OR OA R IE 1 LETTER FROM THE EDITOR

There is no such thing as an identical human experience. Everything we live through is interpreted through a unique lens, affecting all people differently. Even though this is the case, in many ways, we are all similar. When we are hungry, we eat. When we are cold, we find a way to warm ourselves. We live. We endure. We make continuous efforts. We face times when we are content. We face times when we dream, and on some level want to deny our own realities. We connect with each other through emotions. There are so many other ways in which we are all similar. And each of our similarities not only bind us together, but help form the basis of all art. Art is an expression of our humanity; it can incite a myriad of thoughts and feelings, yet will always find a way to resonate with more than one person.

This journal contains wonderful pieces of visual and written art. In it are fragments of time, strong opinions, the depths of imagination, and individuals interpretations of their truths. As readers, you will surely find something in here that will leave an indelible mark on you.

Before this letter comes to a close, I would like to thank some people. First and foremost, I would like to thank everyone who submitted to this year’s Sorin Oak Review. Whether your work appears in the final print issue or not, please know that the entireSorin Oak Review staff enjoyed and appreciated your work. This journal would not exist without you. I am exceptionally grateful to Mary Helen Specht, the journal’s faculty advisor, for the immense amount time, support, and advice she gave. And my dearest staff, thank you for all the passion and dedication you put into helping put together this journal. Alexa Bogran and Anthony Truong, I am extremely appreciative of all of the design work you did for the journal, as well as for the effort you both put into managing the visual team. Alexa, I am particularly thankful to you for how accommodating and professional you were in regards to making changes to the journal and posters under a crazy schedule. Sydney Chandler and Elora Dane Shannon, the two of you have my utmost gratitude for graciously managing and working through editing challenges related to the poetry and prose sections of the journal with me. Also, thank you both for running meetings so professionally and for always willingly sharing your opinions and insights. Everyone on the literary and visual review boards, thank you so much for reviewing every piece submitted several times over, carefully voting on what pieces should go into the journal, and for being generous with your voices in discussion. I am thankful to our team of copyeditors who took the time to critically review and edit every piece line by line. And finally, I would like to thank you, the current reader. Thank you for taking the time to explore the artistry and humanity this journal exudes because of these artists’ voices and perspectives. I hope you enjoy reading the 28th volume of Sorin Oak Review.

Copyright © St. Edward’s University Sincerely, All Rights Reserved C.J. Shaleesh The Sorin Oak Review is an annual publication of St. Edward’s University. The views expressed in this journal are those of the individual authors and do not necessarily reflect the views of Editor-in-Chief the editors, staff, or the university.

St. Edward’s University 3001 South Congress Avenue Austin, Texas 78704

2018 Sorin Oak Review Printed by Ginny’s OneTouchPoint, Austin, Texas TABLE OF CONTENTS

8 14 20 26 34 41 NACHO SINGH AS CHILD POLYETHYLENE A BEGINNING PASSING TIME UNTITLED DE EL PASO SYDNEY CHANDLER LAUGHTER C.J. SHALEESH CHRYSTALLA CHRYSTALLA JESSICA GUAJARDO POETRY MIGUEL ESCOTO POETRY CHRISTODOULOU CHRISTODOULOU VISUAL POETRY VISUAL VISUAL 35 42 ELLEN 10 WE IN THE DIRT PROJECTION 27 BETSY MCKINNEY 21 CONVERSION’S SYDNEY CHANDLER FROM PAST 15 PROSE THIS CLICHÉ POETRY JESSICA GUAJARDO CORINTHIANS FAILED RAY NADEAU IS TABOO VISUAL COMPROMISE PROSE DANE SHANNON ISABELLA SCARPELLI 43 POETRY POETRY 38 VULNERABILITY MELIKA JESSICA GUAJARDO 11 PRECIOUS PARKER VISUAL LAST DAY ON 16 VISUAL AREN 22 28 EARTH: PARTS DOÑA LYDIA DE I AND II PRECIOUS PARKER CALAMITY 44 VISUAL KENDALL SHAW SAN SALVADOR NAMELESS BUD MIGUEL ESCOTO PROSE JESSICA GUAJARDO (A WOMAN) LOVES POETRY VISUAL 39 THE FADING ROSE I ENVY THE (A MAN) SPIDER’S DANE SHANNON ABILITY TO 17 POETRY LET HER 24 SWALLOW 12 SUCCULENT 29 THE PATRIOT MIGUEL ESCOTO ITS HOME AND CONTRAIL LITTLE CROW DANE SHANNON POETRY WHOLE 46 NATALIE LANGHAM MEL SIPKO POETRY SYDNEY CHANDLER STARS IN OIL VISUAL PROSE POETRY CORINNE BATES POETRY 18 13 BOY WHO BLEEDS 25 33 40 47 SATURDAY OR GOODBYE I COULD TAME OVERLOOKING THE FOREST SHIFTING AFTERNOON GIRLHOOD A BRONCO HOMETOWN OF ANXIETY SHADOWS MORGAN HUNNICUTT BRONTE TREAT BRONTE TREAT SARAH WILSON KRISTYN GARZA MORGAN HUNNICUTT POETRY POETRY POETRY VISUAL POETRY POETRY TABLE OF CONTENTS

48 57 68 76 81 92 RATE OF FREDERICKSBURG RAIN ONE MAN FROM AWAY FROM A GORDIAN DESTRUCTION SAMUEL GRIFFITH NATALIE LANGHAM ELLINGER HOME KNOT... MIGUEL ESCOTO POETRY VISUAL JESSICA LILLI HIME SEAN CUBILLAS POETRY GUAJARDO POETRY POETRY 69 VISUAL 58 HAND DOWN 93 49 SUNRISE ON YOUR UNIVERSE 82 CATALYST 6TH STREET BRONTE TREAT 77 FALL FROM THE TANGLE WAITING AGAIN NATALIE LANGHAM DANI GALLUCCI DANE SHANNON POETRY MULBERRY TREE POETRY POETRY SEAN CUBILLAS SYDNEY CHANDLER VISUAL 71 POETRY POETRY AFTER SCHOOL 94 59 SPECIAL RIVERBED STAFF 50 SEAN CUBILLAS OVERSATURATION LOGAN STALLINGS POETRY 78 84 DANI GALLUCCI PROSE RED LIGHTS UNREQUITED POETRY BRONTE TREAT ALEIDA LOPEZ 95 72 POETRY POETRY VISUAL 63 SHAME IS A CONTRIBUTORS RAIN THREE MIDDLE SCHOOL 51 NATALIE LANGHAM BAND ROOM FRUGAL FATHER VISUAL GAVIN C. QUINN HAS A MIDLIFE 79 85 96 POETRY SMALL ON A THYME & CRISIS LITERARY BINARY TRAIN DOUGH DANE SHANNON CONTRIBUTORS DANE SHANNON SYDNEY CHANDLER POETRY 64 WEBSIGHT 73 PROSE PROSE DREAMS MIGUEL ESCOTO C.J. SHALEESH POETRY 98 52 POETRY COLOPHON WHO WILL LOVE 80 91 YOU, MASCULINE 65 75 THIS IS NOT TEMPORARY MAN? MASKS TWO GIRLS AN OASIS PERMANENCE DANE SHANNON ALEX CASTILLON PRECIOUS PARKER SAMUEL GRIFFITH PRECIOUS PARKER POETRY PROSE VISUAL POETRY VISUAL A BEGINNING C.J. SHALEESH

One generic day Now that my life is coming to an end, I met my words. it is time to accept reality And those words through unfiltered eyes. consumed letters To properly heal my being that rewrote my world. as much as I can And now, my dear world, in my remaining time, it is me writing to you, and to relinquish not merely my words my repressed pain to or the letters they own. you, world. By existing in my life and gifting me with words, I have been put in a cyclical trance that made the gore of life seem divine, because of an optimistic film, continually thickening over my eyes.

Through your aura my skies were regrown; stretching into slender, yet elongated drippings of translucent blue air, softly giggling lavender, and the pink of a chilly day.

But that’s just it. Your presence was a farce. All those gentle colors were that of a bruise that slowly blossomed across my skin and insides, until it fully bloomed in my heart.

And my words… how I depended on them so much. They were the Band-Aids, medication, and salve that took external injuries, seeped internally, and transformed them into something beautiful on pages.

But those letters that formed words on pages were not appealing in any way. Clean pages once pure with inspiration were now filled with itchy splotches of lead and greasy ink splatters. All because I thought my words could heal sewn-up scars, even though years later, they are pus-filled instead.

8 9 LAST DAY ON EARTH: PARTS I AND II MIGUEL ESCOTO

Oxford Dictionary revised the meaning of the word “shit.” It hit the fan and the fan became a fireless volcano. Two plus two equaled five. Leaks turned into cascades. Donald made out with Hillary. Vladimir came out as gay. Newsfeeds went to Confession. Pope Frank got a tattoo— the NativeAmerican symbol for “I told you so.” Mona Lisa was ripped in four-hundred parts/million. Wall Street swarmed the Socialist Church. Gardens reeked of gasoline. SantaClause overdosed on Coke —the corporation ignored liability protocol. Murder trended on Twitter. Whiskey mixed with blood: animals as food, humans as animals. Senate committees leaked footage of their ign(orgy). Laughter paired well with the cracking of femurs. Smiles infused arson. Our neighbors bore torches & chanted of regret.

You and I stayed in that day like any other lazy Sunday: braiding our legs together where peach fuzz met forests, stitching our palms together with squeezable fingers like toys, rubbing our dirty noses together to scrub the world off our faces, kissing our bodies of fruit dry although sweat dripped from our foreheads, dancing our screaming hearts out under the covers of linen and warmth, choking unpeeled oranges whose nectar was invisible and didn’t stain our pillow castle, juicing the citric, sticky regret out of our systems until there was nothing left but pure happiness: dehydrated, quiet, smiling and asleep; shriveled, nowhere, and everywhere. PROJECTION FROM PAST JESSICA GUAJARDO

10 11 THE PATRIOT SATURDAY AFTERNOON DANE SHANNON MORGAN HUNNICUTT

He swells like the plume of a bursting firework. Bradbury rolled off your tongue His voice booms through the living like the honey dripping down my mug room, inflected by red-white-and-blue resonating in my ears, smoke. He echoes the derivative yawp slow and sweet. of an artillery field. My brother—to my chest, The singing birds were a shattered bombshell— envious of your voice loves his country. as you took your time with each word, (O beautiful for smog slow and sweet. and litter-peppered grass growing in the highway median.) Nothing felt as safe as the written words My brother spun his childhood of your favorite book. like a pistol. A little boy with a cap gun couldn’t be cuter. Saturday afternoon The drunk old man? Spun into a hero. was the only time you were certain— The God-and-Homeland Mother? Spun into a Good Mother. steady and sure. Me? Spun into a hippie. On any other day He hid everything under his pillow. your uncertainty —plastic army men shined through your eyes —dinky A-10 Warthog like the indecisive light —My Little Ponies (POWs) flickering on the corner of your street. —peanut butter sandwiches —whiskey And the rest of your days were spent —words like “I hate it here, I hate it here” looking for the steady surety of Saturday afternoon. Now, a flag flashes in his stoic gray eyes. His hands catch fire. I can’t put it out.

(Empty home of the dead-brave and stolen land of the once-free)

He’s the sharp one, standing straight-backed and stiff-necked at attention. He’s the sharp one, cutting with a hunting knife he calls Ole Pete. He’s the sharp one, plunging headfirst into himself.

He wonders what happened to patriotism: Where have all the warriors gone?

(My country ‘tis of thee, bitter land of enmity of thee we’ve lost)

Like you, Soldier, they went to war.

12 13 CORINTHIANS RAY NADEAU

“Do you not know know that your bodies are temples of the Holy Spirit who is in you, whom you received from God? You are not your own; you were bought at a price.”

1 Cor. 6:19

Sara Douglas never thought of her body as a temple. But it was hers. She was the girl with golden hair that burned with the intensity of the sun itself, proclaiming to the world, I cannot be touched. Her body was her castle, and she was its queen, ruling over the subjects that were her cells.

And if her body was a castle, it was built with marble as speckled as her cheeks. Thin, square towers from a surrounding barrier connected by vast walls of alabaster stone. But the pride of the castle was not its architecture, not its beauty or its structure, but the mosaic facing forward, clearly visible to all who approach the great, wooden doors. It was a beautifully crafted image of not a princess, but a warrior with fiery hair with the mythos she inspires aiming her bow towards the sun.

But still an emperor approached the great, wooden doors.

“This is my spear,” he said, “and you shall worship it as a god.”

But I’m an archer, she cried and pulled an arrow from her quiver.

Mythology has never been kind to its women. It shows no sympathy to its Daphnes, its Cassandras, Caenises, and Callistos. And her castle was built at the edges of the shoreline, into the cliff-face surrounding a small gulf. Its great doors were the only easy way in, but they were made from the softwood of the conifer, not built for an attack, not built for the onslaught of a battering ram.

Sara Douglas never thought her body could be a crime scene until her undergarments were being taken away in a paper bag as a person she didn’t know documented the damage between her thighs.

She didn’t realize she had started crying until the forensic examiner emerged from between the spread legs of her crime scene with a carefully repeated, would you like to stop?

“No,” she said.

Remnants of his siege equipment and too many of her arrows that hit too few targets litter the sands outside, a painful reminder of a past battle. Inside, the servants continue their work. And with nothing more important to do, they begin to repair what had been broken, the sound of blood orange mosaic tile crunching beneath their feet.

Mythology will always be cruel to its women. She can never be an Artemis or a Hestia, but perhaps with time, she can become a Hera or Persephone. Her castle has stood the test of time and battle, and she intends on making sure it stays that way for years to come.

But still something speaks in the back of Sara’s mind.

PASSING TIME Do you not know that your body is a temple? It says. CHRYSTALLA CHRISTODOULOU You are not your own.

14 15 LET HER MIGUEL ESCOTO

Fuck the heel-toe method. This rebel flat-foots, ‘n’ pancake-slaps the shit-zoo out of her sidewalk. Balancing herself over the concrete edge, like some acrobat holding her lover’s hands while she tumbles through the thin air.

Pausing only for a half-second to catch her breath, she’s a left outfielder runnin’ with her tongue out: strings out, strikes out, calls out, moves out. Hunched over: her 7.5-degree slouch forwards, ‘cause her textbooks cost a month’s salary and a spare kidney in a cooler. They sure as hell should be heavy.

Sure is pure, the war she levies. Wait. Her face is a canvas. Makeup, her paint. Let her finish. Let her live.

AREN PRECIOUS PARKER

16 17 BOY WHO BLEEDS OR GOODBYE GIRLHOOD BRONTE TREAT

I´ve never felt more like a boy We stopped at the corner store for tampons and than when we rode our bikes locked our bikes outside. It´s like a superpower. through the streets of New Orleans. What is? I asked. My body concealed by baggy clothing, That you don’t bleed to death. my long hair hidden beneath my helmet— We walked across the street to Creole Creamery. we rode. We bought big, summertime-sized cones Dodging potholes. Popping wheelies. even though it was January. I felt like a brother We sat in silence, three in a row, and savored our boyhood. to Hiatt and Jordan. Later, as we rode away, I beamed with pride to be the only boy to bleed with life. And with every block, every pump of my pedal, every bead of sweat falling from my brow, my female form and all of its baggage fell away.

I felt my body shift from an object of desire into a machine carrying me from burgers at Camellia Grill to Audubon Park. Here, we stopped and read Breakfast of Champions, or Goodbye Blue Monday. We read aloud and passed the tattered book at the end of each chapter. We laughed at the same parts —aliens so small they fit in a shoe box—and it solidified our brotherhood. Before we left, I went to the bathroom. There, in my underwear, I saw the proof of my sex: blood.

Blood that boasted, you are not their brother. Blood that reminded me, you are the other. I felt like a fraud and, in a way, I was. I didn’t like Vonnegut or how Hiatt and Jordan ignored traffic signs, but that’s what it takes to be a boy.

18 19 THIS CLICHÉ IS TABOO DANE SHANNON

Roses are a profound red to the hardwood. This violet dress is risqué, blue in the bathwater. A French chocolate goes rogue under the loveseat. The teddy bear is mortified, unstuffed. Words like “be mine” are taboo running over your lips. My ring finger appalls me, stripping itself bare, as you floor the entryway with your exit.

UNTITLED CHRYSTALLA CHRISTODOULOU

20 21 CALAMITY KENDALL SHAW

June, 1879 The kid laughed again, and that was when Pat noticed that a crowd had gathered. He Fort Sumner, New Mexico stood a little taller, and tried to pretend that he wasn’t squinting to see the target. “I’ll tell you Pat stared down at the scrawny, crooked figure in front of him. Young, and apparently what,” the kid said. “If you shoot it, it can be your dinner.” He clapped Pat on the back and then hot-headed, this kid didn’t know who he was messing with. His shoulders were squared, and stepped away, grinning all the while. though Pat was taller, this kid seemed to be taking up just as much space in the room. Likely, it Pat humphed as he pulled out his revolver. The whole town had showed up to see a was all the backup he apparently had here. His poker table was full, and now they all watched Pat, petty bar dispute settled. That was Fort Sumner, for you. The rabbit was oblivious to its impending almost nervously, as if warning him that he’d better step lightly. doom, and just as he was about to shoot, Pat— who was quickly realizing that he’d been a little too “Let me ask you something,” Pat said, standing up from his bar stool. He now towered confident at the start— noticed with dismay that Juanita Martinez was standing only a few feet over the kid, and took some pleasure in seeing the welp’s eyes flicker downward quickly before away, watching him closely. She was wearing her blue dress too, and with her hair all down around moving up to meet Pat’s again, as if he’d been sizing him up instead of backing down. “You really her shoulders... Pat swallowed nervously. When he’d agreed to this stupid bet, he hadn’t expected think you’re a better shot than I am?” an audience. The disagreement had started only a few minutes ago, and though Pat had only meant “Oh, to hell with it,” he grumbled, and took the shot. Immediately, he regretted it. The to poke fun at him for bragging so much, he was now pretty much determined to embarrass him as bullet kicked up dust a foot away from the rabbit, and it scurried farther into the street. Pat, not much as he could. He had the feeling he deserved it. about to quit, shot once more, but the rabbit was alert this time. It hopped away again, and then The kid crossed his arms and glared up at Pat. “I’m better than anyone in the damned again, ‘til Pat’s revolver clicked empty. Territory, and I ain’t afraid to show it.” Slowly, he lowered the weapon down to his side, staring daggers at that damned Pat almost laughed. “How about right now, partner? You seem like someone who could rabbit. Everyone was silent, and Pat was about to turn and accept defeat when the rabbit fell, and clear a street, to me.” a gunshot sounded in the air. Pat turned to face his challenger, who was holding up a revolver, The kid actually did laugh then— a joyful, pure sound. It sure didn’t match the smoke billowing from the muzzle. The look on that kid’s face was so intense, so unsettling, that you threatening energy he was trying to put out, and it caught Pat off-guard. “I can get anything I want would’ve thought he’d just killed a man, not a rabbit. Almost immediately, however, his expression in this town, partner,” he snarked, uncrossing his arms and gesturing to the door. “If you’re done relaxed, and he spun his revolver into its holster, looking out at the crowd, which instantly erupted with that drink of yours, I’ll show you a thing or two.” in cheers. Pat sat back down, took the last gulp of his drink, and stood up again, making sure “Billito! Billito!” was the word repeated over and over, and Pat realized, for the first time, to take his time. He didn’t need to rush so some cowpuncher punk could show off in front of his who this was. buddies. “Alright,” he finally agreed, “lead the way, kid.” “Billy Bonney,” he said, feeling stupid for not noticing the signs sooner. “The Kid.” A small smile appeared on the boy’s face, revealing crooked front teeth. “So you have The Kid smirked and tilted his hat. “Yours truly, Mr. Garrett.” heard of me,” he said and sauntered out of the saloon. Pat took only a moment to be surprised. Pat shook his head. He’d known about Fort Sumner’s more... colorful visitors, but this? Whoever this was acted as if he were some kind of celebrity. A celebrity playing poker in Fort Surely not. “You’re younger than I thought you’d be,” he finally said, not knowing how else to voice Sumner. Now there was a good laugh. his amazement. There was no way in hell this was the same person everyone had been going on Pat said nothing as he followed the boy outside. He got more than a few stares from the about all this time. It was almost laughable, but Pat hadn’t so quickly forgotten the way he’d shot other customers, and the barkeep was trying to keep in a laugh. Where was the joke here? Surely that rabbit. everyone else found whoever this was to be just as obnoxious as Pat did. They must. No one said Billy raised an eyebrow, already walking backward in the direction of the girls he’d been something like, “I can get anything I want in this town,” without being driven out by half the town speaking to earlier. Now everything made sense to Pat. The swagger in his gait, the easy way he itself. spoke, as if he had nothing to lose… he really was a bona fide celebrity. A smirk split his face as he The sun beat down on the dirt street running through Fort Sumner, which was a sorry asked, “Why do you think they call me Kid?” excuse for a town, really, the more Pat thought about it. He didn’t want to end up stuck here, meaning he should’ve probably lit out already, but first he had to win this stupid contest. Pat’s opponent had almost immediately leaned himself up against the hitching post, as he was now doing his best to charm a few of the young ladies in town, and Pat rolled his eyes. He’d had about enough of this. If the kid was so special, let him prove it. “I haven’t got all day, son,” Pat called. There. That oughta bring him down a few pegs. The kid was probably only about ten years younger at the most, but he deserved a little bullying at this point if no one else was going to do it. He looked up at Pat, and instead of acting flustered, like he should, he turned back to the girls, winked, and then strode up to Pat, taking his own sweet time. The girls didn’t even seem to be humoring him, as far as Pat could tell. Not that he was very good at understanding that sort of thing. “Alright, let’s see what you’ve got, Mr. Garrett,” the kid said. “How’s about you hit that jackrabbit at the end of the lane?” Pat hardly had time to be surprised that this stranger knew who he was as he peered down the road at the rabbit in question. “Is this whole thing just an excuse for me to shoot you your dinner?” he asked.

22 23 I COULD TAME A BRONCO BRONTE TREAT

Maybe we are destined by our environment: the desert floor.

You: the constant Cactus, who needs no water. Me: the Tumbleweed,

pushed by dry winds through our quiet conversations. But there is a difference between

silence and quiet. One is imposed. One is sought.

After imposed silence by the Coyote, the Thread Grass, even the Owl, I sought

you, quiet Cactus. But— I am parched. I´ve been rolling around our desert floor for months.

I could: 1) Lasso the sun 2) Put tits on a bull 3) Tame a bronco

As if your firm flesh would bend to my action. As if your spine

would suddenly turn soft. No. You chose number 4: the Young Cactus Flower.

Not even in bloom. Someone who makes you feel rugged. SUCCULENT AND CONTRAIL NATALIE LANGHAM

24 25 CONVERSION’S FAILED COMPROMISE ISABELLA SCARPELLI

In the Andes Families preserve the dead Exchange souls for frost

People placate the gods Absorb icons for natural order Mañya paz

Families become the mountains Exchange relics for nature Huacas bore creators

Las Casas dice que España es mejor Andeans could be salvaged Proper conversion transplanted

Andeans cling tradition to their hips Shook white West away Moved religion with Waka’s sway

In the Andes Two cultures collide Vanquish brown for white Conversion’s failed compromise

NACHO SINGH DE EL PASO JESSICA GUAJARDO

26 27 LITTLE CROW MEL SIPKO

Jezebel dug her fingers into the earth, softened by the rains of early spring, making small divots in the ground. In each she placed a few seeds from the pocket of her skirt, covering them before moving on. In the next row of raised soil, her mother did the same, fingernails full of dirt. They went on in a steady, synchronized rhythm, preparing the earth for new life. “Jezebel,” the older woman said, “who makes the land fertile for the crops?” The girl paused her work for a moment, biting her lip as she reached for the answer. “Macha,” she replied. Her mother smiled and nodded. “And what are her sisters’ names?” “Badb,” Jezebel started, pausing as she struggled for the second answer, “and Nemain.” “What a smart little crow you are,” her mother cooed. Jezebel rolled her eyes. A girl of twelve was too old for silly praises, she thought. But she smiled nonetheless. “When will they be ready, Mama?” Jezebel asked, hopping onto the next row. “Oh,” her mother sang, standing up and resting her hands on her hips, “should be July. August if the weather doesn’t favor us.” As she moved onto the next row, a gentle wind lifted a few strands of her dark hair, moving them like waves. “The weather always likes us,” Jezebel declared matter-of-factly. Her mother chuckled; the girl had certainly inherited her attitude. “Come here, now,” she said once Jezebel finished her work. She bounded over to her, standing on eager feet as her mother crouched low to the ground. The woman spread her fingers and placed her palm firmly on the earth, breathing in deeply. When she breathed out, the magic bled into the earth, and Jezebel could feel the ground fluttering beneath her feet. “Now you,” her mother commanded, and Jezebel joined her on the ground. She mimicked her mother’s motions, reaching for that power, for Macha’s hand to guide her. But the magic got stuck, spurted around and ricocheted towards the sky. In her little heart she was devastated, but her mother wasted no time. She grasped Jezebel’s hand and squeezed tight. Even covered in dirt, her skin was so much lighter than Jezebel’s, the shape so much stronger. It must be why the magic doesn’t work, Jezebel thought wistfully. It was too much for her small, dark, delicate hands. “Try again,” her mother whispered. Returning the pressure of her mother’s hold, she searched again for the magic, dug deep in herself like she’d dug into the dirt. And the magic poured smoothly into the earth. “There!” her mother breathed. But Jezebel stood staring solemnly at the ground. The woman pinched her daughter’s chin between her fingers and turned her head upwards. “Listen here, my little crow,” she said firmly. “Your wings are still small, but they grow fast.” She held Jezebel in her gaze as if she was holding the whole universe, and in that moment, Jezebel felt like she truly, absolutely existed for the first time in her entire life. Would anyone ever look at her the same? “On your own, now,” her mother ordered, nodding her head towards the ground. Jezebel let her hand slip from her mother’s grasp and squared her shoulders, scrunching DOÑA LYDIA DE SAN SALVADOR her brows together in that way of hers. She recalled the feeling of the magic humming through JESSICA GUAJARDO her, starting in her belly and flowing with the blood in her veins until it reached her fingertips. She pressed her hand harder into the soil, and felt the little electric pulses bear into the earth. “Yes!” her mother exclaimed. “Just like that.” Jezebel smiled from ear to ear as she looked up at the woman. She wondered if this was what the sun felt like when it lit the whole world. Her mother’s head turned to the horizon, and Jezebel saw something in her expression drop. She turned her gaze, too, to where the faint dirt road stretched over the dry land towards town. Four figures on horseback approached in the distance, the heavy sun distorting their shapes.

28 29 “Go inside,” her mother said softly. She heard the saddle groan as he dismounted, his boots thudding heavily on the hard Jezebel looked at her with wide little eyes, her stomach dropping as a sudden fear filled ground. He strode inside slowly, and Jezebel tried to make herself small, praying that he would her. attribute any noise to the horse. “Now.” His footsteps stopped, and the child made every effort to restrain herself from peeking The girl was old enough not to mistake a soft voice for a weak one and stood, taking out to see where he was. He moved again, and she could tell by the volume of his footsteps that he quick steps towards the little house. When she reached the back door, she looked back to her was coming closer to her. mother, but she had disappeared to the front of the house. Jezebel held the doorknob for a long When he stopped, she could tell he was just outside the stall. She looked up, and could moment, then let go, trotting towards the barn instead. see him standing just feet away from her, reaching his hand out to pat the horse’s jaw. Then he went Inside, their dark mare chewed lazily on the hay in her stall. The other stall stood empty; for the latch, jiggling it open, and stepped inside. her aunt had taken the piebald on one of her quests. The horse ignored Jezebel as she climbed up Jezebel met his gaze, wide-eyed and frozen with fear. bales of hay to the loft, using every bit of her strength to hoist herself up onto the platform. The Instinct thawed her, and she thrust her hand forward and the horse reared, releasing shutters of the bay window were ajar, and she crouched below, sticking her head in the opening. a shrill cry. The man hollered and threw his hands in front of him as the horse came back down, The men and their horses had nearly reached the property, and her mother stood with knocking him backwards and out of Jezebel’s sight. She leapt up and gave the beast a slap on its her shoulders back and head held high, feet planted firmly as she awaited them. Three of the men haunches and it charged out of the stall. In the commotion, she darted out the door and past the stopped a few feet short of the woman, but one marched his steed right up to her, and for a moment man’s startled steed. Jezebel thought he would allow the beast to trample right over her. But he pulled back on the She could hear a man’s furious shout, and a gunshot sent her stumbling onto her hands reins at the last second and the horse snorted and shook its head, stamping its hoof in the dirt. Her and knees, tearing the skin of her palms. She hoisted herself back up, her body moving more on mother stood like stone, unintimidated and unafraid. Jezebel felt her heart swell with admiration. its own volition than her commands. She should have taken the horse and fled to town, told Aunt The younger men were unfamiliar, plain faces hidden under hats that could have been any of Maeve what had happened, and let her handle everything. the men she’d seen in town. But she recognized the older man, his white collar peeking out from But she could only think of her mother, and the gunshot, and the pastor and the fury and under his coat: the pastor. hatred that she’d felt from so far away. Her heart fluttered rapidly against her chest, like a small bird Their voices floated up to her, but they were too far to distinguish words. desperate to flee its cage. The pastor—she could never remember his name—was clearly agitated, but her mother stood She came to a halt as she turned the corner of the house. One man lay with his leg still and relaxed. One of the younger men paced his horse back and forth slowly behind the others, crushed under the weight of his horse, the animal wriggling violently to right itself. The other was head swiveling back and forth as he scanning the property. Jezebel kept an eye on him, careful not to trapped in the roots of a tree erupting from the earth, dragging him towards its trunk and spitting sit at an angle that he could see her. up dirt and rocks as it did. But the old man stood over her mother—sprawled on the ground, hand “Liar!” clutching her side—holding his pistol out in front of him. Jezebel saw him pull back the hammer. Her head snapped back to her mother and the pastor. His horse stamped its hoof in the ground, She opened her hands at her sides, and just as she’d called for Macha to give the crops and though his wide hat covered his face, Jezebel could see in the way he gripped his reins that he breath, she called for her sister to turn the tide of the fight. An enormous wind bellowed around her, was angry. picking up a cloud of dust so dense she could barely see her mother or the pastor anymore. Her mother shook her head slowly and Jezebel could have sworn the breeze mimicked A bright and sharp flash sparked in front of the pastor and he flew back, and Jezebel ran her movement, nearly blowing the pastor’s hat from his head. She reached out and cupped the to her mother. She could see them more clearly now, the pastor struggling as the ground beneath horse’s jaw, and Jezebel saw the animal immediately relax at her touch. him churned, her mother holding her hand in front of her to command the earth. With the other The pastor did not take kindly to the gesture. Jezebel gasped as he yanked on the reins, hand planted behind her to hold her steady, Jezebel could see the blood blooming on her blouse. and the beast reared up and screamed. Her mother took a step back, raising her hands for another “Mama!” Jezebel cried, running towards her mother. She fell to her knees beside her, spell, but when the horse’s hooves stomped back on the ground its rider had his pistol trained on watching in horror as the woman’s arms trembled and sweat drenched her face and neck, making her, ready to fire. her hair stick to her skin. Her fair skin had lost so much color, and she seemed to barely register Jezebel’s heart hammered in her chest. Should she do as she was told, hide until it was Jezebel’s presence as she forced the pastor further away from them. safe? Her mother was smart and strong; it would not be easy to take her down. If she could get the “Mama,” Jezebel moaned, putting a hand on her mother’s shoulder. man to calm down, she might even be able to charm him into turning around and forgetting the At Jezebel’s touch, her shoulders slumped and her hand fell back to her wound. She whole incident. looked at Jezebel, breathing heavily, blinking rapidly. She reached her hand up to touch Jezebel’s From the corner of her eye, Jezebel noticed the pacing man had stopped, and when she cheek, and Jezebel felt the warm blood paint her skin. turned to regard him, she swore he was looking right at her. He dug the heel of his boot into his “Go,” her mother said weakly, “to Maeve, tell her…” Her voice faded, and Jezebel could horse’s side, and started towards the barn. see her struggling to hold herself steady. Jezebel nearly fell over herself as she scrambled away from the window and back down Jezebel shook her head, tears brimming in her eyes and slipping down her cheeks. to the floor. The horse paid no mind to her as she opened the stall and ducked inside, tucking herself “Mama...” in the front corner where it was hardest to see from the entrance. She could hear the hooves of the “Now, Jezebel,” she huffed. “Don’t look back.” man’s horse outside, moving to the back where the doors stood wide open. She could see the tall A sob escaped Jezebel’s lips, but she pushed herself to her feet and forced herself to turn shadow he cast inside, blocking out the low sun. Her heart hammered against her ribs, and she away from her mother. She planted one foot, then the other, then the other, until she’d established a clamped her hand over her mouth, terrified that he would hear the smallest noise. steady rhythm. Don’t look back, she told herself. Don’t look back.

30 31 She put her fingers between her lips, struggling to keep them steady, and whistled loudly. In a moment, the mare was at her side, and she grabbed a fistful of her mane and dragged herself onto her bare back. Her heart felt so heavy. She wasn’t sure she had the strength to hold on. Don’t look back. She dug her heels into the horse’s sides and urged her forward. As the animal sped to a trot, Jezebel heard the crack of another gunshot, and despite her mother’s warning, turned her head around. The pastor stumbled out of the dust cloud, coughing into his elbow, gun raised in front of him. But by then they had reached a gallop, and he slowly lowered his arm as he watched them go. By the time Jezebel reached the schoolhouse, her entire body ached and her tears had left streaks on her dust-caked cheeks. The only thing she couldn’t feel was her heart; just an empty space where it should have been. Aunt Maeve must have heard her coming, and stood in the doorway, a knowing and somber expression on her face. When Jezebel stopped the horse, Maeve gripped her skirts and rushed to her side, ready to catch her as she slipped gracelessly from the horse. Jezebel held on with all the strength left in her, turning her face towards the sky. In the orange light of the setting sun, a grey crow circled overhead.

OVERLOOKING HOMETOWN SARAH WILSON

32 33 AS CHILD ELLEN SYDNEY CHANDLER BETSY MCKINNEY

Feed me, my mouth yawned, so Father fed me his eyes. I returned to the earth on the rainiest day of the year in the middle of a fire warning. Let Feed me, my eyes begged, so Father fed me his teeth. me explain. Feed me, my teeth gnashed, so Father ripped out his tongue. Carl and I had gone to Home Depot to buy ficuses. We had just moved from Oregon, Feed me, my tongue lolled, so Father scraped off all his skin. from our little bungalow on a rocky coast, to a small lot in rural California. Carl had suggested the ficuses. I said how about orange trees, or agaves, or something that can be controlled. The scrawny, Feed me, my skin sagged, so Father siphoned out his blood. pimply boy in the tree section had said ficuses have root problems. They grow anywhere and Feed me, my blood brayed, so Father fed me eight bent ribs. everywhere in the blink of an eye, uplifting streets and curbs, damaging underground utilities and Feed me, my chest echoed, empty and inviting. Father drains, and you shouldn’t grow them without the right preventative measures. took in one last breath. Father ripped out his one heart. “Dig a trench next to the pavement where the ficus tree may reach with its mature roots,” the boy said. He was young and knew way too much about ficus trees. “Then your roots will grow And I, as child, devoured it downward, instead of out.” – hungry. This made me uncomfortable. “Look at these over here,” I said, tugging on Carl’s sleeve. He was talking to the boy about shovels. I seized a cactus and held it to my heart. “It says right here that you can buy them in pots, and they only sometimes need water…” He chattered along with the boy, whose face somehow became more peculiar as his eyes shifted from me to Carl. When the boy stopped responding, he finally turned to me. He was smiling so big and clutching a pair of gardening shears. “What’s the fun in that?” Carl said. He tugged his sleeve free and placed my hand in his. The decision was made. Carl purchased one newborn ficus to fill up our big, empty lot and a shovel to dig the trench. Every day it grew bigger and taller, roots sinking deeper into the earth. I called her Ellen. *** Here is how to really know a person: Look to the hands. Every day, every year of their life will be about the hands. Carl pruned and picked at Ellen, giving her water when she was thirsty and fresh mulch to keep her soil moist and to prevent weed growth. He had busy, ugly hands. Every night since we moved to California, he talked to young girls on the internet and touched himself and wanted to touch them. In one way, I didn’t blame him. We were both pushing fifty, and a baby was out of the question. We were just too young to think about those things and now he had Ellen to watch for. But I’m a simple woman, and I only wanted a house on the coast and occasionally a peaceful family dinner. I knew what I had to do. I told him, Ellen needs water, the climate is especially dry because wildfires are starting to hit the area. I ruffled his hair and kissed his nose and he went outside to fetch the hose. I followed behind with the shovel, and with one knock to the skull, Carl was no more. I placed his body in the trench where Ellen could watch over him. I had known better than to let my roots sink. *** The next morning, I woke up at noon. I drank the entire pot of coffee by myself and listened to a special on wildfires. Ninety percent of wildfires in the United States are due to human activity, the reporter chimed on the television. Only ten percent are caused by nature. Nature was responsible for more, I knew. Nature surely was stronger than that. Only a force like nature could make men burn and bow down to remember what they have. I began to plan for a peaceful family dinner. I called Dad and told him Thanksgiving should be here, at my home, in California. Carl would be visiting his sick father back in Oregon. He really wasn’t doing well. He huffed a few times and said if he and Joyce could average sixty- five miles an hour for most of the way, they should be able to make it from Oregon for a six o’clock dinner. Dad and Joyce would bring along Arthur, making six. This pleased me.

34 35 I went out back to check on Ellen and Carl. Her roots curled out of the mulch and were I retrieved matches from my back pocket. It was time. I lit them, one by one, and long and knuckled and appeared to be arms. They both laid so peaceful and still, almost like they scattered them around Ellen. The wildfire started to crawl up her body. were sleeping. I gathered Arthur in my arms, pressing my forehead to his. I stretched against Ellen’s trunk and began to braid three arms together. “Arthur. Arty. Are you the type to hide from a storm?” “Sometimes, Carl, I wonder if you have ever been so content in a warm little bed.” He was screaming now, beating his hands against my embrace. I giggled and granted him the braid, giving his palms something to squeeze. “MMMMMMOM!” He finally let out. Tears streamed down poor Arty’s bumbling *** face, as red as the flames. Every morning for the next two weeks, I woke up at noon, drank the entire pot of Ellen’s leaves rained down around us like little glowing raindrops. We could taste each other’s coffee by myself, and went outside to take care of Ellen and Carl. Her arms were now growing perspiration. contagiously and uplifting the earth to form spirals across the lot. Ellen had Carl wrapped up in a When the sirens were near, Ellen’s arms wrapped us up, just like Carl, in a warm little loving embrace. The rest of the day was spent baking turkeys and pies and casseroles. bed. Arty could come, too. His love was unselfish and I could show him how Ellen and Carl and I *** wanted to live. Uninhibited, with roots for arms. Thanksgiving was the driest day of year and wildfires ravaged the area more and more each day. I knew it was because of Dad. His hands were clenched in fists on top of the placemat. Two weeks of cooking stacked one on top of the other on the table. Something smelled. “April.” His face was red and swollen like a boil. “There are Ficus roots infiltrating the curb out front and beginning to uplift the street.” He shut his eyes and cleared the table of a stack of pies with the swipe of his fist. “And I can see your backyard has completely been taken over.” I looked out the window and smiled. I made sure we sat right beside the big window so Ellen and Carl could peek in. “That’s Ellen,” was all I could say. How else could I explain her? And to Dad no less. He didn’t know anything about love. I think we all secretly wished he was dead. He had taken the family into his hands, which only knew how to fold and re-fold money at the bank, and spread us thin. He remarried Joyce who could only sit silent as a mouse and wring her hands together. I saw the mess of prescription bottles in her purse when she walked in. It was his fault. We were spread so thin, our roots were delicate little fingers and it was all his fault. My eyes narrowed. I hoped his tie would cut off his big, fat head. Ellen was a complicated girl who no man could understand. I looked at my peaceful family dinner one more time. Joyce trembled and stared at her empty plate. And the purple vein in Dad’s face grew more pronounced as he glared at Ellen through the window. I stood up suddenly. “Serve yourselves,” I said. “I think Ellen is thirsty.” No one answered. I grabbed the hose and was making my way towards Ellen and Carl when I saw Arthur slumped against Ellen’s trunk, mindlessly wringing her arms together. “Arthur! What are you doing out here?” I said. He moaned back at me and shook his hands in excitement. His Autism did not allow him to speak. “Mom and Dad must have forgotten about you, huh?” He flapped his hands and burrowed his head into my chest. Arthur was Joyce’s son, but as we stood beside Ellen and Carl, we were like a family. I glanced back at the window and watched Dad. He seemed to be yelling at Joyce. She just cowered and shook. I knew what I had to do.

36 37 I ENVY THE SPIDER’S ABILITY TO SWALLOW ITS HOME WHOLE SYDNEY CHANDLER

I dream of taking to my childhood home with a fork and a knife. I dream of carving up the windows that never opened, of lapping at the grout which stained the borders of the kitchen sink, of devouring old photo albums with a glass of milk in hand – I wonder if the photographs would stick to my teeth like gum.

broken plates crosses in closets wild parakeets from Northern Australia – whiskey glasses spinning chairs chained armoires filled with Father’s Father’s things I would

chew on the dildos in Mother’s closet, “toys” my little sister called them one day; Lonely Barbies in the night. I would swallow the memories of Lonely Mother, with Loving Husband, the man always existing in different time zones across the sea. I remember my ear to her door, my Lovely Mother crying with her Lonely Barbie Dolls, crying to the song of the crickets outside.

I would swallow it all.

Know this: a web without its spider is not an abandoned piece of property, but instead a ghostly graveyard for the arachnid who once spun it. For the spider will never abandon its home once its web is woven. Even if the threads are damaged, the arachnid will not leave until the web has been

devoured, digested, recycled within hard shell.

I envy the spider for its ability to eat at its memories – to swallow its houses, its histories, on silver silken thread.

MELIKA PRECIOUS PARKER

38 39 THE FOREST OF ANXIETY POLYETHYLENE LAUGHTER KRISTYN GARZA MIGUEL ESCOTO

Crimson, My smile can help carry the white fluff that lies on yonder tree some groceries to your tinted with a ravaging red. 10-mile per gallon SUV. Silence cuts the crisp air Don’t get too carried away— like a shriek in the night. 2% milk jugs are heavy. It is not dark and yet My manufacturer produced Fear claws at my soul, turning it a heavy onyx. it to be disposable. Voices, I hear them all around me, Destined for a landfill, surrounding my thoughts and clouding my mind. hoping for a second chance. They whisper of oncoming sorrow, of uncertainty It will poison my Mother piercing my poor heart with cold icicles of terror. and all her green innocence. I attempt to clod my way through the thick gloom, Practical. Momentary. gloom that has seeped into the already cold air Inorganic. An offspring turning everything frozen. of corporate profits and I cannot run. I cannot move. calculated waste. The voices grow with every struggle I make My laughter is polyethylene. and so, I crumple to the ground, sprawled Happiness: a plastic bag. on the soft white blanket that covers the earth, Please recycle. looking up at the pale ocean sky. The tree branches lying overhead mock my pain, stalking their weak prey. I hold my hands to my ears unable to take much more Fear. Finally, I close my eyes and see the white fluff that lies on yonder tree and ravaging red. Crimson.

40 41 WE IN THE DIRT SYDNEY CHANDLER

In the ground, tree roots smell of sex, of salt, of neither male nor female, but of becoming, of unbecoming, one and every other their roots entangle,

suck, sing, slide into one another, a mapping of cross

roads, a tangling and disentangling of nerve endings, beginnings, locks of rooted hair locked under wet,

smooth soil. In the ground, we, as one length of

flesh, of egg, of stomach, wriggle and writhe amongst the tree’s fingertips. Without eyes, we see only with our mouths, wide open. Drinking the perfumes of fellow Fungi and Littered Leaf, we take no pause at the meaning

of above or below.

To those who wallow atop Land, and roast under Sun’s misunderstood gaze, we in the dirt do not envy your feet on which you move, nor your eyes with which you blindly deliver

the “truth” your species says to have seen.

We, under the trees, amongst the roots, in the dark of dreams and growth and brine, have not the power to lie through our blind,

mute mouths.

VULNERABILITY JESSICA GUAJARDO

42 43 NAMELESS BUD (A WOMAN) LOVES THE FADING ROSE (A MAN) DANE SHANNON

I heard, once, that you were You’re so beautiful, you startled startled into bloom wound—you bright compound fracture by sunlight. in nature’s elbow.

And all I could do was pray: “God, I can’t believe it. make me a rose and startle me too!” You’ve lost your rigidity. You blush with every softened sag. Of course, I catch your satin trappings as they slip I was startled by the wind and fell from your aging shoulders and slink clean from the bush, long before down to me. All the way down, down. you might have learned my name. I press them to my cheek. I should let myself go I bite them—with mischief riding my brow. and die—a slighted green kiss—alone And I whisper: even in the dandelions. “Darling, Don’t you know? you’ll catch such a chill.” I can’t afford the vanity of blooming You shudder, because you know: or hope for sunlit startle-ings I’m right about this one. and the rapture of scarlet. I’m an expert, I’m fraught with insight, seeing always after all, in the frigid abyss up your skirt of anonymity. whether I like it or not. I’ve seen your secret spider legs, and I know when the dragonflies molest and mingle behind your vermillion. And yes, I’m far too familiar with your freckling sepal.

I am jealous, if anyone asks. But that’s alright. I’ve taken well to wilting.

***

Actually, I’m concentrating, having never opened myself to the bees. I’m marinated in colors that you will never see. I’m sinking deeper and deeper still. Until I’m buried in these weeds, camouflaged in the emerald.

44 45 STARS IN OIL SHIFTING SHADOWS CORINNE BATES MORGAN HUNNICUTT

Among the faltering petals of spring, I forgot how much I loved the stars I sit in peace, in the soft filters of nostalgia. until I sat I think of our time and how it passed like a hushed rush of wind. filling my lungs with smoke so I could sleep the clouds curling between the leaves Every night, of the oak tree your hands would rest so easy in my parents’ backyard and your eyes would change: from blue to green, to blue again. stars caught my eye Like pictures on a projector—fuzzy and warm—I see the moments so much brighter here of our love slide and turn. without the city lights

I lost my place I almost want to go back, on the ground to live in the memories I crawled into the sky and change the end. floating in the deep black Because the further I fall, oil slick in these feelings of longing, smelled like licorice the less cautious I get. felt like being held by my mother The strings to my heart delicately dangle, and told pulled and tried. the world loves you dear In soft filters, we laughed. a twinkle pulled me In a gentle way, we lived. from the oil into a world of light I pinch myself back to today. I must remember: everything was white and silver we were not a fairytale; it smelled of freshly washed sheets we were a lesson learned. and every part of me that ever felt Our time was not spent in these soft filters and gentle ways damaged I choose to remember. or dirty With the contrast between the cracks of the shade faded and sank and the sun beaming in, into the oil slick I look up to the sky and see myself in the clouds. never to be seen again But my feelings are not aimlessly floating; my indifference is shifting—further and further from you.

46 47 RATE OF DESTRUCTION CATALYST MIGUEL ESCOTO DANI GALLUCCI

Slept two and a half hours last night on account of an environmental documentary marathon, and An Objective Statement Regarding Color: the stain of disappointed tears that wet my bamboo-cloth pillow case. Purple does not return to Blue, Ordered a veggie burger combo, but asked the cashier to serve the drinks without any straws. although it carries its hue Recycled my cup and washed the sandwich wrapping for future usage. under its skin, sleeping, always half Blue. Took a piss and dried my hands using a single paper towel at the gasoline store, while a Purple. corporation impregnated by hybrid with the death of future generations. Its blood is Red. Red carries flames. Laid my head down on Zilker Park’s grass and dreamt of being suffocated by styrofoam. Woke So, Purple exudes warmth. up to the moon’s coos. Squinted when I felt the sting of my sunburn. Never mind the Blue beneath its skin. Red and dead are a perfect rhyme. Pretended to be glacier. Icy farmer’s tan. Fiery guilt of murder. Crumbling grasp on order. The But dead and Blue are synonyms. trembles: fighting to stay solid because tears only quicken the rate of destruction. It feels the Blue under its skin. Always there. Blue. It is not calm. It is an absence. A ghost of the blood. The blood is what spills. It should not be Blue. Blood can be Blue. Red. Red is cold. It was not always cold. It is not meant to be cold. Purple does not want to return to Blue. It ignores the way it carries its hue tattooed on the inside of its skin. Yet, it is always half Blue.

48 49 OVERSATURATION FRUGAL FATHER HAS A DANI GALLUCCI MIDLIFE CRISIS DANE SHANNON The fat man’s bones creak, powder on his hands. His dance is a bastard—its father, recoil. I’m yours— The bastard is ignored. your glassy-eyed As the air is filled with metal and collisions— piggy bank. (akin to the din of a train I shine with no destination) with so many semblances: —he is aiming at nothing of newness, of delicacy, of brunches Yet, somehow, he draws blood. with your first wife Those bullets that struck flesh are enough to dye the world like on Thursday. ruby-red glasses. Unrequested, and still readily available. I might remind you (Never mind that. of the 50s The untainted bullets make when pennies the earth a lovely necklace.) were more of a commitment.

You give me your change when your pockets, your loveseat, your convertible console can spare it. I look up to you with a porcelain smile. And you wink.

Clink

You come home to find me swollen with copper and you realize:

you’d like your money back.

You’re too tall—you’re too contemporary—too sublime. I put on my lipstick as always —unexpecting— as you raise the hammer.

Clink

50 51 WHO WILL LOVE YOU, MASCULINE MAN? DANE SHANNON

I. Sexism: A True Story Are you the one, just tickled green It is— by my Incredible Hulk t-shirt? It’s cute, isn’t it? —the priest Did you see a fangirl? who rebuked me, redirected me Or the rageaholic? from the altar, carefully admonished me. What is it like? Innocuity He cited the text, condemning me. in all the right places, “Remember your distance, daughter, and ostentation from the Father.” just when you need it? A Cross was pierced to my ribcage like a lover’s kiss. I’ve only given good advice But how would he know? to boys This body is a sin. who thought I was pretty. And they were so impressed, their love —the doctor deepening. who insisted. How sweet is that? “You need this No, really? How sweet is that? pelvic exam.” I’d come to see him III. Know the Mighty Human for a sore throat. With my bra burned and lipstick melted, It was tonsillitis (you idiot). the puppet—the porcelain doll—slumps onstage. But how would he know? The master—always, always, always having been He locked my throat away the master—emerges, behind a tight jaw. saving no face, looming He listened best in the grace of freedom. with fingers. I am a monster, howling. Unchained. —the father I am a ripe cherry, hanging. Swollen in the fabulous sun. who wouldn’t say “pretty girl” I am a beast of burden, spitting the bit. Unbridling my tongue. until I brushed my blond hair “long blonde hair” I am a woman—not Mother Nature but human nature. and painted my lips scarlet I am my animal glow. and showed my spine. Hair finds a home in the comb, left behind. You haven’t earned the Neanderthal. Busted lips blister, invisible to the naked eye. I am the Neanderthal. My backbone is weak with carrying itself so well. I am the unibrowed, hard-jawed hunter But how would Daddy know? rocking these bushes in the winds of change. I make dying look I am all hips and hair and gut and grease and sinew. so good. I am blood and fever and bone.

I am mighty. Will you see? II. Ignorance ≠ Innocence Mighty! Are you the one who squirms under unshaven legs? Who sees Is this as good for you as it is for me? these, my underarms, and flinches It should be, quietly? if you are anything That’s too obvious, let’s try again. like a man.

52 53 I dare you: You can’t figure out Come what the hell women want. and know a woman like a man. Fathers? Sons? Allies? Red, blue, white?

Come Hey—hey guys, be mighty with me is it too much to ask like a man. for friends?

IV. Movement Denied: Your PC for the PR V. I Hereby Refuse to Care for You We’re through with fathers I’m not ready and red-blooded men scattering to see your stiff back their own ancient ashes over break under its first yoke. blue-blooded boys who cry Can I touch you? One last time? I love my mother! I love my mother! Before you become like it proves something. something needy. I don’t want one more thing We didn’t ask about your mothers. to tie me down. And we don’t need more sons. Your humility snivels Why? Tell me why and your grace is guilt— you only listen a second-hand as a favor, father-we-never-knew. embarrassment. Or—much worse—an obligation, dear son-we-never-had. I don’t want one more thing you’ve already used. Why not curiosity, good friends-we’d-like-to-know? My heart goes out Oh, please. Don’t do that. to you. I know you Don’t protest can’t help yourself. and defraud our cause, cowering And it’s not fair, is it? under your white flag, shouting: To never say the right thing. I’m with you! To never feel trusted. (I’ve done nothing) I don’t want one more thing—you, I’m your ally! my good man—misunderstood. (I’ve done nothing) Let me help you! VI. The Leftover Sex—Wasted (Please protect me) This time tomorrow, you may not be more than infants. You prostitute yourself in PC culture. We’re so through with the bathwater. You tiptoe, you mask your self-image, you roll over like a beaten dog, If you only weep like babes, you edit and abbreviate and cut out you’ll be nothing your manhood, but droning in the drains. because—face it—this is a PR nightmare. You shudder in passive aggression, Or worse, you’d be silent you crash through another blind-spot, you adjust and readjust your pink hat, you creep as a miscarriage on stained white sheets— through every darkened alleyway. cornered, waiting, helpless and friendless with the other dirty laundry.

54 55 FREDERICKSBURG SAMUEL GRIFFITH

You’ll become a shrill in our ears, We see things that aren’t actually there, like maybe you little ghost, a sunrise in Fredericksburg. your body long-buried in the past, your mean spirit haunting the world, So, as we drive under the smoky blue eyes of the hill country morning, unchanged even in us. dawn starts to blink its sun-bright eyes and aim its rifle, I hear your voice echoing through our own lips, and she tells me, you little ghost. “Sometimes, when we see something twenty miles out, VII. Now, Who Will Love You? it’s actually two hundred. So If I could, I would— sometimes ,when we see something, it’s not actually where we think it is. So —like a priest, absolve you, oftentimes, we see things that aren’t actually there. cleaning your slate. —like a doctor, cure you, And so removing the affliction. sometimes, when —like your father, reconceive you our bodies rip from the seams of our seats as not-your-father’s son. as that sun’s Winchester flashes through these windows creating a spider web on the glass I, at very least, will frosted by those huffs gutted from love you still. the base of our bellies, I’ll remember the stern popping through the smoky blue gaze, tears you never knew and finding a place to rest were always giving you away. scattered among the hill country morning. And I—for one—will miss the best of your bronze masculinity And, oftentimes wasted under your tired vanity when we want to see a sunrise, and your false feminism. those in other cars might want to see that same sunrise too.” You whimper and whine, and even though I know that I am not your damn mother, I am only human.

I think…I will love you still.

You masculine man, you.

56 57 SUNRISE ON 6TH STREET DANE SHANNON RIVERBED LOGAN STALLINGS

The night has torn itself a new asshole and hung it over Austin, the city “Why do they do that?” She gestures to the swarm of insects. of my third love. Bourbon “What?” her father asks. “Why do all those bugs fly together like that? Like they have to occupy the same space. They spilled under a red-nosed moon— just sit there. Look, you can see ‘em with the light coming through right there. They’re little like gnats. turns over in the morning Do you see ‘em?” like two bodies, hot and snoring. “They’re a hatch,” he says. It dribbles and sweats against the hardwood, “A hatch?” sizzled to hell by sunlight. “Yeah, a hatch,” he says. “ They all hatched together at the same time. You know, like how It turns over in my belly, aching bugs hatch, and they just kind of hang out… like a family.” through my liver and a little “Hmm.” She considers the words. “Like a family.” higher and a little Arlo remembered the conversation with her father. The last one they had. She lower and somewhere remembered sitting with her father, mother, brother, and sister by the trellis covered in honeysuckle between my neck and skull. vines. That morning, they sat by the trellis, not under it because it was the first cold front of the season, and it was so nice to be in the sun. It wasn’t sweltering hot like in the summer, so they Third time’s the charm, but on 6th Street soaked it up, the whole family. It was in the morning, maybe nine or ten, and they all sat drinking third times are punchlines coffee or tea, watching bugs or bees or chickens. It didn’t feel like that long ago. to some devil’s joke. She looked down now at the orb she saw through the tiny porthole window. It was so far Don’t you think so? away, and at the same time it wasn’t. It felt like she could reach out and cradle it like a basketball. She couldn’t though. The vacuum of space was cold and deadly. The planet was so far away. She’d Even after riding this zip of highway never be able to touch it. She knew all that, but she looked out the tiny round window into that out of anniversary-ville brutal black abyss anyway, wondering if she could reach home. Wondering if she could even reach you’re still the river, lay at its bottom with mossy stones, river weeds, and the water, cold and dark around her, the center of my 2-ounce-shot making her feel heavy, numb, and alive all at once. of attention. * * * “Are you trying to drown yourself? Arlo! Come out of the water right now!” her aunt And I’ll be honest: screamed. 6th is the shit, If she held her lungs full of air she’d float no matter what. That’s what her father taught our bodies were always hot, her. “If I wanted to drown myself, I’d just hold onto a big rock!” she screamed back, enraged. “I’m and no one talks enough not stupid.” about third loves. “Well, you’re being so goddamn foolish, Arlo! You’re fifteen, so come on and act like it! Get out of the water right now. Your father’s service is happening right now. You should be there!” Did you ruin this place for me? Arlo let all the air out of her lungs and her face dipped below the gray-green water in Or am I the ruin bumming through? spite. Usually the water’s blue, but water reflects the sky. Today, the water was cold and gray. The water was still cold. But it’s warm for February. She let her air out and held her breath again to prove a point. I’m not stupid. I wouldn’t drown. I’m smarter than the water. Arlo just wanted the quiet and the lack of responsibilities. She just wanted to feel the cold. She wanted to feel weightless as her wet clothes tried to sweetly pull her lower. Arlo’s black dress weighed her down so gently she hardly noticed. It was in her dad’s heavy, yellow, fleece-lined work coat that she felt actively sinking, pressing her lower into the depths. But she’d know when she’d feel the strain on her lungs. I’ll let the coat fall away, and I’ll come back to the world. But it’s peaceful, now… serene. My lungs are fine. They don’t ache yet. Her body felt fine, like it wasn’t even really there. For an eternity inside a minute, she was nothing but cold water and wet clothes.That minute ended when the neighbor boy, Cecil, lept into the water and dragged her out. They surfaced together, and Arlo pulled away from him, shoving viciously. “Get off me. Get off!” She shoved Cecil and pulled herself onto the stone cobbled landing. “What the hell?” Cecil pushed himself onto the landing as well. “What were you doing? It’s freezing.” The jacket’s gone. The yellow work coat must have rested peacefully alone at the bottom of the river, out of sight. Arlo’s eyes stung.

58 59 “I needed to go for a swim.” She wouldn’t look at him. “I didn’t need to be pulled out. I Arlo watched as the river fell away and the light overwhelmed her senses. was fine. I was swimming.” Her eyes closed. “You were drowning,” he said. I’m not drowning, she told herself. This isn’t drowning. “I was holding my breath.” When Arlo’s eyes fluttered open, everything felt electric. She thought she heard a voice, “What were you thinking? Why did you jump into a river in February,fully clothed, and her father’s voice, the buzz of insects and hatches of gnats, but the frequency was too high. Words in a goddamn coat?” Cecil stood up, visibly shaking. from her past rang in her ears like bells chiming. “I guess I wasn’t thinking. Look, thanks for worrying about me, but I was fine.” ...Why do they do that? “Jesus.” Cecil shook his head. “I’ll get you a towel.” What? Arlo wiped her eyes. She could swim just fine. Her dad had taught her before she could Why do all those bugs fly together like that? Like they have to occupy the same space. They even walk. “It’s not like I was in any danger.” just sit there. Look, you can see ‘em with the light coming through right there. They’re little like gnats. “You can’t do that. It’s your dad’s goddamn funeral.” Cecil left to find a towel. Do you see ‘em? “He’s not dead. He’s just gone.” She was crying now, angry. “Everyone knows the They’re a hatch. coffin’s empty.” A hatch? Arlo looked back at the water. The yellow coat was gone, sunk, peacefully at the bottom Yeah, a hatch. They all hatched together at the same time. You know, like how bugs hatch, of the river, resting. and they just kind of hang out… like a family. In the night she went back to the river, barefoot in a black one-piece swimsuit. She Hmm. Like a family. stood at the river’s edge in the dark. The moon was full and the stars were out. She didn’t bring The light disappeared, and the ringing subsided. any light. She didn’t need any. She remembered where the coat had sunk, and the current would Arlo opened her eyes and everything immediately tasted like pennies. Pennies and nails. have pushed it farther downstream, so she knew where to dive. She dove down into the glassy black She was dry. She’d been at the bottom of the river, but now she was dry. Her bare legs, her black water, a mirror to the sky split by her knifelike headfirst downward strike. Her dive was clean, no swimsuit, her hair, and her yellow coat, all dry. She was laying on a cold metal floor. Around her splash. Blind and deaf, she crawled across the riverbed, hands fumbling until her fingers happened were cold metal walls that made up a long corridor penetrated by small circular glass portholes. It on the alien, yet familiar, touch of the coat. She pulled it up, swimming with it, heavy and wet. She looked like a submarine. Arlo got to her feet, leaning against the wall for support. Everything felt flopped it onto the landing. Heaving herself up out of the water, she put the cold, wet coat over her tipped, slightly unlevel, like gravity was wrong. She stretched out her arms. The corridor was thin shoulders. She pushed her arms through the heavy limp sleeves. She snapped the buttons closed enough for her to reach out and touch either wall. She stepped forward, running her fingers over and stood with it hanging on her frame. She stood at the edge of the landing with her back to the the metal rivets on the walls, the way flight attendants do when they walk down the aisle, running water. The wind was cold and silent. The moon gleamed off the inky water, and she let herself fall, fingers on the overhead compartments. At the end of the corridor was a round, riveted, thick releasing all the air from her lungs. Her body hit the water with a resounding smack, but she wasn’t metal door. It had a circular porthole at about eye level. Arlo stared at it for a second before a face stupid. She’d never drown herself. She just wanted to be alone for a moment. She just wanted to appeared. It was a face she thought she’d seen at the service that morning, but at the same time, it sink. She felt herself descend, slowly, steadily, until her back hit the bottom of the river. And for lacked every distinguishing feature that a human face might have. It looked ingenuine, synthetic. a time, she rested there. Her lungs started to ache, and her sluggish heavy fingers pulled open the The door slid vertically up into the ceiling, and before Arlo stood, a boy attached to coat. The buttons unsnapped underwater, and she pushed off the rocks of the riverbed, shooting the face. He wore what looked like a black leotard. Behind the boy stood a tall woman who held a upward, surfacing with a gasp of air. She climbed out of the water, stood on the landing, and did it striking resemblance to Arlo’s grandmother. She wore a matching black leotard made of an oddly all again, diving for the coat, wearing the coat, and letting it carry her to the bottom of the cold, dark thick woven material. river. She repeated her actions methodically, treating it like a sacred ritual. “Arlo, darling. I’d like to introduce myself. My name is Clara. You might not know this, In the ship, they watched her performance. She dove in gracefully, perfectly, retrieved but we share a common lineage.” The woman’s face was unnaturally pale. the coat, and climbed out onto the landing where she then donned the coat and let herself fall “We only wanted the coat,” the synthetic boy said abruptly. backwards, swallowed into the black water. Her descent caused small tidal waves of splashes that “This is Hollis. He’s new to this world. Only got put together two months ago. He’s still soaked a good part of the landing. All of this she did in the midnight dark without a light or a sound very blunt.” The woman offered Arlo a long thin hand that Arlo did not take. aside from the splash of her backwards impact. “Why were you swimming with a coat on at night in February?” the synthetic boy asked. A boy watched her from above. “Why does she do this?” he asked. His shiny silicone “Hollis, Arlo’s reasons are her own.” The woman addressed the boy. face was wide with wonder. “We only wanted the coat,” the boy repeated. “The coat is necessary to our mission.” “This is how she chooses to grieve,” the woman beside the boy said. “Well, it’s mine,” Arlo said icily. Maybe the tenth time Arlo’s body, shrouded in the fleece-lined coat, settled on the “We need to extract something from the coat. We don’t actually need the coat.” The bottom of the river, the sky reached down and swallowed her up. A light enraptured her. The pitch woman gave the boy another firm gance. black of the river transformed. It all glowed. The green water leaked out fluorescent rays as if the “It’s my coat, and I’ll swim with it if I want to,” Arlo said firmly to both the boy and the molecules themselves had turned bioluminescent. Algae and tiny fish were visible, yet see through. woman. The girl glowed white in the green-tinted water. Her cropped blonde hair suspended around her. “My scan of this coat says it belongs to an Arthur Brodie.” The synthetic boy’s eyes The veins of her eyes glowed pink, while her irises were electric blue. Her lungs were empty, and flashed yellow. the coat tethered her to the riverbed. Still, she floated upward all the same, lifted by the light. As the “It did, but he’s dead so now, so it’s mine,” Arlo said, hands protectively tugging the water fell away, she continued to float, suspended in the beam of pure light. The air felt like water. coat’s collar. The water felt like air. And her lungs didn’t constrict anymore. They didn’t strain for breath.

60 61 “My scan says Arthur Brodie is not deceased.” The boy looked at the woman, then back to Arlo. The woman put her hand on his shoulder to stop him from divulging more information. “Arlo, sweetie,” she said. “We need what’s in that coat to find your father.” “He’s gone, not dead.” The synthetic boy’s eyes flashed yellow again. “Arlo, if I may?” The woman held a hand out, eyes on the coat. “You’ll get it back.” “No. It’s mine.” Arlo stepped backwards, away from the synthetic boy and the woman. The woman reached out, maybe to comfort the girl, but Arlo squirmed out of reach. “No!” “Arlo, please.” The woman tried to grab her, to get the coat, but Arlo was slippery and sidestepped her. Arlo turned to the small, thick porthole window and hurled her fists at the cold metal walls, the blue orb that was her home already shrinking in the distance. The woman gave the silicon boy a glance, and he lunged forward, placing his cold fingers on Arlo’s cheek, then everything went black. Arlo melted into weightlessness. Arlo floated slowly back to the water’s surface, breaking the glassy mirror’s reflection with a raw scraping gasp for air that woke the night. The water rippled all around her. Her breaths heaved, and scratched in her chest. The cold air burned icy in her lungs. She swam to the stone cobbled landing to hoist herself up out of the water. She stood on the landing’s edge, her hands scratched and bleeding but numb, and she dove back into the river. When Arlo surfaced again, she came up empty handed. The coat was gone. It was lost. Arlo dove back down again. Her fingers were slow, and again, she didn’t find the sunken coat. She tried and tried, diving again and again, but she broke the water’s surface with only a choked sob and stared at the sky above her. Stars penetrated the black that surrounded her, and with forced gasps, she filled her lungs. The cold air filled every space in her body. She felt light, as if she was lifted above the river. Floating on her back, she kept her face above the water and her eyes on the stars. Arlo let her body feel hollow and weightless. She continued to fill herself with air as hot tears that fed the February river streamed down her cheeks.

RAIN THREE NATALIE LANGHAM

62 63 WEBSIGHT MASKS MIGUEL ESCOTO ALEX CASTILLON

Siri, take the wheel. It starts with Kendrick Lamar. I am driving along the uncomfortably familiar streets LMAO but plz TBH tho. of my hometown, soaking in the aggressive sounds of the new album entitled DAMN. Who am I Calculate the greatest amount kidding? I’m an entry-level fan. I don’t even listen to Kendrick Lamar. Today is different though. of sanity for the greatest amount I’m going to need DAMN.’s oddly soothing, rage-fueled beats to keep my emotions in check. of users. Algorithm the shit.com/painz There’s a lot of them today. I am barreling down the pothole-ridden roads that shaped me for 18 out of me.us_gov.org/news years of my life. I see flashes of the scrawny light-skinned Latino kid walking up and down these desolate south Texas streets with a group of boys he’s not sure he feels at home with. Flashes of high I’m no longer school suffering, self-imposed melodrama. What a small world this town still is, I think to myself. A afraid of your cookies. self-contained bubble of insecure, masked Latino boys, year after year, class after class. To clarify, Really. Stockpile my metadata, I’m on my way to see one of those boys, my absolute best friend in high school. He and I have metadreams, metaheartrate, and drifted apart this past year, separated by distance and by college. The first year outside the bubble. I metatears until you can metabolize a am on my way to kill our friendship. metaphor using 1s and 0s. I dare you. It’ll be a quick death. I wish I could say it would be painless, but the truth is, something has been gnawing away at the friendship in silence for the past four years. Back in school, at the Hyperlink me to heaven. center of this all, my only aspiration was to impress him, as well as any number of our enabling This world buffers too much. friends who were lucky enough to be present. I wanted to not only be like him, but to be him. Network connection status: poor, Even if it meant the vandalism of school property. Even if it meant the harsh and deeply personal authentication with server lacks prayer. insulting of others just for being who they are. Even if it meant abusing and offending teachers, System Error Code: 1(0)10(1)010(0)01(1)1. principals, staff, right where it hurts, straight to their faces. Even if it meant changing who I am. Troubleshoot me in the mouth already, baby. I think of these events after a full year of breaking ties with them, after a year making real friends, Force quit me don’t reboot. Shut down, no restart. hitting the books, and finding myself, and they’re suddenly screaming, clawing at the back of my mind like starved animals. And so here we are. It needs to end. Earlier today, Joe had sent me a ¡¡&h*1*e<;”.?L%6p30::m4./(1#*)e!¡:,>;’h1\.e*&L(l)P::8< paragraph of verbal abuse tearing down ‘new college Alex’ coldly and systematically. This message, >m4%e:¡cItYz#::?&*&bUi1-dIN.G&z9::tech.i.dont.get!<-----:-:-:-- the final straw, is glowing from the screen of my phone in the passenger seat, fueling my foot to push *#iNo(V4,-a;t’10n::__w/o__?;’::%7H.2U.(m@n$.)z::8*!!> down harder on the pedal. I’m propelled forward and around the corner to Joe’s house. It didn’t really start with Kendrick Lamar. The real start of this was fists flying. Long hot Help (?) Limited-character bio is outdated. hours memorizing Spanish vocabulary words in summer school is where Joseph and I’s friendship Refresh my pages up and down your was born. We got into a fist fight, as brutal and merciless as a bout between two overly emotional Circuit board wiring until you fry, 15-year-olds can be. Which is to say, this lasted 30 seconds until a bystanding upperclassman until you’ve been replaced by a intervened. If I close my eyes, I can still feel the judging gazes of the other students trained on us as newer model, until you we stood in that sunbaked schoolyard where our scraped knees and bruised knuckles came to know understand me. each other, and agreed, “let’s be friends.” A draw. What followed were tumultuous years of toxic masculinity, blind following, regular trips to the principal’s office, and late summer nights skating Siri, gps me Home. Google “love” while down neighborhoods with lungs full of smoke and hearts full of angst. Now I am driving up those you’re at it. iCan/t. My browser has same neighborhoods, lungs full of pine wood car air freshener and a head full of words, captured too many tabs open. I’m too busy after a desperate four-year search. Damn. dying to react to all of it. My car is parked and I pause. I keep reminding myself to simply sit him down and talk, All of my www. despite my impassioned spirits. Just talk. Authentically, for once. Over and over this is running newsfeed. through my mind as seamlessly as my restless fingers run through the dark mess of my hair. This life/ is all I’m thinking as I fumble to unbuckle the seat, reach to open my door, and turn to see him. go Joseph is briskly marching, already halfway down his driveway. Catastrophic panic seizes my chest, followed by a deep breath. I recoil back into the car seat and turn the soft rumble of the engine back on. He’s sitting on the passenger side now. Kendrick is silent. “Alex.” “Hey, Joe. We, uh, need to talk about a few things.” My eyes run a quick scan of his stern face and puffed out chest. The hair on it sticks out from underneath his tight black shirt, and his once prepubescent beard is now fully formed. No nuns or administrators can now tame its authority.

64 65 “Ah shit, I know you’re mad about the message I sent to you and the guys earlier, but it His last sentence is hitting me like my speeding Nissan in a residential area. was all a joke. You know it always is. But I totally deserve it, man. Say what you gotta say.” “Thank you,” I manage. I expected this. The next words are carefully calculated. Amazing. In the span of a minute, I have gone from thoughts and words overflowing out “Uh, fuck, no no.” of me to a dry, empty mouth. Red eyes still gazing out at the gray suburban scene surrounding us. I “I know you’re mad, dude.” look at Joe and he bears no mask. “No…I am mad. I’m absolutely pissed, but that’s not what I’m here to talk about.” There is an elderly woman who has lived on this street forever probably. I like to imagine His solemn face relaxes a bit as he finally raises his eyes to look at me. she waters the immaculately beautiful plants on her front porch every single morning. By now she’s “Oh…what’s up then?” he asks, relieved, but clearly has no idea where this is headed. undoubtedly noticed the big, boxy, silver used car that’s been parked on her curb for the past 20 I don’t know either. minutes. I know this because her pale round face is scorning at us through the window curtains. In “I just want to smooth some things out between us. You don’t have the full picture, fact, there are quite a few people out and about, no doubt trying to get home before the clouds burst. and I want to make you understand. I guess I’ll say I’ve changed in college. You’ve been calling A man is walking his large Doberman. A young mother is hurriedly pushing a stroller-bound babe, me fake from miles away, but I’ve grown into my own person. I know it may look fake from your tailed by hyperactive siblings. A man dressed very much like a dad is reclined on his porch, very perspective, but the truth is, I feel more comfortable with who I am now...without having you much like a dad. Joe and I are suddenly laughing about something and I can no longer recognize around to tail after. Not to sound pretentious or anything, but I feel as if the person I’m growing who we are to each other. Is it physically possible to actually feel yourself growing up in a single to be is finally a reflection of my true self. For example, that person is empathetic, and caring moment? For the first time since we met, I am seeing my old friend, rival, role model, as he truly and passionate and, and unique, and uh… kind. I’ve been hiding all those parts from you…and is. The lines between the masks he wears and the ones I’ve been fighting to shed are irrevocably everyone, because you made me feel like they weren’t valuable. I learned all that about myself in blurred. Rainwater starts to blur my windshield as well when he asks, “What do you think Mrs. just a year on my own, and I am just so… goddamn happy. Now, let’s talk about high school.” Herrera must be thinking right now?” This mass spills out of me while my glassy eyes are cast down onto the drink tray, gazing “Probably that we’re here to rob her. Wouldn’t blame her.” out the car windows at gathering rain clouds, staring anywhere but directly at his face. “Nah, she knows me and my family. If I know my neighbors, they probably think we’re We talk about high school, lovers. Both of us crying and shit. Jesus. What a bunch of pendejada.” He’s looking out the window and and puffing out his chest, and I’m sad to notice the mask is back on. But this is Joe. And I know “I wanted to be you.” my friend. I’m repressing a fake laugh with great effort as I try, just as I’ve always done, to read his and thoughts. A light is switching on. Here it is. “I never wanted to do any of those things.” “We should get out and pretend to fight. Just freak everyone the fuck out.” Joe nearly and yells at me, unable to contain his glee over what a monumentally good idea this must be. A year “You made me hate myself.” ago, I would’ve agreed this was certainly a monumentally good idea. An hour ago, I would’ve told and, him to get the hell out of my car and never would’ve seen him again. But at this moment I think I’m I start to cry. I’m kicking myself as I begin to hear my voice tremble and hot tears fill my beginning to finally understand Joe. I think I’ve started to truly understand myself, too. It’s raining. eyes, but words just keep gushing out of me through gritted teeth, and he is silent. When I finish, And I want to go home. I’m looking straight into his eyes and the words “let’s do it” are coming out we’re both blankly staring at the dash. His face is stony again. Machismo. of my mouth. He breaks eye contact but he’s still smiling halfway out of the car, and so am I. “Damn,” he says after an eternity. “I know I’ve always been…problematic, but I never This is the story of the beginning and the end of a friendship that, for better or worse, knew you felt this. And yeah, we both know I can be a huge fucking asshole sometimes, that’s just taught me how to be a real person. I can’t recall if I was aware of how I had unconsciously forgiven the way I am. But, damn. Listen, let’s get it straight, I have gotten better over the years, but… I both Joe and myself when we were pushing and shoving each other in the middle of the road in a agree with everything you just said. I’m sorry I put you through that. I was not expecting this.” rainstorm. I certainly did realize this when I wrung my soaked clothes out into the bathtub that I can tell he has run out of responses. night, the heater’s warmth radiating on my back. What I did feel in the storm was immense relief, “Yeah. I just needed you to understand.” I turn and our eyes finally meet. that I remember clearly. “And I can tell you’re for real, I mean there’s tears coming down your face, man.” He As we swing our fists against nothing and shove each other inconsequentially, I am sounds real to me, too. “And, hey I’m glad to see you’ve grown in college. I’ll be the first to admit, transported. Not entirely, but I see flashes. We’re standing in the downpour putting on quite the I stayed at home for my first year, and I’m still emotionally immature. Like you’ve just reminded show for the folks watching warm and dry from their windows, but when I close my eyes they fall me, I’m a huge fucking asshole. An asshole who’s never had the guts to open himself up like that. away. It’s the old schoolyard again. The midday sun is burning us alive. There’s a definite smell of I really respect you for this. I, uh, I know it’s gotta be hard. And I know I have a long ways to go to whatever Mexican dish the lunch ladies have prepared today for the summer school slackers. Carne get there, so… thank you, dude.” guisada, I think. It’s not rain running down my face, it’s sweat. It’s tears. In the four years between Now a younger me would’ve been beaming with pride at the very thought of earning that space of opening my eyes, never did I think we’d be doing this again. Not this way, at least. Joe’s respect, or relishing having this chance to finally one-up him. But I’m feeling none of that now. With the roaring downpour now drenching us down through our sneakers, I swear to God I can feel The air inside the car is beginning to stifle. those four years of contempt and mistrust between us wash away. A weight off both of our teenage “You don’t have to keep hanging out with me,” he says reassuringly. “I would rather us shoulders, and any masks we still wore swept clean off by the fleeting yet powerful Texas rain. not be friends and you be happy than the alternative.”

66 67 HAND DOWN YOUR UNIVERSE BRONTE TREAT

Down the narrow, dimly lit halls of my childhood home, it hangs. Beneath my feet, the floor groans with age. I step into her closet and close

the door. Like Sunday, I get on my knees. I press my cheek against crisp fabric, caress golden buttons, ridges rise and fall.

A color, navy blue. A raincoat. My mama’s raincoat.

My lungs balloon, then flood with spontaneity. You never wanted to drop me off. “Skip school and we’ll go to the theater”

and we did. I couldn’t contend with a woman whose words shimmered and laughed like God, but

that is why I still struggle to name the months. I unfailingly forget January. I began to fall behind. I began to feel foolish. Then

came the day in seventh grade when something inside me grew sour— (not my soul, but terribly close). I stopped skipping school with you. I skipped class

and smoked cheap cigarettes. Like Sunday, I got on my knees and choked too young. My life behind dumpsters so viscid my knees stuck.

I wouldn’t rise for a long time. Cigarettes rotated in and out, in and out of my mouth for months.

In this rotation, we fought and fizzled out and fought, fought, fought. Until I, willing to peel my knees from the asphalt, left my skin behind.

It shriveled beneath the searing sun. Dizzy on the comedown, knee-bone exposed, you caught me with the love of someone who thrust me out with great strength.

RAIN ONE NATALIE LANGHAM

68 69 AFTER SCHOOL SPECIAL SEAN CUBILLAS

You’re there in your hometown—the place When I smell it now, I weep. where you’ve lived for maybe 10 years—the place My journey to womanhood you planned to leave 2 years ago. much heavier than you warned. It begins to seem like you’ll be there for a little while longer.

It becomes a little different, a little closer, a little too close. Though, you warned it would be heavy.

And when you die, your raincoat is mine. In a junkyard Please Mama, hand down your universe. behind the city limits of decency a man in a stained suit struggles to pull his baseball bat from the window of a rusting station wagon just so he can swing again

Behind Ralph’s Pawn Shop (where they double up as a taxidermy shop) a teenager in a hoodie and headphones is impressing guys three times his senior with trash cans, fireworks and testosterone just trying to get his first beer

Down the road at the train tracks where pavement and forestry blend into gray gravel three ten-year-olds with no extracurriculars or cable or spending money are chucking rocks at incoming cargo

In her parents’ bathroom, lined with peeling flowery wallpaper a young girl with no plans is unable to smell the enveloping lavender as she stares at a pregnancy test

I was twelve when I ran away for the first time. When I got back home everyone said things were going to be fine. I didn’t realize how much I’d regret coming back.

70 71 SHAME IS A MIDDLE SCHOOL DREAMS BAND ROOM C.J. SHALEESH GAVIN C. QUINN At twenty-one years old I have finally succumbed to the naivety of dreams: A bursting pink t-shirt stretched itself the magical, improbable, or completely impossible desires over my young belly and we were all supposed to have as kids fought with the sharp golden brass then eventually outgrow. slung over my shoulder. Yet, I never had I was a bright kid. until this age. The practice room opened wide, and I could see many bodies in the massive stretch I now dream of a scream or whistle but only two faces. that will shatter my suicide days. The brass over my shoulder reflected one face with steel braces, And, with that dream, actualize a new time and another face , his face, with a sharp nose where I no longer have to suckle on regret. and a small scar on his chin. I’ll stand in my marbled bathroom, He played the snare, and I watched him stare into the mirror above the double sink with silent brass. at the man society directed me to be with, He only saw the snare. half his face covered in a frothy, musky cool whip, In the corner of his eye, I saw a god— razor in hand; a god who hated this seeing. then say the words, I saw in him the two new names I’d earned, “I’m leaving you.” each starting with a long “fa–” and ending with a that will get rid of my beard, hard, gut-felt “–t.” as he gets rid of his. I looked into my brass at a boy with braces. I stared dryly at the way the pink turned brown I’ll be able to go to her; in the metal reflection. the one I always find when I’m too drunk, So, I had found something new stand in front of a crowd of people as if we were on a stage, to stare into throughout these long practices and let the fluttering nervousness of touch and he stood override my senses. and he played the snare. No longer having to worry about when she won’t see me anymore, because hiding love is a step towards becoming depressed.

A time where I no longer have to see the prostitute faces of friends and family members who are paid with my demeanor, behaving in a way that is comfortable for them in exchange for their social niceties; constructed conversations of connected words that have no meaning in the end, expressed through jaws that laugh and smile, yet are seen through the puckered eyes of disapproval, always denying what they really want to say.

I dream of days, or really just one, where the madness of selfish individuality can create a new time and no one has to pretend.

72 73 At twenty-one years old I am still an adult kid wanting to believe in dreams that will never come true.

TWO GIRLS PRECIOUS PARKER

74 75 WAITING AGAIN SEAN CUBILLAS

The sky is clear and stars stretch across the night At 3AM a father strolls through the suburbs skipping in between streetlights gliding through the moonlit air

Arriving at a bus bench he stops to relax and tilts his heavy head back opening his tired eyes and letting the stars of the night just come down

The black sky’s aura manifests as blue with fills of purple and spills into the reflections of this old soul’s glasses coloring his upward gaze He lies down on that suburban bench waiting

I wonder when they’ll notice the empty bed the missing clothes and the books I’ve read I wonder if they’ve noticed my tired smile and how eager I’ve been to drive just a mile I’d get to move my bags and just clear every shelf get away from here to anywhere else

The bus arrives

A loving husband A good father An employee of the month waits at the bus stop He stares down reflections in the windows and back to the house and the front door he left open

MAN FROM ELLINGER And he leaves JESSICA GUAJARDO

76 77 RED LIGHTS SMALL ON A BINARY TRAIN BRONTE TREAT DANE SHANNON we used to kiss at red lights, you´d stroke my face like God and I´d say touch me, touch me, touch me I don’t remember being asked. I don’t remember even being told. I just woke up aboard until cars honked at our idleness and you hit the gas, go. we haven’t made love in days because of this train, so far from home. And I’m afraid because I’m too small. I don’t know where we’re going. the yeast, but it feels like something greater than the infection, something that can’t be fixed by an Daddy blew up these red balloons just for me. He said, “What good is a little girl over-the-counter cream. perhaps, it is comfort that I’m mistaking for falling out of love. without red balloons?” I like them so much. Mother made me this plush owl out of flannel and I want to cry because I love you. not because I don’t. buttons and down stuffing.She said, “A little girl should look after something soft.” And I love it. I think one or the other might have been just fine. But there’s nothing to do with balloons in second grade Mrs. Baumel, the librarian, gave my class a riddle. I don’t remember how it goes, while you’re holding a stuffed owl. And you can’t love the owl while chasing balloons. Those but I remember that the answer was “kite.” I guessed that the answer was love. Mrs. Baumel and gifts slipped from my fingers. The red balloons panicked, tumbling violently across the coach my second grade class laughed. what does a second grader know about love? but a second grader ceiling. The owl fell to the floor—slumped and stiff. In no time, everything went missing. Now the knows how to fly a kite and isn’t that the same thing? a colorful something held down by a delicate passengers scold me, “You’re a messy little girl, aren’t you. And so ungrateful.” string. I’m clumsy, tiptoeing from car to car, searching. I glance at the murmuring girls in the hallway and I can’t talk so sweetly like them. They glare back. Mother says I shouldn’t let my tongue loose around other children. I’m asking if they’ve seen anything, but talking while holding your tongue looks pretty stupid. They think I’m keeping secrets—that’s no way to make friends. I’m lonely because I’m too small. I can’t ask the right questions. The boys see me wandering and chase me down into a corner. “Let’s play to pass the time.” I need a rest and they mean no harm. “Chess?” Too black and white. “Risk?” Too much chance. “Battleship?” OK then. They’re in love with “strategy” and only war games will do. I play along, but always and always and every time, I lose. “You’re not too good at this, are you?” I want to find Daddy because I know how to play his games. And he always tells me I’m pretty. I stumble through the coaches and cars, looking high and low. He could be anywhere, high or low. I heard him in the back car, snoring—full of hiccups—way back there. But his door was locked, and now I’m looking for a key. The passengers try to help, telling me over and over: “He’s in first class, right up front. First class seems to like your daddy. What a swell guy he must be! Aren’t you proud, you lucky little girl.” They must be thinking of someone else. I’m angry because I’m too small. And no one will tell me what to do. I run to Mother. She’s too busy but she gives me bags to carry because everyone is supposed to have bags on a train— that’s normal. They’re so empty and heavy. “Mommy, where’s Daddy’s room?” “He’s up front (still sick in the back) so we just have to trust him.” OK that makes sense. The passengers pat my shoulder. “What a wise lady your mother is! She’s so calm. Listen to your mother, little girl.” The bags were too much for a little girl to carry so I just sat down quietly. I’ve been staring out the window for hours. I’m looking for anything like home but I never see anything at all. I’m sad because I’m too small. And I don’t know where we are. So I’m just watching the sky that never goes away. The sky stays still, even when you’re looking from the fastest trains. I’d like to be there. Up and out there. Big in the sky there—sitting still in the wide black and blue. I should hold my tongue. That’s too weird to talk about when you’re small. I only know because the passengers are always whispering, “Such a strange little girl, don’t you think?” Then I watch them trample my plush owl into dusty feathers and scrap. I don’t say a word as they press their pointed fingers hard into every balloon, until there’s nothing left but dead air and shredded red. I don’t even care. I’m too busy being calm and wise to be any good at chasing down balloons. I’m too shaken by these hiccups to look after anything soft like a plush owl. Now I’m crying and laughing oh-so-silently—going nowhere with nowhere to be. So I’ll just rip myself open. I’ll cut out my down stuffing—melt and mold the mess intoreal wings. I’ll beat through the stillness and rise red as a wound, bleeding out against the wide black and blue. Then, if I really am such a lucky little girl, I might be big enough to leave this binary train—this conventional manic depression—and get back home in one whole piece.

78 79 THIS IS NOT AN OASIS AWAY FROM HOME SAMUEL GRIFFITH LILLI HIME

I forgot the feeling—what it was like for us to drown If I am your first baby tooth, in that same hue of red, masked by the bleeding light of the the one that squirmed its way sun. Yellow. out of your gums and into the world Our refuge. Our shared space. with all the fervor of new life, A tropic in the desert. whose emptiness your tongue would Our touch producing water lap over and over, neither one of us knew we had. sometimes slowly with intention, A tropic in the desert. sometimes briskly, carelessly while carrying Tired bones looked out the window. about its day to day. Tired eyes wondered if we would ever swim out of this red. Then I may as well be I have no water to give anymore. At night, your severed locks, I dream of my breath pressing out strewn on the floor of my lips and throughout my chest, trying of some cheap corner store SuperCuts, to wet the hot-and-cold sand. wondering why you had to lose me to look good. The oasis. Do you remember it? I only do when Do you think of me I shut my eyes. when you run your fingers through It was the two of us, before our bones were your hair, when they gasp bare and our desert dry. grasping only air? We were clothed, bathed and fed, dripping over a hopeful life. Or am I an ounce of the hundreds of thousands of dead When I wake up, I walk outside into skin particles you shed an oasis. Pictures of us have everyday to become a new person? faded. The colors, transferable with the ease Do I fester in your carpet, of any paintbrush. the corner of your memories, the crevices your vacuum can’t reach? Some days I walk outside with that paint brush, and paint and repaint I can’t figure out who I am in this relationship, but our picture—our oasis. all I know is, you are the body from which Your face is an olive color. It’s exquisite. I am missing. It’s expensive. It’s the only color I know that gets it right.

I paint it first—I color in your cheeks. Then I paint your chest, your eyes, and our oasis, never my dry tusks and sandy bones.

80 81 FALL FROM THE MULBERRY TREE SYDNEY CHANDLER

The boy with no eyes once climbed a tree his sightless bird flew down from its nest and pocketed against a mother’s scolding: itself in the hollow of his heart, singing:

Trees are dangerous. They are for birds. Boy, now you see; with no eyes, still you see, They are not for boys without eyes. ever more than the woman who birthed you.

But what of the birds without any eyes?

Child, birds with no eyes die young in their nests.

The boy wished to find a sightless bird, to warm it in his pocket.

The boy wished to taste the roughness of bark, and so the boy climbed a tree.

The boy first circled the Mulberry Tree, his hand tasting blindly the salt of its bark.

He felt pulled towards the birds above his head; he could hear them, for even in the womb, he had listened.

The boy with no eyes climbed with ear, heart, lung, higher, higher, until his sneakered foot—slipped.

And as the boy with no eyes fell from the tree, he understood why birds spread their wings to fly.

And as the boy split his knee on the surfaced roots below, he understood what release truly felt like.

He decided that blood tasted better than juice in a box without its straw,

for without eyes, a straw could be dangerous. And you, my child, are without.

He decided that blood felt softer than the padded corners about his room,

for without eyes, corners could be ugly. And you, my child, are without.

As the boy with no eyes lay on the ground and felt the blood beat faster about his wounds,

82 83 UNREQUITED THYME & DOUGH ALEIDA LOPEZ SYDNEY CHANDLER

I scorched my stomach with bitter gasoline and fire. I’m driving down I-95. It’s late. The stars out here, Denna. Their light isn’t real, you know. Their The flames were fueled by your lack of words. fires burned out millions of years ago. But we still see them. Anyone who says they don’t believe in I let it suffocate me. ghosts has never taken the time to look up. We see the ghosts, their eyes on fire. We look up and we see the stars. The stars look up – what do they see? And nothing was left of my mind but faded thoughts of you. I see the ghosts, like I see the ghost of you in the young cashier at Seven Eleven. You, in the girl driving the jeep with no doors, her red hair trailing behind her like a comet, a cigarette clinging to I created thousands of scarlet rivers the edge of her lips. You, in the stars. The ghost stars. I wonder now, as I look through Old Sam’s in an attempt to drown the memories window, if the ghosts of light we see today are more beautiful than the actual stars had been. Ghosts of forgotten promises. are more beautiful than flesh and blood I think. Because memories, they can be altered. I let them drown me. Nothing exists on this stretch of road. I think even if a coyote, or one of those infamous desert And nothing was left of my heart tumbleweeds, strode out across the road this very second, I wouldn’t see it. I’ve gotten used to the but the telltale worn-out sutures. nothingness: the blank emptiness of the road, the dark stitch of the horizon beyond. I’ve grown fond of it. I’ve grown fond of the stars. I screamed your name like a curse a million times until it I’m tired. My eyes, they feel so heavy, so half-driven. They work so hard, our eyes. Taking in lost its meaning. everything around us, siphoning through billions of particles of light before settling on a mere ten I let it deafen me. percent for us to focus on. Our eyes decide what’s important for us to see.

And nothing was left of my voice I see a light. A light, growing as I drive closer. A light, stretching outwards across this wasteland, as but the silence that choked me. if to meet me, as if to greet me, to envelop me in a yellow embrace. The neon sign reads Thyme & Dough, and underneath it, an OPEN sign flashes red, blinking on and off, like breath. You remain unfazed, untouched while I am left I pull off the side of the road into the empty parking lot. The willowy coffee house before me, lit with fires and rivers and curses. up by its yellow neon sign, looks not built of saw and hammer, but rather, grown. Grown out of the very dirt and impressive array of potted plants and trees gathered at the base of the building. They leave me with nothing The plants engulf its entirety. Tall stalks of ivy seem to hold the walls in place; thick ropes of leafy but me. braids. A rectangular garden, sanctioned off by an aged picket fence, brims with lush plant life – lemon trees and purple orchids, rows of herbs and strawberry bushels. The coffee house looks to me, alive. Looks the way a building would if our people were taken off this earth, and the Mother was allowed to reign freely again. Something green, something growing – a curious ornament on this desolate stretch of road.

I step out of my truck. I bend down, stretching my legs. I do not know how long I’ve been on this length of road, Denna. I feel even the days have passed in night, the ghost stars ever constant. I am tired. I am hungry. And a fresh brewed cup of coffee sounds nice. A fresh brewed cup of coffee sounds...magnificent.

The girl opens the door for me. The girl, swathed in a pink cotton apron, some form of green frosting swirling across its center, greets me with a broad smile.

“Come in now, come, come,” the girl ushers, as if she has been impatiently awaiting my arrival. I step out from under the stars, and into the small interior of the coffee house. I am immediately greeted with the smell of warm honey and freshly baked bread. A hint of peppermint wafts its way above the scent of baked goods. The smell of peppermint – it reminds me of you, Denna. It reminds me of Mom.

A sumptuous collection of potted plants lines the yolky yellow windowsills of the coffee house. Lavender and roses, thyme and bushels of basil, all stand perkily in their pastel ceramic pots.

84 85 A fully grown peach tree, its limbs weighted with its fuzzy, bulbous fruits, leans at a precarious Two. Seven. Four. Could you imagine, Denna, growing up in a town so small? Not even a dot angle in the corner of the shop, its tall limbs bowing forward, brushing fingertips with the slanted on the map, but imagine instead a particle of sand, a tip of a hangnail, something a cartographer ceiling. A thick carpet of ivy obscures the back wall, and threaded between the ropey stalks are would weigh over in his hands, deciding on whether to include such an insignificant location on his blooming rows of daffodils, their fanning buds perfectly formed for one to blow away, to make a precious piece of design. wish. In this country, two-seven-four might as well equal zero. Two-seven-four might as well equal ghost The bell above the door jingles as the girl pulls it shut behind us. The sound, so fragile, like the town. Equal dead zone. Equal secrets locked in boxes shaped like cookie cutter houses: okay, Andy’s flicked end of a diamond earring. The girl skips around the counter, splaying her small hands out father is really his Uncle Jimmy, yes, Rob cross dresses, but only when the moon’s full, no, I didn’t cut over the wood. myself Mom, I walked into a razor blade, come on, Jilly’s not pregnant, she’s just got wide around the midsection, no, no secrets are kept here in Bisby, a town this size is too small to house secrets, SHHH, “Welcome Mister, I’m Georgia,” the girl practically sings, her voice carrying itself around the room Cleveland tried to put a bullet in his head, but he missed, but he was a lost cause to begin with. He was as if her very words bear wings. “Welcome to Thyme & Dough. What can I get for you?” an insignificant number four on the end of twenty-seven.

I step up to the counter. The girl, Georgia, looks to be no more than fifteen years of age. Tight WELCOME TO BISBY, the second sign reads. JUST ANOTHER SLICE OF THE PIE. pigtails pull the skin around her eyes taut. Her smile is painted a chalky, petal pink. I stare at her, searching for you. But all I find are freckles, of which you have none, and cherry round cheeks This town has been abandoned, I think. The main street is rutted and pockmarked with potholes. shelving a pair of bright green eyes. Your eyes are dark, are brown, like mine. Still, I can’t help but I guide Old Sam slowly down the broken asphalt. The road is lined on both sides with small boxy search. I finally look away. shops, their roofs all flat and made of stucco, the stuff the color of putty. Although it is a clear, Sunday afternoon, I see no one walking up or down the streets, no one busying themselves in the That is when I notice the heap of fur on the ground by my feet. A slinky coil of orange cat lies shops, no one maneuvering around the potholes in their cars. No one, Denna, at all. I notice most of dangerously still on the wooden floor, its paws splayed out before it, its eyes half-lidded, glassy. the shops are boarded up with wood or black swathes of tarp. I do not know why this place has been abandoned. I try not to wonder why. “Don’t mind Shanks,” Georgia coos, waving a hand dismissively. “He’d sleep all day if he could!” He’s been asleep longer than a day, I think, taking care not to notice the lack of movement in the old I try not to think back on our childhood home as I drive through the ruins of Bisby – the home cat’s chest cavity, where breath should have been ballooning out, in, and out again. I dream of every now and again. I dream of eating it, Denna, did you know? Eating at the shut windows and the grout around the kitchen sink. Eating it all up with a fork and knife in hand. I “What can I get for you?” want to digest it, I think. I want to shove it down, to swallow it whole, to absorb it in the lining of my gut, somehow. I look to the menu, a bright wooden board hanging above Georgia’s head. I order a veggie wrap, two berry scones, and large coffee, black, to go. Although Georgia is clearly not yet eighteen, there Mom, you, me: we abandoned that place, Denna. Like these shops, this road, out here in two- seems to be no one else here. Besides Shanks, that is, who may or may not be sleeping. The plants seven-four Bisby. I wonder if a part of Dad still lives in that old house. I wonder if his ghost sunk and fruit trees are also present. And as I wait for Georgia to get my wrap, I get the feeling that the into the walls. foliage surrounding me, the vivid green limbs and magazine ripe fruits, are more alive than just – alive. Sentient, in a way. Listening, with their leaves. I pass an old church, its mahogany doors leaning open, like a slack-jaw mouth. And next to the church, decorated with rich, lively green foliage, is none other than the coffee shop. The coffee shop, I take two large gulps of my heavily caffeinated coffee. Thyme & Dough. I pull to a stop in front of its familiar neon yellow sign. I know it’s not plausible for this shop to be the shop I stopped at the night before. But Denna, this shop is exactly the same. “Here you are!” Georgia smiles, having wrapped my food up into a paper bag. I reach into my The garden, the ivy – a woman opens the front door. pocket, fishing for my wallet, but Georgia waves me off, her tongue clicking disapprovingly against the roof of her mouth. “My Grandma GG kept this place going until she plopped over dead. And Garbed in a pink cotton apron stands a woman in her later years. Her back is hunched over like a Grandma GG, she always said to me: Georgia, meet kindness with kindness.” Georgia reaches across sliver of moon, her hair a salty white. the counter and takes my free hand in both of her own. She stares up at me, her eyes searching my own, her eyes driving through my own, as if the girl has caught a glimpse of something nestled deep “Come in now, come, come,” the old woman croaks, ushering me inside with a wave of her hand. I inside me, something I may or may not know exists. “You have kind eyes,” Georgia finishes, as if pull the keys out of Old Sam’s ignition, and follow the woman inside. the four words are the proper answer to all the mysteries in the world. The coffee house looks exactly as it had miles down the road. The peach tree in the corner is in full ------bloom – its fruits glistening with moisture.

At half past noon the following day, I come across a green billboard on the side of this ever- “Welcome son, I’m Georgia. Welcome to Thyme & Dough.” elongating road. ENTERING BISBY IN TEN MILES, the sign reads in block white lettering. POPULATION: 274.

86 87 I stare at the old woman, trying to obscure my puzzlement. The woman cocks her head to the side I’ve parked below the neon yellow sign of Thyme & Dough. I expect Georgia to open the coffee like that of a bird’s. She smiles a broad, genuine smile, revealing a set of nubby teeth. house door, to usher me inside. But the porch door stays closed. The cicadas sing around me. I step out of Old Sam. I bend down, stretching my legs. Denna, I wish you were here with me. I would “Didn’t expect to find anything open here in two-seven-four Bisby, now did you?” order you a small coffee with soy milk – I know lactose does not sit well in your stomach. I would order you your coffee and I would stare into your eyes. I would try to apologize. Somehow. I would I cannot answer. I just nod my head foolishly. The woman’s green flecked eyes are sunken deep into hope that you would give me some explanation for your leaving, but I know you. You would not her brow, but they still hold the shine of a young girl at heart, perhaps a girl of fifteen years of age. say a word. You would instead play with a strand of your long dark hair. You would let the silence grow. You would sip your soy coffee slowly, deliberately – you would comment on the honey pecan “What can I get for you?” aftertaste.

A dash of orange fur and tail careens its way across my dusty sneakers. The cat leaps up onto the I walk up to the door of the coffee shop. I let myself inside. The peach tree greets me with its countertop, rubbing its small head against the woman’s arm. fanning of leaves, its limbs no longer weighted with fruit. It is bare, like the back wall of the shop is bare, the ivy no longer threaded through with blooms of daffodils. The smell of warm honey and “Don’t mind Shanks,” Georgia coos, her hands playing through the kitten’s fine fur. “He’d run baked goods and peppermint overwhelms my senses. And underneath it all, like a cobwebbed box around all day if he could!” I stare at the kitten. The kitten stares back at me. It purrs, the sound like forgotten under the basement stairs, is the smell of something sour, the smell of something pungent. a honey bee buzzing beside my ear. I take slow steps up towards the counter. I lean over the counter top, pressing up on my toes. Behind “What can I get for you?” the counter, splayed out like a modern piece of art on the wooden floor, is a set of human bones. The skeleton is arranged as if it were sleeping, its fibulas and tibias, its fine, pointed digits, laying crossed I do what is left for me to do. I order a veggie wrap, two berry scones, and a large coffee, black, to against its chest. A pink cotton apron, some form of muted green frosting swirling across its center, go. I feel the plants in their pastel ceramic pots watching me, listening to my breath, as I wait for lies over the ivory bones like a shroud. Georgia to gather my meal. I make my way behind the counter. The bones are clean, they look as if they have been polished, I take a hesitant sip of my heavily caffeinated coffee. It tastes just the same: a bitter, uneventful void of any sign of hair or tissue or skin. I do not know why I bend down. I do not know why I swallow, tinged with the hint of honey pecan. reach for the hem of the pink cotton apron, and lift it, an eddy of dust floating up from its surface, whirling around in small particles before my eyes. “Here you are!” Georgia smiles. She hands me my paper bag. I reach into my pocket, fishing for my wallet. The kitten mews from his place on the countertop. The old woman looks at me, shaking her I do not know why I expect exactly what I find, nestled inside the ribcage of the skeleton, curled up head. “My Grandmother GG kept this place going until, bless her heart, she plopped over dead. where a beating heart should rest. A small animal fetus, its delicate limbs half formed and pulled Right there, right there where you’re standing.” Georgia signs the cross against her pink cotton into its stomach. Its red gummy exterior swathed in a translucent, rubbery sack. I watch, as if from apron, its fabric coated in a swirl of green frosting. She reaches across the counter, taking my free very far away, as one of the fetus’s limbs kicks out, and then, as if in acceptance of its situation, hand in both of her own. I look down at her hands. They are calloused, and warm, a map of watery the limb goes still. Georgia and Shanks, one long lived, the other not yet born, lie still and placid veins winding their way under the thin surface of her skin. “My Grandmother GG, she always said on Thyme & Dough’s giving floor. I, someone, a wanderer, a stranger, lean hunched over their to me: Georgia, meet kindness with kindness.” She pats my hand then, caressing it with her pastel remains. pink painted nails. “No need to pay today, son. For you, you have kind eyes.” Again, I do what is left for me to do. I wrap the bones and the filmy residue of the cat into the folds ------of the pink cotton apron. I carry them outside, careful not to disrupt them, and bury them in the garden, beside the roots of the lemon tree. Then I re-enter the coffee house. I fill a paper bag with a It does not surprise me when, the following day, I happen across Thyme & Dough. I have rerouted veggie wrap and two raspberry scones. I make myself a fresh brewed cup of coffee, black, to go. I fill myself from the I-95 onto the I-10. The sun is heating up, Old Sam’s air conditioning doing no a cup of coffee up for you too, Denna. I leave it on the counter, a carton of soy milk beside it. more than blowing hot air into my face. The only station Old Sam seems to enjoy is 91.5, an old country station wracked with static and old men’s drawling hymns. I’ve stopped only once today, to relieve myself, and to watch a red hawk pin its wings to its back, dive down into the scrubby earth, I place a ten-dollar bill on the countertop, and decide to water the various array of plants in the and engulf a field mouse in its talons. The bird took no notice of me. The field mouse squealed, then coffee house. I touch the leaves of each plant as I do so, the furry ligaments of the lavender stalks, went silent. the fanning limbs of the bushels of basil. Grandma GG, she always said, meet kindness with kindness. I guess that’s what I’m working to do.

88 89 I leave Thyme & Dough as dusk gathers its billowing skirt across the sky. The stars, the ghost stars, are out again, Denna. I don’t know if they know I exist, but I’m happy to be under their brilliance. I know they’re there, and that’s what’s important. I know you’re out there, somewhere, and that, Denna, is more important than anything.

------

A few days have passed.

I have the urge every now and again to drive back the way I came, to revisit the coffee shop. But I somehow know, and I do not know how I know, that if I turned backwards, Thyme & Dough would no longer be there to meet me, to greet me with its yellow neon sign. Maybe a lone peach tree would stand where a building once stood, a building grown out of the ground by way of dirt and vine. Maybe an orange cat would stride across the road, but I wouldn’t see it. I’ve gotten used to the nothingness, Denna. The blank emptiness of the road, the dark stitch of the horizon beyond. I’ve grown fond of it. I’ve grown fond of the stars. The ghost stars, Denna. They remind me of you. It seems everything does, these days.

And as I drive onward, Old Sam’s rubber wheels carrying me kindly across this wasteland, I think, Denna, of a fresh brewed cup of coffee, black, to go. I am tired. I am hungry. And a fresh brewed cup of coffee sounds nice. A fresh brewed cup of coffee sounds...magnificent.

TEMPORARY PERMANENCE PRECIOUS PARKER

90 91 A GORDIAN KNOT... SEAN CUBILLAS is binding, strong, unbreakable. I pulled. I strained. I tried. It never came undone.

I found myself… entangled and could no longer pull at the ends.

My eyes… tightened. They glared and began to look into the seams.

I am as me as you can see In and of myself

Pull at my sides I’ll grow tighter I’ll grow stronger the harder you pull

I’m smaller The more I don’t break

TANGLE NATALIE LANGHAM

92 93 STAFF VISUAL CONTRIBUTORS

Editor in Chief Visual Staff Chrystalla Christodoulou Chrystalla Christodoulou studies writing and literature. She is from Cyprus, but C.J. Shaleesh currently lives in San Antonio. Head Visual Editor:

Literary Staff Alexa Bogran Jessica Guajardo

I am a St. Edward’s University graduate from the class of 2017. In my photography, I Poetry Section Editor: am aim to capture honest emotion and people I love and our changing relationships. Junior Visual Editor:

Elora Dane Shannon Anthony Truong Natalie Langham

Poetry Copyeditors: Review Board: Precious Parker Kali Carpenter Precious Parker is a visual artist here in Austin. Her main medium is photography, and Hannah Kerns she is currently pursuing a Bachelors of Art in Photocommunication. She is inspired Chrystalla Christodoulou Chloe Curiel by the various intersections of her identity and is constantly weaving pieces of them Samuel Griffith into her work. Each set of her photographs tell a narrative and urges the viewer to Michelle De Santiago construct their own response. Allanah Maarteen Mali Tribune Levi Thompson Sarah Wilson Prose Section Editor: Sarah Wilson is a sophomore at St Edward’s University, majoring in Environmental Rowan Pruitt Chemistry. She has a love for nature and night time and spends her free time taking Sydney Chandler photos or doing some kind of art.

Prose Copyeditors: Bianca Esquivel Eleanor Fishbourne Caitlin Gonzalez Kendall Shaw

Review Board: Chrystalla Christodoulou Bianca Esquivel Kristyn Garza Samuel Griffith Lilli Hime Sierra Rozen Kendall Shaw Gianni Zorrilla

94 95 LITERARY CONTRIBUTORS

Corinne Bates Aleida Lopez I am Corinne Bates, a Junior Writing major at St. Edward’s University. I enjoy writing for I am a sophomore and I enjoy doing digital art, writing short stories and novels, and both Cabra and Topper Radio on campus. would like to expand my writing to poetry. I enjoy writing about LGBT themes, family themes, and mental illnesses such as depression and anxiety. Writing is therapeutic Alex Castillon to me. My name is Alejandro Castillon. I’m originally from Laredo, Texas, right on the border of the U.S. and Mexico, and grew up there until moving to Austin for St. Edward’s (always Betsy McKinney my first choice for college). Growing up there has influenced my writing heavily, and is Betsy McKinney is a Senior English Writing and Rhetoric student at St. Edward’s University. a vital part of my identity. In addition to poetry, Betsy discovered that she also enjoys writing prose after taking Fiction Writing II with Dr. Michael Yang. Sydney Chandler Sydney Chandler is currently finishing up her senior year at Saint Edward’s. She would Ray Nadeau like to thank her family, her friends, her boyfriend, and her Ruby Tues, for pushing her Ray Nadeau is a senior here at St. Edward’s University, majoring in Interactive Game to keep writing, along with filling her up with endless love and support. Thanks guys Studies. He enjoys writing stories about emotionally compromised characters and works Enjoy. best when deadlines loom overhead like a guillotine.

Sean Cubillas Gavin C. Quinn My name is Sean Cubillas, a Writing Major going into his Senior Year, and I aspire to Gavin C. Quinn writes down memories. Occasionally, they become poetry. become a screenwriter. I’m including poems from my Poetry I class. Isabella Scarpelli Miguel Escoto A New Yorker studying in Austin. Searching for new places to call home. As a kid raised in the border of Ciudad Juarez, Chihuahua, Mexico and El Paso, Texas, U.S.; I am a bilingual with a passion for fairness. My hobbies include reading, writing, C.J. Shaleesh playing music, and engaging in political rants. C.J. Shaleesh is pursuing a double major of Marketing and English Writing and Rhetoric at St. Edward’s University. She is currently the Editor in Chief of Sorin Oak Review, as well Dani Gallucci as a poetry editor and staff writer for New Literati. Dani Gallucci is a Junior majoring in Interactive Game Studies, and minoring in Art and English Writing and Rhetoric. She finds inspiration in things that are odd, logic- Dane Shannon defying, and equal parts horrific and lovely - which is to say, in all of life. Dane Shannon is a student at St. Edward’s University exploring creative writing, rhetoric, and literature. She sends her love and sincerely thanks you for reading her work. Kristyn Garza I’m a first-year freshman from McAllen, Texas and am an English Literature major with Kendall Shaw a minor in English Writing and Rhetoric. I am on the staff for New Literati and Sorin I’m a junior from Kyle, Texas, majoring in Writing and Rhetoric and serving as a literary Oak Review. review board member and prose copy editor for this year’s Sorin Oak Review.

Samuel Griffith Mel Sipko Samuel Griffith is a Junior at St. Edwards studying Writing and Rhetoric. I’m a junior Creative Writing student also minoring in Graphic Design. I’ve always been passionate about creative writing, and hope to have my work published on a larger scale Lilli Hime in the future. Lilli Hime is an English Writing and Rhetoric major with a focus in creative writing. Logan Stallings Morgan Hunnicutt Logan Stallings is a junior Graphic Design and Writing double major. She enjoys I am currently a junior majoring in Writing and Rhetoric with a concentration in workshopping and editing and is a staff writer and editor for New Literati. She hopes Journalism. I am a writer who has recently discovered a love for the craft of poetry. to continue her academic career after St. Edward’s by attending grad school.

Bronte Treat Bronte Treat studies writing at St. Edward’s University. She currently lives in Austin, Texas.

96 97 COLOPHON

The Sorin Oak Review title comes from the giant oak tree on the St. Edward’s campus. Named after the founder of the university, Father Edward Sorin, it is over 120 years old and is believed to be one of the oldest trees in Austin. The benches around the tree provide a view of downtown and a quiet place study and/or read a book like this one. The Sorin Oak will always represent strength, tradition, perseverance, and beauty.

The 2018 Sorin Oak Review was printed by Ginny’s OneTouchPoint

Typeset in Filson Soft and Horley Old Style MT Stock: Finch Fine, Soft White Ultra Smooth Cover Stock: Neenah Paper, Classic Laid Traditional Finish

American Scholastic Press Association Awards 2010, Volume 20 First Place

2009, Volume 19 First Place with Special Merit

2008, Volume 18 First Place

2007, Volume 16 First Place with Special Merit

2005, Volume 15 Best College Literary-Art Magazine First Place with Special Merit

2004, Volume 14 First Place with Special Merit

2003, Volume 13 First Place with Special Merit

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