfully kill myself or maybe it was Lily, who was one year too young to be allowed into an adult psych ward for visiting hours, even if was to see her favourite oldest sisterWhen that patient called out my name, I didn’t know how to react So I answered the phone in confusion and probably more than just slight annoyance And what answered me wasn’t my mother’s tear stained voice But a hesitantly joyful chorus of your family’s voices -of course you all knew you are my family tooWhen I heard your voices, I learned that the movies do not exaggerate about the way your body gives out when you finally reach a bastion of safety I had to hold on to the bar bolted into the wall -so no one could use it as a weaponIn order to not collapse from the weakness in my joints and the buckling in my knees

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My head swam from more than the obvious tears and the new medication But from the exhaustion that hit like a train of bricks when I realized you all actually loved me, that you would continue to choose to love me From the realization that I could set down the yoke that my skin had started to welcome out of the desperation of survival, that my mutilated spine struggled to support From the knowledge that you would carry it until I could pull myself up from the hole in which I had hidden in for the past year, that I would once again see the stars reflect in my own eyes From the relief that I would never again have to stand alone under the weight upon my shoulders, that you would bear half the burden that I was convinced I was strong enough to carry despite the fact that I stood waist-deep in the muck of quicksand without an oxygen tank I don’t remember if I said anything when I heard your voices crackle through the crappy hospital phone speaker I wouldn’t be surprised if I cried out in anguish I hope I at the very least I acknowledged you I know your parents said something But I could not process anything besides the fact that you all had chosen to call me Had wanted to speak to me When I had tried to kill myself When I willingly put myself in a psychiatric hospital When I admitted to the world that I was crazy I remember the hesitancy in your mother’s voice and your father’s support And then all I heard was your voice Elizabeth I have no idea what you said to me But I knew you were telling me that you loved me Elizabeth I don’t remember telling you anything other than “Hold on it's snack time and I want my pudding” And “We’re only supposed to have 10 minute phone calls”

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Elizabeth We had been talking for fifteen minutes when I remembered that and then we continued to talk for fifteen more You would not let me hang up the phone no matter how much my anxiety screamed at me in terror of breaking even such a stupid rule as that I still don’t know why the nurses didn’t come and hang up the phone on us Maybe it's because I came alive at the mere sound of your voice Maybe it's because I was smiling for the first time since I had arrived in the ward I was smiling and it wasn’t the smile of a bitter widow or a feral honey badger It was a smile fueled by the knowledge that I really truly am loved by people who actively choose to love me, instead out of the obligation of shared blood In the knowledge that if my demons were wrong about this, then maybe they were wrong about some other things too Maybe all of it Elizabeth I started to heal the moment your voice came through the phone Elizabeth I went to bed with a peace in my heart that I hadn’t felt in over two years I didn’t wake up to a soggy pillow with snot clinging to my cheeks I woke up to the 5:30 blood pressure check with maybe not an excitement, but at least an interest, to what the next day would bring The next few days I decided to work hard I set the goal to get myself out in time to see Lily’s first highschool volleyball game I accepted the new medication Medication that didn’t make me want to kill myself every five minutes Medication that made me gain 60 pounds in two months but again, at least I haven’t wanted to die since I first swallowed it from a tiny plastic cup Elizabeth I started painting with strokes of joy and fascination that day you called Instead of desperation and disgust Elizabeth My life pivoted in the moment your voices reached my ear Elizabeth You were the first to call me And I will never forget that 140

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Before/After Carleigh Ross

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Self Harm, Suicide

I Have Nothing to Say

Cheryl Anne Fries

I have nothing to say. And when I say I have nothing to say I mean my blankets are twisted so I can't concentrate. I can't concentrate because I don't want to look at the feelings Ihave. I don't want the feelings just like I don't want the memories. I think if I lived alone I would be an alcoholic. I don't want the memories. Or the loneliness. I mean I still feel alone even though I'm never alone. Not anymore. Even after two years of getting better, it's not yet better. When I say two years I really mean 5, but I like to say I reset the clock when I swallowed the pills. The clock reset because I can't remember those three days. I can't remember those three days because I swallowed the pills. I swallowed the pills because I was lonely. By lonely I mean I had been so happy. Those two weeks were the best of my life. I had everything I ever wanted those two weeks. And I want a lot. All those people I have ever craved love from, I was one of them. The spotlight I want to thrive in, I was the light and the stage. I can still remember Jack’s laugh after I roasted his nieces with the joke I made up in the shower an hour before. I fell twice and someone caught me both times. I did everything with my best friend every day for two whole weeks. We only see each other two weeks a year. As of right now, I haven’t seen her in almost two years and I probably won’t see her for another two. During those two weeks I saw so many incredible things. I met so many incredible people. When I came home everything was gone. By everything I mean my happiness. My happiness was gone because I am never satisfied with real life. I felt that absence sharp as the warm steel I so often hold to my wrists. It's warm because the water is always hot. I like to turn the handle as far to the left as it will go because the angry redness of my skin fades and no one will know. It fades because the air is always cold. It's cold so I like to stay in the water longer. I like to pretend I'm boiling myself alive, preparing my body for the daily feast of others upon my flesh. They were always going to eat my heart, so why not make it comfortable? I make it comfortable because it's easier. For me. This way I don't have to feel the betrayal that I always hold my fists up for, ready to strike before it decks me. I'm always so eager to fight because of Her. She. The one who broke my heart. 5 years and it's always back to Her. 483 words and it's always back to Her. I don't want it to be back to Her. There's another her. But it makes me sad to think of her. Sad because I love her. Love is supposed to make you happy. Happy isn't crying when you understand why you would do anything for her. Even live for her. Happy isn't 142

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leaving class early because you can't stomach the person who embodies such a truth. Especially when that person is you. Happy isn’t hating yourself more than the night you swallowed the pills. They're always saying to live your truth but my truth is a hope I cannot act on. I won’t allow myself to act on. What do I always say? You either laugh or cry and I've done enough crying. My aunt says crying isn't a weakness. My mother says it's a release. I don't cry anymore. Especially when I'm alone. Does that mean I only cry for attention? I loved the attention when I was little. Once I sprained my ankle at my grandmother's house. I slid on those rugs Aunt Liz replaced 6 Christmases ago. I sat in the middle of the room with a bag of ice and every member of the November Household paid their respects. I loved the attention. Maybe that's why I hurt myself. Even if I no longer run to my mother with bruised ankles or split open knees with pavement ground into my skin. Even if I never limp in public. I pay attention to myself. The clean up is the best part. Wiping away the blood and tearing open a gauze pad because the only band aids we have right now are those weird knuckle ones. Sometimes I wrap my arms in bandages just to feel better. It's hard to feel better sometimes. A lot of the time. Most of the time. That just makes the good days even better. The good days are great days. I've been having a lot of great days recently. When I say recently I mean the past two weeks. I think it's because I'm trying to take care of myself. When I say that I mean my mother is forcing me to take care of myself. So I've been taking my pills every morning. So I've been taking my pills every afternoon. So I've been taking my pills every night. I've even started brushing my teeth and washing my face before I go to bed. By washing my face I really mean using a makeup wipe but now instead of scratching my legs until I bleed I put on lotion. I put on lotion in bed because that's the safest place in my room. My room is safer now than it was before but I still don't like my closet. It no longer scares me to see my closet from my bed. I'm in bed right now the blankets are soft and it's 1:15 in the morning. Please don't tell my mom. I still stay up later than the crickets, the cicadas long past their final encore. Even the highway is silent. It's not silent in my room right now my head is too loud. My head is too loud because it's a new day and I have so much to say. I have so much to say because I never say anything. I'm like the Doctor in that way. Not in all the ways I want to be but because all I do is talk and yet I have nothing to say. I have plenty to say. But I don't trust anyone will want to listen.

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Yosemite

Summer Doss

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Monument Valley Summer Doss

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The Curative Power of Destruction

Cheryl Anne Fries Amendement Literary Award Winner I am burning alive

My eyes reflect the stars amongst the Earth’s shadows that have learned to fear me My skin is alight with the sins of my past, present, and future as another match falls to the heap at my feet My wild voice springs from my cracked lips as spittle sparkles in the light I so proudly can produce I love the mindless hypnotic dance of my flames as they race up the neck of this distant, damaged body, bejeweled in a finery only the suicidal and the insane could appreciate I love the embers that burn essays into the indigo sky surrounding me, speaking in the tongues and tones I could never embrace in my previous life I love the smoke that sinks in my stomach, its heaviness relieving the perpetual pressure on my heart I breathe deep and inhale the joyful destruction I have lit My face is painted for the occasion, in celebration of the finality of this single moment Eyes lined with tar Cheeks and the bridge of my nose glittering with gasoline Corn husks sewn into my lashes I wear nothing but my god given flammable skin and sing as it falls in chunks from my bones, encouraged by my savage dance I will continue to burn myself alive to keep myself warm I have lived in the cold too long to fear the heat My bones turn to ash and I am born again With a matchbox in my hands

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Emergent

Maggie Colangelo

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Suicide

augmented vision device

Barjaa Brown Flash Writing

Tripping over the frayed rug, David struggled to lace his shoes and balance his AVD. Closing the door with a soft click, he placed the headset on and continued on his normal route. The route passed by his house, through the community park, up the hill that overlooked the town, and through the northmost edge of the shipyard. You see, David had walked this route every day without fail. Rain, sleet, snow, or shine he was here. With the device on, he could never really feel the cold or the heat. On this particular day though, something seemed off. The atmosphere wasn’t as calming as it usually was. The augmented renderings of the buildings didn’t seem as vibrant as they used to be. Yes, their bricks and paint had been discolored and chipped over the years, but that shouldn’t have had any bearings on the models. As he continued on his path, he passed the cemetery. Oddly enough, the AVD made it look like a cheerful place, as if death wasn’t something that snatched the heart, breath and soul. No one ever went in there anymore. Another place stuck in time. Bones that would never find a home again. Here, nothing was ever torn down, just left to rot. Out of all the places to be, his favorite was the top of the Hayward Hill. From here, he could see everything. Well, not everything exactly, but everything that the AVD showed him, everything the government deemed fit to see. He’d never seen the library before, but he’d heard stories from his grandmother. It was a building filled floor to ceiling with things called books. Everyone used to go there, especially during the summer when school was out. His grandmother volunteered there every weekend, from 10 am to 6 pm. She shelved books until her arms ached. Turned pages in return books to check for stains, Stamped library cards until she had created her own little rhythm. She paid no mind to the numerous paper cuts and sore fingers when she managed to sneak off and read. The routine was monotonous but comforting. When she got there on that Saturday, there were chains on the door. No one knew why, but no one bothered to ask. When it went up in flames, no one questioned it. Not even his grandmother as she watched it burn to the ground, nails digging into her palms, soot, smoke and tears stinging her eyes. 148

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There weren’t too many shops or restaurants on this road, but there were always a lot of people walking down it. He never knew exactly why. Maybe it was because they liked avoiding the ghosts of this town. Or maybe it was just the way the AVD took them. Regardless, he still enjoyed the movement of walking down the bumps and grooves in the sidewalk. His arms swung lightly at his side. It was beautiful to walk in silence. There was a brief interruption of sound. A light shuffling. Was it the others walking past him? Silence again. Odd. He would never know the people he brushed by on the sidewalk. A whisper. Silence again. He tilted his head to catch the words. Nothing. It was just noise. A plea. Silence again. He had to be imagining this. This couldn’t have been right. An apology. Silence again. Nothing like this had ever happened before. A resignation. Silence again. A crash. Metal crunching. Bones breaking. Blood pouring. Flesh unstitching. The smell of iron and burning rubber in the air. A brief noise, but no scream. No cry for help. No sirens. No alert from the AVD. Had there always been a road here? How had he never heard it? The image in front of him changes. It flashes to a wreck and then back to the road ahead. A twisted limb. Odd. Where had the rest of the body gone? Broken glass glinting against harsh pavement. That can’t be right. The fog is too thick. Pulse pounding in his ears. He shouldn’t be able to see this. The (pleasant) silence returns. He continues his walk. Once through the door, he tugs off his shoes and AVD. It takes a few moments for his eyes to adjust. It always does. “Honey!” Silence. “I saw someone die today! Well..not actually die. I just saw part of an arm and heard a crash. Did you know that there’s a road near Tom and Harris? It’s a surprise I never heard of it.” Silence. “Isn’t that funny?”

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Beautiful Dreamer → Eric Agyemang-Dua Jr.

Green

Sonnet Garcia Flash Writing green the color of the correct and opportunity but also the envious and the corrupt of the lie that you are so hopeful of but that color doesn't support you or even serve you that color was made for them so washed and dimmed so we can never claim it for ourselves faded into the generations that only wealth can serve they love your servitude but they don't call it that, at least in your face Is it out of respect? no but out of the discretion that you won't question to maintain that naivety they hold over you a gate, keeping you from wondering piecing together their microaggressions that could give you fodder to rebel 150

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Wading Woman Colleen Topping

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Halloween

Cheryl Anne Fries Once a year, the moon steps off the stage and the forgotten souls take the spotlight with empty veins already screaming Once a year, the world is lit not by stars but by the drifting embers of dying torches held in skeleton hands Once a year, it is dark and it is loud Once a year, the monsters come knocking on my door I do not hear the slamming of their clawed fists against the iron But instead a gentle whisper welcoming me down from my tower and out into the town square Once a year, the ghosts wail outside my mile high windows I do not hear their moans and screams and rattling of chains But instead a choir and cheers and cymbals 364 days a year, the cheap cobwebs your neighbour’s always wrap around their front porch pillars shroud my inner thighs, the edges of my breasts, and the fat of my arms 364 days a year, the cobwebs stretch with each movement I make and shrink back into place, but never quite the same as the day before 364 days a year, with each movement they are spread more and more thin until all I am is sagging skin and angry shoulder pimples 364 days a year, the caramel of red apples on cheap sticks glaze my smile until the image of my too-wide mouth, showing more gum than the magazines advertise, sticks in the caverns of your molars and not even a dentist’s cruel weapons could pull the gunk of that image out 364 days a year, the jack-o-lantern that was never lit and still sits on your porch in January rests beneath my creaking ribcage and upon my popping hips 364 days a year, my forgotten candle sits in a puddle of stagnant rainwater crisscrossed with the rotting ribbons of pumpkin flesh 364 days a year, the sides of my body curl inwards under the weight of their weakening foundations until all I am is the abandoned remnants of a tattered body on the stoop of your front door 153

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364 days a year, the magical red warts of a teenage witch who can never stir her potion in the right direction coat my All Hallow’s Eve skin like ash from a bonfire burning poisoned candy 364 days a year, the flapping of the wings of a vampiric horde spill from my lips coated in bat droppings 364 days a year, white fungus winds its way up my nostrils and into my wheezing lungs 364 days a year, the white nose of a dying species is all that I am Once a year, I do not fear the dark because only then can I not see my body Once a year, I do not fear the noise because only then can I not hear my body Once a year, I cannot see all that Halloween has done to me

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Brown Beauty (Series) Valeria Moreno

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Brown Beauty (Series) Valeria Moreno

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Brown Beauty (Series) Valeria Moreno

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Suicide

On Being Diagnosed Bipolar

Cheryl Anne Fries

I used to think I had two things at war in my brain My demons And Me Now I think there might be three My demons Me And Something New I can't even think of what it might look like, or feel like, or sound like I posses the terrifying gift of being able to call to mind the image and sound and texture of every spirit that haunts me And yet thisThis Something New is something am I slowly discovering the form of I can trace its edges in the way my fingers click ‘Purchase’ at 3am I can taste it in the euphoria I spit from my tongue on every other word I can smell it in the build up of conditioner from my third shower of the day I can hear it in the pounding of my feet against the kitchen floor as I pace searching for a destination in my mind I can visualize it in the bubbles of yet another Rum and Coke This Something New is a blank space on your tongue, the tongue that had plenty of room for the sleeping pills on July 1st, 2018 Something New is graduating from high school and realizing you survived and for the first time believing nothing can stop you Something New is a gap in your memory that is filled by the blinding light of the somehow both round and flat at the same time overhead light of your hospital room during 5 am blood pressure checks 160

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Something New is your third iced honey cinnamon latte with an extra shot of espresso and staying up for three days in a row just to write out every little voice in your head Something New is a silence that allows your paranoia to stalk you on long nighttime drives when that car has made the same turn as you one too many times Something New is dragging a suitcase through an airport in a country you never even dreamed of visiting, where the sounds falling from bold lips are a cacophony of alien instruments that form a dazzling melody of life Something New is a half empty plastic cup, just enough water to dispel the sand from beneath your tongue but nowhere near enough to swallow each new pill they try to give you Something New is your first unsupervised college party with your best friend, full of new experiences and dangers dancing in the shadows of hard seltzer and red solo cups Something New is the bouncing leg paired with a black hole in the pit of your stomach that slowly pulls your heart closer and closer as you realize that your closest taste of freedom will be staring through an unbreakable, double-paned window overlooking the dreary hospital parking lot Something New is your parents and sister bringing you a Vanilla Chick-fil-a milkshake with whip cream and a cherry on top during the visiting hours and not noticing the redness of your sister’s eyes Something New is a state-of-the-art monster fresh from the presses of Tartarus that has specialized in Charisma and Stealth Something New is talking about yourself until your little sister tells you it was her fault you took the pills Something New is a spirit that does not only haunt you Something New resides not in the dusk of my brain, but in the region where the light is a Hollywood spotlight magnified onto a golden California hillside and smokes into embers So bright I have to close my eyes when I look through its lens Is that why I haven't found Something New until now?

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Haven't realized how deep it has embedded itself ? Is it because my mother taught me too well to not stare at the sun? While I was so busy fighting the shadows, hunched over the courageous final embers of my heart Something New stole my discarded charcoal and built its own bonfire, whipping my quiet embers into raging flames Something New buried itself in the soft folds of my mind, using the burning light and smoke as a cover Something New created a fire that I hadn’t noticed was burning me alive A fire that I used to keep myself warm on nights when my mind separated me from the soft warmth of the familiar souls around me A fire that I used to keep the hell hounds and their snarling jaws dripping in stale blood and ichor at bay A fire that has become a wild tornado fueled by my heavy exhalations as my lungs struggle to keep up with the pace of my mouth A fire that has turned my body into the most famous valley of the Mojave Desert, turning my springs into cracked lake beds and my gentle rains into flash floods I now have to fight both Shadows and Fire The shadows that I used to let caress and choke me And The fire that I thought breathed me back to life

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Red Between the Lines

Brooke Young

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In Response to Eternal Flight

Sonnet Garcia Flash Writing

i. an ingrained behavior built on concession borne from generational trauma and lies once teased for a imaginary emergency i wanted to get away from the blaring reminders of a fear stemmed from a raise of voice withheld as the last resort in order to silence your frustrations but even in the passive recesses of silence graciously shelters a kind of aggression falsely proclaimed as a chronic martyr ii. confrontation of authority pushing back relational stigmatization against my internalized “hospitality”

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it was more than a need to challenge it was a done out a need to understand a need to know who will support not to pale away from injustice making excuses to not offend but to not dig my own graves one for myself another for my discomforts they say to not worry for you are the “token” for you are the “representative” for you are the “one” they can throw in their inflammatory words-of-mouth the imaginary pass they wish they had but i can’t give you that

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Westover Plantation: An Investigation on Truth Telling

Blake Sneed, Hannah Sahr, Gina Clark, Vis Sothy

These works are from a mOb Studio project aimed at starting a conversation with the owners of the Westover Plantation located in Charles City County. The goal was to explore its grim past and offer reconciliation through truthtelling that would be expressed as a compiled book of research. This book was intended to ask hard questions about race, peel back its layers, and present personal narratives, facts, and possible avenues for healing in the future. However, after seven weeks of pushback and unclear conversations with the VCUarts administration, the project was abruptly canceled and the students’ research funding application dismissed. 167

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2020

Malyk Monteria 2020. Suddenly I’m feeling a bit of deja-vu. It feels about the same but new or different. Brexit was progress the hard one came to pass, COVID-19 slow beginning to spread across the world unknowingly fast. Worse of a true role model Kobe Bryant and his daughter suddenly passed. I actually got to meet and know them both personally. He told me never to give up on my art when I was never confident in myself which became my motivator. What’s sad is that was just the start of the year. I saw what happened to my community and my country in a way. It's just like what’s happening now in California being engulfed in flames but of a different kind. I saw many of my friends losing their jobs, I saw communities hoard loads of toilet paper because it might be all gone. Even though the hoarders bought more they need and left those who need it deprived from it. I saw local dinners and family owned stores of many backgrounds falling apart from the failure of many government officials failing to protect the people they said they would represent in their elections and instead following a fool who cares only for the man in the mirror. And all he does is lie, sow chaos of all kinds and point the finger… I saw the injustice at the hands of the people who wear a uniform that was supposed to be the mentality that they will protect the people from harm, but instead, what I’ve seen more often than not, was the opposite and bring harm all because you look different, your background or the color of your skin. Sadly, as everyone predicted many would walk away untouched barely convicted by the law and call it a win or be charged but not take note and make change to all who swore to protect under the law. Now the year has nearly come to a close and on a sour note too. The big questions are how will this year end? Like 2016 again? I want change not a repeat of past mistakes. I want to have faith for every human. Most of all I want to make the world cleaner, greener, not destroyed and polluted. I want to have a future where the air I breathe is clean and the water I drink is not poisoned. My mom always said “The earth is something that’s borrowed for the next generation to inherit. So make something great for them to be proud to inherit.” 168

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Assigned Angry at Birth Syd Lewin

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Amendment accepts rolling submissions from VCU students all year round. Submit literature, art, and any inquiries to amendmentvcu@gmail.com We are located at the VCU Student Media Center at 817 W. Broad St. Richmond, VA Find us at amendmentvcu.com On Facebook at Amendment Literary and Art Journal On Instagram and Twitter @AmendmentVCU

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VCU Student Media Center 817 W Broad Street Richmond, Virginia 23284

Typeset in Garamond Premier Pro

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