V I AT OR
ART EX PLOR ING SPACES AND PLACES
n.3 / SUMMER 2018
V I AT O R
n.3 / SUMMER 2018
editors carolyn supinka zenon zabinski cover art front: mills brown, Glacier, black acrylic and collaged paper on canvas inside front: mills brown, Lunchbreak, acrylic paint, images from LIFE magazine, and glue on canvas inside back: mills brown, Into the Woods, acrylic paint, images from LIFE magazine, and glue on canvas ÂŠ Viator Project 2018 All work is copyrighted to the author or artist. All rights reserved.
letter from the editors “The city is a cusp” begins Sneha Subramanian Kanta’s poem “Bambai” (page 69). And it is. Wherever we are—whether in the city or the wilderness—we are confronted with opportunity to move beyond what is routine and familiar, to probe what is mysterious. The art and writing of VIATOR n.3 are gateways to exploration—not necessarily to uncover what is entirely unknown, but rather to rediscover the things that are present to us daily, that we may take for granted: our neighbors, our homes, our families, ourselves. The artists invite us to observe these from a distance, to see them with new eyes and from fresh perspectives. This issue is dedicated to a dear friend, artist, and activist whose spirit remains a constant reminder that we are always on the verge of a new adventure, that life is full of unopened doors waiting for us. We are grateful to have you along on this journey. Please come in. carolyn + zenon
in loving memory of Cassidy Karakorn
viÂˇaÂˇtor noun [latin] 1. traveler 2. messenger
on the horizon
25 labyrinth 39 neighborhood 53 threshold 67 tower 81 windowsill
8 11 12 13
anna pleskow Endless Pool, photography and digital media Sand Plant, photography and digital media Sand Child, photography and digital media Desert Man, photography and digital media
16 20 22
sara fields The Progression of Two Minds, archival pigment print Home, archival pigment print Between Similar Spaces, archival pigment print
on the horizon
Departure I. Island erosion shows which way water chose to cut desperate for departure scars of going, traces, ruts worn in by all those who have left before you water slowly, slowly washes the face of rock just as your identity erodes, leaving your skin soft and blank as a baby, your spine curved at the shoulder, in the city you say has swallowed you whole
II. gravity defies the marrow of your pelvic bone, sloshing like the swells on which you leave this island.
Places to Grow Where a bitty fuchsia bundle refuses revolution and opts to be a ruby knot, a balled fist on a bald tree cocking way-way back to some hazy hairline, declaring the crepe myrtle has died. Where spring is stymied, and its coils are ground flat. Call it the art of gagging, corking, constipating the tissue underneath. Nothing gleaned and nothing reaped, nothing yet to rape: call it bucolic. Where burr grows up all the time conspiring to stick or prick. Where a lavender patch of thistles gorges on crisp snow, trying desperately to swallow its ornery reputation.
Mars 2008 sand like a trillion vermillion eyes looking up at the mechanical alien limbs roving slowly over your rocks— how many minds’ eyes have studied the sight of you, silent and hulking, crouching in the dark. and now we land unfolding wheels with sensors, sending signals back to our television sets, traveling miles inside our heads to be with you, call you ours. a billion dollars, maybe more we light in pyres sacrificial to the altar of your hidden water, dry beds of salt and ochre. what do we know? perhaps it’s because you are the god of war.
and who would settle your shores? tired masses yearning for the dark? our poor, our hungry, our robotic dogs? your mountains grimace, your sandy eyes, subterranean canals. if we wanted water, we have it here, orifices wet with ocean, where evolution has already occurred. why yearn for yours? is it pacific dead zones, plastic particles, coral whitening to moon-rock glow from algae die-off, red tide bloom? in the end, it will not matter who we send or what we call you. we will pull your shadows down and swim in them like fish.
Open MRI Not a divan on which to slowly lower myself surrounded by space, pictures taken behind my head, not a chair or hiding place with room to move side to side and exits within reach, but two millstones 18 inches apart and me the grain laying in a metal stretcher hockey mask snapped over my face pinning me down raised up and stuffed between the millstones metal right above my nose not open just a catacomb instead of the grave.
Precarious things The hiccups of the computer about to turn itself off the three-story cat tree leaning on the wall the hangers perched on the cat tree without any clothing the clothing piled on the dresser spilling over the sides— The camel, the polar bear, the three little wolves stuffed peaceable kingdom, in a pile sliding off the edge of the embroidered chair— Always the heaviness in the blank spots, more than the actual weight— The triptych of photos, now a diptych after the fall the pictures of us all together at the big oak table so many knife cuts from when we held court in the kitchen, with thundering applause for the cooks— The 200 year old oak tree where we said our vows, fallen now us still here—
mills brown Peek, 3D collage built into a white pedestal: photographs and magazines, glue, lace, acrylic paint, pen and ink, found objects, organic matter, plastic, mirror, LED, MDF Yellow Telephone, collaged LIFE magazine and family photos, acrylic paint, wooden frame
erin schalk (be)coming to know, ink and graphite on paper The Dream (video stills), digital video
The Reading of Portents In a logical, no-nonsense, single-minded attempt to make sense of the past (near and distant) and comprehend the meaning of the present I am at first startled then embraced by a sensation of distortion and malformation wandering in and out of history (modern and ancient) in and out of mismanaged thoughts and incoherent prayers perhaps it was in a film from my youth, afternoon matinee, or a misdirected exploration of madness and mythology or the painstaking statistics from a planet that never existed at least not in films or mythology (personal or otherwise) â€” what the hell am I considering in the middle of the afternoon the temperature barely a degree above normal for this unspectacular time of year even if the portents are blustery and the reading of them woeful or worse.
j. j. steinfeld
Even Without the Wings of Icarus Two lightning bolts collide their residue falling earthward misconstruing sense and pattern making a mess of chronology and I am standing there like a lost child except I'm a mature man equally lost not believing in the collision of lightning bolts on an unsuspecting morning of little consequence, but everything has consequence, I yell at myself, everything and nothing and all things soon to be have consequence upon consequence. Two lightning bolts colliding showing off in unnaturalness defiance of what is and should be doesnâ€™t mean I should forfeit good sense and not attempt to hide or flee but this time I will forfeit good sense move from the safety of sanity disregard all caresses of Nature and fly straight toward the sun even without the wings of Icarus.
j. j. steinfeld
All Before the Morning of Moderate Consequence Ended On an overcast morning of moderate consequence a scared little mystic working on the side for a former Fortune 500 corporation said in an inauthentic baritone the moon is not a magician the weaponry of the sun is woeful and the Earth will devour us if we donâ€™t hand over tribute (large unmarked bills or bars of gold, the choice is ours) offering a threatening smile and more nonsensical words: the clouds are menacing the daylight angrier than night then admitted falling in love with a creature from another planet who had hair spun from platinum.
Entering or leaving the downtown park, a variation of not knowing if I was coming or going, gripping my misshapen coffee cup, I said the moon is magical and a billion times more mystical than any scared little mystic the sun is weaponless at least in any ordinary sense if that makes sense then read my own palms and did a dance of celebration for the joy of consciousness. The scared little mystic pulled a cheap knife on me but Godot jumped out from the bushes and wrestled the mystic to the ground all before the morning of moderate consequence ended and I had finished my first cup of coffee, imagine that.
j. j. steinfeld
(be) coming to know
I had fashioned for myself a menagerie of paper birds â€” fragile,
perhaps, but not in transparent frailty â€” these creatures of my sleeping visions, recurring, bearing messages from a writer to a recipient who were no longer in existence.
Unfurled and unfolding, the faceted creases gave way to voids
exclaiming through silence, to splintered thoughts caught within the most vulnerable parts of memory, to those words that were never uttered through breath but continue to resound as long as as breath continues.
These remaining creases became creators of form: the skeleton
of a beingâ€™s structure and the cartography of passageways outward. Their anguish in indelibility was relieved through acceptance; it was not in coming to understand but rather seeing what needed to be left behind...
... and only then...
flight no longer became contingent on the will of the wind.
Conversion | “The Empty Space They Call Home”1
A marker –
The horizon does not provide emotional solace. Not because he is forced to accept it will never be reached. Of time past, steps taken The boys cut a rope into smaller pieces
There is no water for tomorrow. As I retrace my steps, I realize the horizon is a constant reminder of where I was yesterday I would like to forget The unpredictable journey splinters and cracks beneath her Perhaps this road isn’t safe.
Searcey, Dionne, and Adam Ferguson. “The Empty Space They Call Home.” New York Times, March 30, 2017.
40 45 46 47 50 51
kelsey sucena Mother and Child, photography The Wiccan of Mastic, photography The Mother, photography The Mechanics, photography Kenneth and His Crew, photography The Commuter, photography
Virginia’s Laundromat The twenty dryer spin cycles sound louder when I try to read Orlando on the laundromat’s split-leather couch. The rain-damp pages nest together, sticking just enough to frustrate me. The thudding of bed sheets, clinking bluejean buttons aren’t cacophonous, just out of time. But I’m interested in his beautiful Russian princess. I know that he’ll become a woman but I hope they’ll stay together, though she’s leaving on her boat and he’s writing
his poem again. Each time a dryer beeps its piercing pindrops, I look up from the pages just to check if it’s mine. I don’t want to put it down, even in the midst of all this heat and headache, the thrashing twists of other people’s clothes, and gameshow static on the TV just above my head. The announcer’s voice melds into the words I want to hear from Woolf ’s pages, that drown out the laundromat and make it hers. The beep is finally for me. I fold my clothes, thinking of Orlando kissing Sasha and I feel cleaner now.
cara eileen peterhansel
When I Finally Say Back home visiting my parents, I know I must tell them, hope for a peaceful chat. They do, after all, grow an avocado tree in their living room, uncommon in Villa Park, Illinois. I don’t blurt that I’m gay right away. Still, that night when I say it first to myself, it still looks like the same town, red wagons and Schwinn racers on yards. Night’s yo yo performs a pendulum wrap behind sun-baked chimneys.
Micah Wal-Mart Long lines make me yearn for slow strangulation. But who? I catch up on my reading. I’m a few National Enquirers behind. Kim again. Her marriage might fail. My own is fine, a pair of loosening stretch pants. My friend Skip says his marriage is a pop-top beer left out in the sun. Somebody on page six is having an affair— loads of money tremble. The line finally moves. We’re getting closer to checking out. Every day.
bitter flavor no. 21 my favorite TV shows involve screaming oranges and promises to make America great and walls. what fun for the whole nuclear family, who wait around to detonate, bonding to the discount couches that sell in setsâ€” like cigarettes, like how defiance wears leather and denim on denim. if i had a â€œsmall loan of a million dollars,â€? i could define inactivity as the new activity. or maybe when the neurosurgeon picks apart their brains with plastic forks, i could explain love as more than dopamine-per-dollar and hours spent with rubber buttons. i fear my family, they may be romanticized a thousand times and not captured: attempt 1,001.
for now, the â€œgod-fearingâ€? fruit sits in the kitchen on mute. across the room, a baby drone drops another kill on the Whitehouse steps.
the carcass lies there for days until we canâ€™t ignore the smell swept under the welcome mat.
mason andrew hamberlin
natalya kochak 54 Womenâ€™s Exultation, mixed media, epoxy on wood panel 58 Identities in Conversation, mixed media, epoxy on wood panel 60 Principle Image #1, oil on mylar 61 Principle Image #2, oil on mylar 64 Thank You Sir, May I Have Another, oil on mylar
Animal, Unbound My host sister Raina teaches me first about the dogs. When I arrive in a city I do not know, they clog the alleys, a thousand intertwined breeds. Their genes cross to form odd colors and misshapen tails. They belong to no one. They exist in the streets with their swollen parts hung low and exposed, sleep in the pools of diesel underneath cars, follow the women who carry bags of raw chicken. They will bite your ankles, Raina tells me. Or worse. She points to a pocked section of skin just below her elbow. That was from my old dog, she says. Now we canâ€™t feed a pet. The street dogs are even worse.
She walks down the rutted roads as though she owns them, tall
but still carrying the curves of a child. Her stride is long, her fist always cocked. She teaches me to turn off the beating love I carry for any creature that breathes. I learn to let the fear spill hot and spiraling into my legs. I hold rocks in my fists, their cool weigh a comfort at night when the shadows sit and stare before they come forward. The slant of their eyes glint in the blooming dark. I learn to look away from their slender ribs poking out like fish bones, the flesh marred by fights and cars, the muzzles I wish I could stroke.
In Ayacucho, the lit homes in the hills are so close to the sky they
come out as small stars. Our house sits at the edge of the city, a block before the earth dissolves into a gorge of mountains. There is sweeping dust the color of blood. In sleep, I listen to a chorus of yaps and barks, whines and howls and street fights. The silence is always incomplete. There is always a rooster bleating into the red throat of dawn, the pig squealing with hunger in the next yard. I dream of sharing my scraps of uneaten
corn, of the cow heads hung skinned and open-eyed at the market with enviable lashes, of the unspoken words I do not say because no one here will understand.
When Raina and I walk across the street in our pajamas to buy a
bag of rolls, she skips ahead of me. I anticipate the bread, soft and chewy and hollowed like a pocket, how we will sit on one side of the table facing the stove in the main room, our backs to the mattresses and the clothes hung from ceiling beams while Raina’s mother Luz gives us avocado flush with salt to tuck between the opening. She will serve hot milk with cocoa and quinoa and five spoons of sugar. Her name means light.
But Raina pulls me toward the market. She wants fruit for break-
fast. I follow, as always, I listen, I do what I am told, for to do otherwise would be to know nothing at all. The morning is sharp and bright, the market a concrete slab with an open roof and two women surrounded by a skirt of papayas. We buy just one, my host sister throwing it to me without warning so she can kneel in a pool of newborn puppies cooing on the pavement. The mother is nowhere to be found.
I think we need one, she says, and plucks a puppy from the tangle.
When I don’t follow, she calls back without turning around. Kati, puppies are different.
I watch her with the tiny head crushed under one arm. The puppy
carries the sweet heady scent of trash. Her ribs are so visible through her fur you could reach to touch the spaces between each one. Raina kisses the puppy over and over as she walks, holding it by the skin stretched taut across its neck.
But we don’t make it through the gate. Luz, out feeding the chick-
ens, clicks her tongue and tells us that dogs are not pets. They all have
fleas, they are dirty, Raina just took a bath, and now we wonâ€™t be ready to go to school. We are quiet on the way back. We set her down amidst the tangle, all mewl and pant, eight other creatures who will soon stand on our corners and try to bite. But now they wriggle with love for any hand who will touch them.
I think about how long it has been since anyone I loved touched
me, how I lie without a pillow in the wild noise of the night and wish the familiar would imprint on my skin. Loneliness has a shape and color, a taste in the back of the throat. It can turn you into something unrecognizable. The puppy escapes the circle, picking up stride, her ears flopping in desperate attempt to follow the first hands who reached for her.
Run, Kati! Raina yells, laughing, in her Minnie Mouse shirt and
glitter flipflops, and then picks up a rock and throws it at the puppy so she will understand, and I feel the sharpness break against my own ribs, as though Iâ€™ve just watched her heart close up like a bud in bloom for the first time.
Geometry Circle Barely morning, it’s 5:05. I’m driving along the Caney Fork River on a fog-rolling road. River steam ghosts float across the pavement in a mist lumen with the closed curve of a white moon. Arc We are O’Keefe’s Blue Flower. A tunnel framed in folds of lapping petals, its river-blue entrance bows to the yellow carrying us under to the velvet of our vanish point. Polygon Calder’s mobiles float blithe in a locus across the East Building concourse. Free of language and intent, silent shadows content us with their verse. I am emptied into perpendicular worlds.
sidney louise brown
The Muse Her call to you is somewhere not in the circle back. Maybe a jazz note not returning to key, or a wind whisk silk. A birdâ€™s coo. One coo enough, just once to move eye-to-ear the way a stranger looks into the passing. Memory . . . hooves in a canter tip tip tip touching not landing. Something not yet tensed. A layering a covering that edge just before the dream.
The moment one knows: leave. The look under in or through. More than rapture, volume. Brim in slowly. Deep mahogany if color, Musk if scent. The whippoorwill after the moth if flight The thing no one knew. Blood flooding the reaching palm. The half moon of an eyelid closed. Something endless unquiet a silver threaded idea. The last leaf on the vine pin puddled with dew. The blue-black plum pulling on its stem . . . Let go.
sidney louise brown
68 71 72 72 76 78
cameron ormiston Kronborg Castle, photography 101, photography Prep the Pitch, photography Waiting, photography Rollover, photography Yama, photography
Bambai The city is a cusp suspended between a nocturnal hum of balmy orange streetlights and the barah baje ki local sleep does not know the idea of a lodging. Outside, the night air is filled with beedi fumes a soot of pollution and smells of unfulfilled dreams that linger below the irises, darkened skin patches of a tired homemaker. It breathes it moves it shifts, constantly, like the sea. we talk of God as though a man, then worship women deities. It is a land of paradoxes yet life exists in the anticipatory shanties the jhopad-patti has got enough coverage in first world movies.
The concrete roads are full of anxiety too many have walked over its surface. It stings of nylon threads used in garlands to cover dead bodies. Our skins have become purple like gloaming we have internalized little girls portraying acrobatics on a thin thread, using a thicker thread to dry clothes, unfunny television comedies. Autorickshaw-wallahs still play 90â€™s songs, barbers and taxi drivers can tell you more about politics than your local corporator. There are symbols spread all over the place: school, mandir, church, gurudwara, etcetera. The roads have become narrower rivers, like trees have been chopped down to cover costs of profitable municipalities. The city is an interlude between breathing and the conscious, the junta and paani, at the end we all seem like flies statically hovering over a brown cup of chaai.
sneha subramanian kanta
Lincoln National Forest runs from a name (or) desert to subalpine to godfire sky/carbon monoxide (or) what a lovely fresco? Know this, Grandpa: plastic alabaster (or) sand pommelled bone (or) brazos delos secos (or) the small mammal stands with its hands in its pockets, has eyes Know this, Grandpa: the blotting faint-plane horizon smoke/sand and cloud punch the sun now bruised clean and leering purple (or) soaked orange (or) take a picture (or) trim mountain shadows into stubble a.k.a. ยกSNAP! cacti bivouacked next to a 7-eleven
White Sands (or) Tarjetas
Tell me, Grandpa: did you know the Apache? when they drew why the cuatro de copas? the dry knuckles/forceps too slow (or) we came diet coke cans in hand rocking metal chairs (or) bought the carpets out from under them (or) ten days here and I already see concrete over a proud people
Tell me, Grandpa: of something other than white kitchen mysticisms (or) talk of paperback cowboys packed in yellowing stacks (or) god please no more Louis Lâ€™Amour read the bedlam/las caras alinedas (or) Iâ€™m death in the badlands but what are you?
mason andrew hamberlin
Tell me, Grandpa: we never carried escopetas (or) peeled a scalp? Know this, Grandpa: we are gringos as the nighttime gleaming litters the valley tongue
XIX Before I go you’ll set your bonfire heart ablaze, scatter the cinders of time’s long passage across the stars across the sky. Let them float like willow wisps and gather into trails like source code, little ones and little zeros scrolling their message upon the face of the cosmos, “this way, home.” You’ll fan the flames and dust of ashes, brush the smoke in my direction fill our lungs with cedar bark speckles to taste the maple of firewood to taste the sweet breath of life. I’ll look up and say, “I’m sorry, that my mind wanders like that, sorry you have to burn to get it back.” “You don’t have to be.” “Are you ok?” “Yeah.” “You don’t have to be.”
82 84 87 88 92 95
marissa alper Padova, photography Abrahams Hostel, photography Amina, photography Untitled, photography Untitled, photography 34DD, photography
When We Stars on the fence just as we How such long ago seemed like When our eyes became so The moon was mostly For everything about then was And how we held much more than As if shy might As backlit hills for once would We knew more than We felt all of So how could the world not let us As if we were As if we might In almost then On nights that With fences of
Shouting Into the Accretion Disk of a Naked Singularity This temple has been sacked and the police are dancing across 14th street lunatic mardi gras it ain’t the culprits are at large thieving power from the city lights means sooner or later this playacting will break our backs Go ahead follow those wires into a squatter’s nightclub and find what’s left of our gods when they pull our tongues out This is what I asked Marissa all these white girls are spilling into a basin and counting Q trains like constellations Her girl’s legs wept over the couch I touched her and quite by accident, she said Nobody knows what I have to give I got crazy shit to give Baby girl you tease dance floors charm old beats into new verse I am light as a runaway floating a river against the northern winds
Your name was in my mouth from then on in the tall grass, in the salty oil of the intemperate east You were a water bearer, a daughter of the strong silent hands that prove new life carrying clean water all your days And our nights begged the flashing lights rob me You spun sweet taffy from the sea until dawn gave us the bum rush into the jaundice streets University and 13th is a yellow dwarf and a coward and a conformist Look at your hands note their edges, note the coiling springs
No amount of howling will make this cool
I too carried water in my veins it did howl and bite and bid me Write you this poem
Erik Eriksonâ€™s Purpose and Fidelity Inside the ShopRite standing waist high to kumquat and kiwi I spot them as the avocado slips from my hand. In the ether of aging tomato my eyes trail down banked registers. At the end of the line An aging couple stands sentry, unfaltered in the fluorescent light, as though it took the both of them on their best day. She squared off on the marker point for payment, her fingertips edged on currency. He at the end of the tin ramp on alert, his eyes fixed as the code-red digits tick in. Cash, coupons, and pinched-out coins trade hands as heads nod with the exchange of the folded receipt. Carrying two starched brown bags, he locks her arm into his arm. And in the crook of my arm, the place someone might pull someone into a do-se-do, or guide someone who might be tipsy from the plot of the theater, or pull someone in for a joke, or a falling star, I feel the weight of a basket filled for one and think of my mother without my father and my daughters who have been armed against such locking.
sidney louise brown
Mission Street “finding out, after all, that heaven has no California shore” —Elizabeth Smart I was there to make soul deeply and dream big somehow looking for a city that matched my morals. then I ask you for your three favorite things. when you ask me I say, “past, present, and future” you laugh. past: there was a boy, godlike, and I ran. present: tell me the name of this song. future. doesn’t it make it half of what is?
Number 7, I forget the street These walls hold full dark vapors and noise of insomniacs. You stood here, belonging to a city and no one stopped talking. This room can be temple. My flesh tattooed for each night without dream. I said donâ€™t listen see myself in that coat smoking your cigarette. See myself as ash, what can you draw in it. If you are this city then I am this apartment, only one of the windows to light you.
exercises in ending I. all that remains of that country is the way I view time like the space between breaths like a free shadow returning to its object
II. now my dreams are clearer than you, and there is endless sky, mine blue and yours not quite black with the city lights. We both wait in different colors, white and black coffee, I learn to say wanting in different languages. When I speak, I speak to a time that was a city, to a city that will never be. You speak of a darkness that is shorter.
III. un-name the house where we tangled and caught each other turning water to ice back to anarchy again. All that is light-filled turns to something hard. Bruising, you left open your hand. Straying, I drank up the colors.
contributors alena ahrens is an interdisciplinary artist and social researcher. She has presented work in Chicago, NYC, St. Louis, Czech Republic, and Germany. She holds an MFA from the School of the Art Institute of Chicago and a PhD in Education from the University of Missouri. marissa alper is an artist living in Richmond, Virginia. She is currently pursuing a BFA in Photography at Virginia Commonwealth University. mills brown received her MFA in Studio Art from American University. She has shown work in group shows and has participated in the GlogauAIR Artist Residency in Berlin. In May 2018, she had her first solo exhibition. Mills lives and works in Washington, DC. sidney louise brown is a retired English teacher and adjunct professor living in Alexandria, Virginia. She has led meditation walks and retreats; published educational articles and poems; and presented her work on contemplative teaching and learning at educational conferences. mary helena olson donovan is a poet from Washington, DC, working to promote indigenous peoplesâ€™ rights, dreaming about travel, and writing about the places she has been and the places she hopes to go. sara fields is an artist and educator from Austin, Texas. She received her MFA in Photography from the Savannah College of Art and Design and is currently an adjunct faculty member at the Art Institute of San Antonio as well as an assistant to the Gallery Directors at A Smith Gallery in Johnson City, Texas.
mason andrew hamberlin is an editor and essayist from Chapel Hill, NC, who has taught young writers through Writopia DC. He currently hopes to unpack queerness, masculinity, violence, and stigmas surrounding ASD. His work appears in The Boiler Journal, Duende, voicemailpoems.org, and Thrice Fiction. He tries to be cute @definitely_not_mason. alex ivey is a writer of short stories, novels, plays, poetry, and awesome love letters. He is a New York native currently on loan to Los Angeles, California. His work has appeared in The Harpoon Review, Gathering of Tribes, and Drunk Monkeys. Alex has been featured by reading series such as Litquake, Red Light Lit, Get Lit, Inside Storytime, and others. natalya kochak was born in New York and has lived in many different places across the world. She received her BFA and MFA from the School of the Art Institute of Chicago. In 2018, she will be completing residencies at Lido Art Center in China and Hambridge in Georgia. hiram larew’s poetry has recently been featured on The Wild Word. With support from the Prince George’s County Arts and Humanities Council, he organized The Poetry Poster Project, which showcases work by local poets. He lives in Upper Marlboro, MD, and is a global food security specialist. His Facebook page is “Hiram Larew, Poet.” michelle lerner is a public interest attorney in New Jersey and holds an MFA in Poetry from The New School. Her work has been published in several anthologies and in various journals including Lips, Paterson Literary Review, Knock, Mannequin Envy, and an Instagram series by Virginia Quarterly Review.
jenna lyles is a McNair Fellow at the University of Alabama, where she is pursuing an MFA in Prose. A blossoming Tuscaloosan, she is an associate editor for Black Warrior Review and teaches English Composition at UA. Her work appears in Sweet, Calamus Journal, Literary Orphans, and After the Pause. heather nolan is a poet, writer, photographer, and songwriter from St. Johnâ€™s, Newfoundland. Her work explores the communications and chasms between identity and wilderness. She is keen on hiking, camping, and pints of Guinness. cameron ormiston is a student at UC San Diego, studying Global Health. He fell in love with the art and science of photography when he borrowed his fatherâ€™s camera for an introductory photography class. He thanks his family for supporting his passion. cara eileen peterhansel is a poet from Western Massachusetts. Her work has previously appeared in The Jet Fuel Review, The Alexandria Quarterly, and The Laurel Review. anna pleskow is a photographer and alternate universe creator. She is on the move for a couple years; most recently based in New Delhi, India, California, and Texas. Pairing old images with Photoshop, Anna creates landscapes that display lone figures engulfed in vast spaces to explore the concepts of loneliness, solitude, and peace. kenneth pobo has a new book out from Circling Rivers called Loplop in a Red City. His work has appeared in Colorado Review, Nimrod, Mudfish, Caesura, Hawaii Review, and elsewhere.
erin schalk is an international artist and writer. From 2010 to 2013, she lived in Okinawa, Japan, where she worked as an artist and educator. She received her MFA in Studio (Visual Art and Writing) from the School of the Art Institute of Chicago in 2017. j. j. steinfeld is a Canadian fiction writer/poet/playwright living on Prince Edward Island, where he is patiently waiting for Godotâ€™s arrival and a phone call from Kafka. While waiting, he has published eighteen books, including Identity Dreams and Memory Sounds (poetry), An Unauthorized Biography of Being (stories), and Absurdity, Woe Is Me, Glory Be (poetry). kate stoltzfus is a writer and Midwest transplant living in Washington, DC. Her work has appeared in Atticus Review, Education Week, The Chronicle of Higher Education, The Journal of Feminist Studies in Religion, and National Catholic Reporter, among other places. She can be reached at email@example.com. sneha subramanian kanta is a recipient of the GREAT scholarship and has earned a second postgraduate degree in literature from England. She is the founding editor of Parentheses Journal and the winner of the Uncommon Chapbook Series from Boston Accent Lit. She is the author of Synecdoche (The Poetry Annals) and Prosopopoeia (Ghost City Press). kelsey sucena is a New York-based photographer, writer, and park ranger, currently residing on Long Island. Their work centers around impermanence and other Buddhist concepts, pairing written words with photographic narratives to investigate the existential nature of documenting life.