Inklings Arts & Letters Volume 24 Issue 1

Inklings

ARTS & LETTERS

VOLUME 24 | ISSUE 1

INKLINGS ARTS & LETTERS

S T A F F

Elizabeth Brueggemann

Rhonda Krehbiel

Cassiani Avouris

Romie Crist

Casey Bergman

Gabe Porter

Cosette Gunter

Annah Hahn

Chelsea Hoy

Eleanor Prytherch

Lila Willis

Co-Editor in Chief

Co-Editor in Chief

Writing Director

Art Director

Business Manager

Social Media Chair

Outreach Chair

Editorial Staff

Editorial Staff

Editorial Staff

Editorial Staff

Hello Dear Reader,

Thank you for picking up this issue

of Inklings Arts & Letters. Wherever

you may be, we are glad that we

can share this place to pause. 2020

has left us all searching for shreds

of tangibility and community. Well,

this magazine is our humble offering

to you. Hours of telecommunication

have assembled to give us these

pages to thumb together. For the

Inklings staff, the Fall 2020 print

edition is both a reward for enduring

a perilous semester, and proof that

we were alive and pulsing through it

all.

And boy, were we alive! In a year

satiated with monotony, the pieces

within show dynamic and delicious

difference. You have earnestly

proclaimed, “this is the space I

inhabit!” Prepare for twists and turns.

Ardent assertions of identity and

existential turbulence accompany a

viced crab (don’t listen to him!) and

one very cheeky dinosaur.

As eager as we are to guide you

through these brambles and peaks,

we must admit we’re new to this

amber landscape. This fall 2020 issue

marks our first foray as editors. We

can’t imagine how anyone ever did

this alone. Luckily, we weren’t alone.

Our resourceful staff guided us with

grace at every turn—we cannot thank

them enough.

We want to extend our most sincere

gratitude to all of our submitters.

Thank you for your radical honesty,

vulnerability, and humor. Your

persistence is palpable.

And thank you, dear Reader, for

lending us your eyes thus far. The

tenacious support from Miami’s

creative community is what has

allowed us to publish a Fall edition.

We’re ready to lend you our eyes

right back.

With sincerity and satisfaction,

Rhonda Krehbiel & Elizabeth Brueggemann

Co-Editors in Chief

these pieces were chosen

by an editorial staff of trained

undergraduates. the staff discusses

submissions without knowing their

creators, shares interpretations

and critiques, then votes on each

piece. our organization prioritizes

formal excellence, innovative

methods, and unique perspectives.

send submissions to

inklingswriting@miamioh.edu

inklingsart@miamioh.edu

contents

Elizabeth Arnett

Romie Crist

Martin Ganev

Miyah Greenwood

Madeleine Heinlen

Gia Mariani

14

16

18

19

20

22

art

Dry as a Bone

Resolution of Recuse

Cherub Garden

Cowboy

Wish, for now

Landscape

Cooper's Tail

Like Skittles For Birds

What You Can Tell From a Hand: The Eye

What You Can Tell From a Hand: The RAM

Maggie McLaughlin

25

What You Can Tell From a Hand: The Skull

Self-Portrait

Emma Todys

Lila Willis

26

30

BLM

Don't Wanna Grow Old So I Smoke

Just in Case

Pulley Tower

Amber Landscape

Bloodroot

Piper Augspurger

Cassiani Avouris


Cosette Gunter

Annah Hahn

Sophie Malloy

Theo Mesnick

Shelby Rice

David Sanders

34

39

43

50

51

53

57

66

81

letters

a beginner's zine

phoenix fires everywhere

Sweeter than Tupelo

rain is introduced to the neighborhood

some thought

Sonder

Torrent love

atta distance

flooding back in

scene from the backlogs

Urge

Not like "other girls"

Concrete Icebergs

& this one is about swallowing

CORONAPOEM

ghosting

first, violin

At the hardware Store

The flying dinosaur poem.

Morgan Schneider

Ava Schaffer

83

85

letters

Pool/Locker Room

Fitting

ART

Dry as a Bone

Elizabeth Arnett

charcoal

14

Inklings Arts & Letters

oil on canvas

Resolution of Recuse

Elizabeth Arnett

Fall 2020

15

Cherub Garden

Romie Crist

printing ink on paper

16


printing ink on paper

Cowboy

Romie Crist

Fall 2020

17

Wish, for now

Martin Ganev

ink on paper

18


acrylic paint on canvas

Landscape

Miyah Greenwood

Fall 2020

19

Cooper's Tail

Madeleine Heinlen

ballpoint pen

20


digital photography

Like Skittles For Birds

Madeleine Heinlin

Fall 2020

21

What You Can Tell From a Hand: The Eye

Gia Mariani

digital photography

22


What You Can Tell From a Hand: The RAM

digital photography

Gia Mariani

Fall 2020

23

What You Can Tell From a Hand: The Skull

Gia Mariani

digital photography

24


charcoal pencil

Self-Portrait

Maggie McLaughlin

Fall 2020

25

BLM

Emma Todys

ink print on paper

26


Don't Wanna Grow Old So I Smoke Just in Case

ink print on paper

Emma Todys

Fall 2020

27

Pulley Tower

Emma Todys

ink print on paper

28


monotype

Amber Landscape

Lila Willis

Fall 2020

29

Bloodroot

Lila Willis

monotype over lithograph

30


Bloodroot

Fall 2020

31

Bloodroot

32


LETTERS

Fall 2020

a beginner's zine

Piper Augspurger

The idea of

Invisible

makes you

Crazy!

Here

come the

winners.

wearing

the new

Young

Romantics

So can you.

Returning to

A WOMAN

Help!

for the nearness of you

is

HEAVENLY!

How about

a nice

pick-me-up?

You’re free

A silly question.

for total freedom,

34


Coming -out

Here’s What You Do:

the sun

the sun

THAT

Golden Touch.

Discover

you and me

Fall 2020

35

phoenix fires everywhere

Piper Augspurger

you were small before,

you have become small again;

finely spread ashes.

36


Sweeter than Tupelo

Piper Augspurger

Honey holds her head up high, don’t have no time to waste on anybody.

She bites the skin off the sides of her fingers, chews her lips when she

gets nervous.

Honey tells you how she likes the boys that never like her back.

Honey writes poems ‘bout how much love she has to give, shows ‘em to

you, doesn’t know you keep ‘em, every night watches water go down the

drain while she washes her hair,

gets in bed and hugs her pillow and dreams of the day somebody’s gonna

want her around.

Honey never goes out without her face on, (but you like it bare so you

can see her stardust freckles.)

She smiles real pretty for the people on the street, walks like she’s got

someplace to go,

‘cause if she walks like she’s got a place to go nobody’ll ever realize she

has no clue where she is.

Honey puts on lipstick, tightens the sash around her waist, steps into her

highest heels,

laughs in your face when you try and sweet talk her.

Lets you hold her arm and take her home. Leaves before you even figure

out she’s there and pretends it never happened when tomorrow comes.

She sings in the microphone at the bar, workin’ for cheap tips and winks

that never lead anywhere,

Honey brushes your shoulder when she goes, leering back ‘cause she

knows you watch her when she leaves.

She acts like you ain’t serious when you tell her “I love you.”

When you hold hands for the first time, it’s a tender moment.

She smiles up at you, and the defenses fall away for the time being.

Fall 2020

37

You know then that no matter what it takes, it will always be worth it,

just so you can both whisper and laugh about the butterflies in your stomachs.

Honey takes her coffee black, calls you sugar, and the steam makes

her hair frizzy.

When she starts stayin’ through the morning, she makes herself breakfast

in your work shirt,

and when you wake up the sun doesn’t shine ‘till you see her face.

Honey scoffs at the idea of wearing white, won’t stand still at the end of

the aisle.

So when you finally ask her, it’s in the manner of a sawed-off shotgun.

In the picture she’s holding wildflowers that she picked off the side of the

road.

She sleeps on the left side of the bed, and you take whatever’s left that

you can get,

she whispers that she’s gonna keep you forever while she’s dreamin’,

Honey’s got so much love to give, don’t have no time to waste it on

anybody but you.

38


rain is introduced to the neighborhood

Cassiani Avouris

water pushed at bike lane paint

dances past soggy leaves

cold clammy petrichor

soaked cement next to taller oak

splashes ‘hello, steadfast mail-person!’

little mailbox arm down

grass roots cradling explorer-worms

water world and Wednesday eve

(grass tunnels) showing sky

hydroplaning tire-cars forward streaking

trucks bring wind//leave wind

runoff rivers in wake

street signs hydrants so stoic now

circular screw-heads are eyes :: watch

suburbs in showers

Fall 2020

39

some thought

Cassiani Avouris

the poet who asked for a tall ship

and a star to steer her by

hardly knew candles

;in narthex stone box

Saints peer through

Intercessions of incense and ison

;on pewter—dining room

while She smiles

with her silk scarf and red wine

;on a birthday cake

while he draws breath

ready to blow out the paraffin 5

40


Sonder

Cassiani Avouris

There’s nothing stopping || my neighbors from

1.walking onto my porch, or

2.leaving with my aloe plant and lemon tree

I guess I have to trust they’re as self-conscious as me

Fall 2020

41

Torrent love

Cassiani Avouris

Give me your torrent love

My soul is bared for you

Soul-lips-kiss-flowers rain tree moss and heat

Vines wrapped tightly about my chest squeezing cramped hearts

Under moon and tulip covered fields and greener grass than our minds “I do”

42


atta distance


it’s bad posture to stack hope like that to

lilt a little left counteract

scolio sift who you know from

who you don’t get

sight of squirmers in beaks how every mouthful’s at least a

fingernail worth of dirt and only lucky whistlers get a wriggling

gem

something cricks

whose something neck was it? lady me bird

me a tire or tired me the gems? shoulders back head up from

spit-lustered sheen over a thing that’s intestine

inside intestine out can’t free itself just flags

this way that —is that little boy talking to ?

hi :) no I’m not your mom i’ll love you tho

this weather flew for miles ‘fore it got to town my

silver line thighs dragged me a little straight

a little git up and go suburban jiggling

skid d d did to stop, ahead

flip flops ;P

tugleash (-”-)

collide

quick intro for rush hour:

kiddo :D

Fall 2020

43

hi there meet ope-me blue-toe-me

dominoed

freckled and toppling

be well be, enjoy your

pocket worlds everyone anyways

this—where was i—weather it’s lovely it’s April

veritable and allergic

i’m so dry i’m everyone’s favorite

bloody nose an open

blister a little

sore

crick wish i could

carry it better how

every step of itty-me morsel-me was one

tine a fork eaten off and

platters stack up the house stack

better than hope this weather this

runner walked it out got gone

44


flooding back in


screen-off and a touch confused

unused to opt: how to choose which touch to use

hold rub tap comb grab it’s

been a little since our finer

CAPabilities stood out so

bright against senses tipsy from

laser-eye focus on one frame of

being there— and so we

get it wrong: fingers peel the novel then

leaf through gush orange we

walk and

vortexes

pocket-up

ankle-high

relocate

space

advertise: know ur hands from

ur feet from

ur life coach from

a hole in the ground tripped

on the way down we

clapped for balance

—it made a dissonant swallow

that’s okay

volume up er get up on your knees recite: town hall

Fall 2020

45

is a state of mind town hall how to human town hall this too shall

memorize my thumbprint

we full-on, every touch the

same: swipe at houseplant swipe

at cup most things don’t take our

grubby little signatures srsly

admittedly we

feel a bit numbskullish

will get a proper grip

46


scene from the backlogs


god the divet between cement

slabs god the duvet god woke up and

put pins in his length to be a

frilled dress god

focused all a part his burnout

on little altar girl

image & likeness of

mug turned over, cup and a half

black air underrim, some

fullness an ordinary

breath

know you’re

fashioned, little shrine, reduced to what

could look

prayer hands turned visible for

reverence then

making—

some curves is it — all that’s

pressed together to an innermost

inches thin, still-clap

for him, stamp

of dark, holy moly spirit to

credit this

shallow breath with

he wrote (had already written

would one day tailor) a book

that said says should

say little altar girl treat space

like glass

molecule amalgams dark and

Fall 2020

47

bated time does things to

little altar girl who

gets a brain spurt, urge to serve

eleven years oddsnends

goes digging in a family drawer

ruptured for pencil,

paperclip, a

light—pull shut pull shut pull—

found!

shut paper matchbox its

darker dark absorbs sore small

twigs, loose matches lidded in

on their

rust tip faces; little altar girl’s

limbs thin like

that thinks

what could

be simpler than a matchbox?

box house to stay in, sticks like posts of a

fence knocked

over shift rattle slip slip slip a

gainst their inside home-sides, outer rough

patch an outside to strike out

against; it’s comfortable, sprawling and little

altar girl has

sunwarm palms yet

to hold a house in

to keep-togetherin she

matchbox scratch atta breakneck

48


little altar girl startles

at the pluck of

danger, epiphany grain-gainst home to

flame that

falls to

tile

quelched

streak to point to precipice to

core-bright shock! Rupt little

twig

turned lifelong antonym to

every shadow it

knew and lived in

god wakes up & stays asleep & tunes in & greens & puts his hands to

himself & blathers toward

cliff hanger

Fall 2020

49

Urge

Cosette Gunter

50


Not like "other girls"

Annah Hahn

The first time was in my room. Dad told me that sometimes boys

were born with the brains of girls and girls with the brains of boys.

I laid on my floor. Thinking. Staring at the light pink color of my

walls, the soft pink carpet tickling my skin. Then down at my

fuzzy pink diary, coated in white hearts and messy glitter, a matching

pink pen in hand. I can’t be like that. Because girls like pink. I

like pink.

Later, I stopped liking pink. I stopped liking necklaces, earrings,

eyeshadow, flowery skirts. But I was still a girl. Pictures on the

internet told me so. It showed me girls who like books, girls who

don’t dress up, girls that don’t like all the things that are supposed

to make them girls. It wasn’t that they didn’t want to be girls. They

just weren’t like other girls.

Then I found out about boys who like boys and girls who like girls.

And I needed to know more. The internet showed me pictures of

boys who like pink. Boys who wear necklaces and rings, eyeshadow

and blush, skirts of all patterns and colors. They were still boys,

but they liked these things that everyone said was only for girls.

Makeup has no gender. Clothes have no gender. These words loosened

the vise from my chest.

I started liking pink again.

Years later, a camera effect shortened my hair. I asked my girlfriend

if it made me look like a guy. She said no, my eyes and lips

look feminine. It was a compliment. But I frowned, thinking about

my pink room and pink carpet. If girls didn’t have to like pink or

have feminine eyes and lips to be a girl, what made them a girl?

Fall 2020

51

I cut my hair, not as short as the camera effect, but short enough

to make me smile. I spent nights staring at myself in the mirror.

At my chest and those odd lumps of fat that seemingly appeared

out of nowhere years ago. I didn’t think about them much, except

when I wondered why girls wanted them to be big. I liked mine. I

liked them because they were small. I could just ignore them.

I’m out with my mom, looking at booths and taking pamphlets for

a college I don’t really want to go to. “Excuse me, ma’am!” someone

calls out from behind me. I don’t realize that I’m supposed

to be “ma’am” until I’m tapped on the shoulder and offered a pen

that I must have dropped. I smile and say thank you, but the word

ma’am rings and rings in my head. Flashing in bright red letters

that make me want to run and hide.

I’m out walking to my car, ready to drive home. “Sir?” someone

calls out from behind me. My head turns fast, my heart skipping a

beat. It’s dark, and I don’t see who was asking for the sir or who

the sir was. I know it wasn’t me, but I can’t ignore the warmth fading

from my chest. I turn it over, analyze it. Wondering.

I lay awake on my bed in the middle of the night, staring into the

dark. My walls are no longer pink, and neither is my carpet. My

name’s Annah, and my pronouns are they/them. I pace

my room, running my hand through my hair, glancing at myself in

the mirror. My name’s Annah, and my pronouns are they/them.

I look at my computer screen, at a dozen faces in tiny boxes. My

heart is thundering, and my hands are shaky. Still, I smile. “Hi, my

name’s Annah, and my pronouns are they/them.”

52


Concrete Icebergs

Sophie Malloy

We don’t belong here.

We don’t belong here but for this single moment there isn't anywhere

that we’re more meant to be. It’s dark. Way past midnight

and with every passing second a new star pulls its way through the

deep ink of sky. Ruthie is to my left sprawled silently, belly up in

her inner tube. She’s so still that I think she may be asleep. The

pool lights illuminate the water bouncing off our tubes, dyeing it a

strange pink.

Cal is off to my right. He has floated all the way across the pool to

a far corner, his tiny tube struggling for air as it bumps against the

gutter like it’s trying to sprout limbs and escape its grimy surroundings.

Ruthie and I snagged the last two full-size inner tubes at

CVS on the way here so all Cal was left with was the Party Princess

Perfect Swim Trainor Inner TubeTM which he’s hysterically

too large for. His head rests in the water causing his hair to form a

warm brown halo around his head. The pool light does him good.

His eyes are closed but he isn't snoring so I know he's awake.

Everything is silent. I run my hand through the water and a warm

shiver runs up my arm and through the rest of my body.

The air tastes like summer.

A street light peeks out over the busted chain fence we used to get

in here, highlighting the water droplets on my torso. With each

breath another bead slips down my stomach and gets soaked up by

my swim trunks. I let my head fall back, mimicking Cal. I close

my eyes and just let my head be weightless for a minute. The water

tension around my face bobs up and down over my temples and it

feels like the water is giving me a massage.

Fall 2020

53

Opening my eyes, I’m looking directly upwards. The cracked

apartment building that none of us live in looms angrily overhead

like it knows we aren’t supposed to be here. I feel myself start to

grin. This is so stupid. Anyone could see us here. Ruthie was the

one who came up with this plan in the first place, these kinds of

things are always her ideas.

And I absolutely love her for it.

The trees stuffed behind the fence sway ominously and a warm

whip of wind licks up my legs. I shiver again. My tube lightly

bumps against Ruthie’s and I gently push us apart. I look at

Cal. His eyes are open now and we are looking at each other upside

down like a pair of idiots. He gives me a smirk and pushes off

the pool wall. The wall is made of cracked jagged cement

chunks that plague the edge like mini concrete icebergs; his feet

don’t seem to mind.

Cal shoots towards me in a blast of frothy water, breaking the tight

silence in the only way he knows how: explosively. Our heads

smack and he busts in a fit of laughter, rolling off his

mini tube. My head throbs but I’m laughing too. Cal erupts out of

the pool in a chaotic splashing fit.

Everything he does is chaotic.

His eyes glow, staring me down. He wiggles his stupid finger at me

before dramatically dolphin diving and swimming dangerously fast

in my direction. I can’t stop laughing. I’m desperately attempting to

54


paddle away but he catches me in a matter of seconds and starts

rocking my tube, trying to knock me over. I shove him in the face

with my feet, he makes a yacking noise and goes under popping up

a moment later right next to my face. He looks at me for a second

too long and I feel my heart catch before he flips me over. I scream

as I connect with the water in a flurry of bubbles.

The water feels alien and sharp with cold, shocking my skin

awake. I turn over to my back and open my eyes. The air in my

lungs acts like a balloon, making it a fight to stay under. The water

makes the black of the night look like a jello-y smatter of stars. I

can hear Ruthie’s muffled voice cackling from above. It would be

nice to be able to stay down here and just watch as the water turns

everything real into moving cubest art. But the heat in my lungs is

growing more and more persistent so I kick my way to the surface,

careful not to touch the gravelly bottom as I go.

The second my head breaks the surface Ruthie grins at me.

“Jesus christ, are you guys trying to wake up the whole building?”

she says. Cal and I look at each other and dissolve into giggles.

She rolls her eyes but she's gigging too. Our voices sound distorted

by the cramped echo of the crummy pool deck. Her hand runs

softly over the water as she beams up towards the sky, dark skin

gleaming in the artificial light. I don’t have to say anything to Cal

as I grab him by the arm and pull him over to Ruthie’s inner tube.

Fall 2020

55

“Oh my god ,you guys are kidding. I’m almost completely dry,”

she whines. I turn to Cal as if to ponder what we should do.

“Key word, ‘almost,’” he smirks.

Her big brown eyes widen as we throw her under. The night goes

on like that. Our shrieks must scrape the moon and I know this

won’t be our last time here. This is solid.

Cal, Ruthie, me.

In our little world where nothing exists but us and the stars.

56


& this one is about swallowing

Theo Mesnick

the trauma we’re fed is

sharp in our thighs & our bellies

acidic

fill volumes

acidic

the trauma we’re fed shifts the world

to the left

eats our short-term memory &

spelling abilities

picks at our scalps til we scab

the first one I ever wrote about this was about shoes

of all things & I was told it seemed too playful. I am

still a child. I had those shoes at 14 and I have them still. let

me play with words if nothing else. The trauma we’re fed is meant

to sting lyelike but let me make of it a volatile toy. The trauma

we’re fed eats at our throats

but we are eating it, too

Fall 2020

57

CORONAPOEM

Theo Mesnick

i feel like i'm not a person

anymore? but

also i don’t care

*

didn’t think i’d miss so much

drag of the day, bag waiting

by the door

breath rise like breaking

didn’t expect

expression of depression dream to feel

so depressing

ready to break

with all these errors

of isolation

*

doing our daily yoga and my mom

tells me poetry is angry,

58


nowadays

it’s got this anger

i tell her it’s about intensity, right?

pressure on language

high horseshit farts from my mouth

i haven’t thought in so long

*

got out of bed w out whining 2day

warring bits of brain whacked

at each other with tweezers

my skin is clear but my eyes are not

neck tight e’en thru yoga

“Tuck in your chin” i KNOW adriene

*

trying to stay classy over zoom

Fall 2020

59

wearing the same underwear as yesterday

*

yeah i've lost track of how long i spend brushing

my teeth if i even do at all

but i do still crave that sweet ache

of cold water on minty minty tongue

*

mask air stifled no

stifling

i want to breathe deep the scent

of spring this silver sky

i want it in my nose

stranger passes face free

they cough

*

60


bathrobe ball n chain

hair grease ways like a million

pounds & eye bags sinkkkk into my face

like the dumbells sitting untouched in the carpet

i didn’t do yoga today but at least

i didn’t chop off my legs

*

idleness &/or serenity

reality of mornings on a deck

youtube yoga, desserts & netflix

getting fat pretending i don’t mind

pinching my belly as i fall

asleep

used to be tight jeans, travel mug coffee

i used to be seen

maybe the real tragedy

was the thwarted vanity

*

Fall 2020

61

skin suit don’t fit right

momentum is a drag

popcorn on lap

it’s sudden,

middle school back of a minivan

faceless parents in the front

summer evenings without masks

*

took to auctioning off my little ponies

from childhood

my vibrator is done charging

but i can’t get off ebay

wisteriaseasidecelebration $50

cottoncandycafe $425

celebration castle $150

so much to celebrate

for a plastic horse

62


to profit off childhood enjoyment

innocence converts so smoothly

into money

well, as my mother’s living room throw

pillow proclaims

if the shoe fits

*

how quickly major events become daily

the stress now is not so different from

AP tests

ppl talk about covid

like the weather

*

buzz buzz styrofoam

all up in my head

Fall 2020

63

lately deflated dishelved like

head full of cotton like

phewwww it’s hot like

missed days toothbrushing

anything I say

is prolly insincere

*

mask sewing & singing

in my oh so pretty head

voice I

sound angry but it was a nice moment,

really

gray sky outside

(just angry because it’s poetry)

masks wearing & eating smiling

trying to communicate

hard-of-hearing grandfather

64


masks hang like skin flap

what was that?

*

so, we were exposed

today

downstairs piano plays Satie

when denied daily,

we all shrug

well it is a pandemic after all

like we read the guidebook

with each mask I sew

my stitches widen

Fall 2020

65

Ghosting

Shelby Rice

there’s a ghost

languishing

in my

living room. most people think

spectres bear ill will, but not mine—he stands

alone in the room’s center,

waiting.

we don’t interact. he’s quiet,

shrinkingintothewall,

p a s s i n g t h r o u g h

doorways that no longer exist.

he waits in the kitchen for a

kettle that

boil

won’t over,

stands by the door for

packages that will arrive prompt at never.

he waits in my bedroom at night,

standing

s u

t p

r ,

a

i

g

h

t

66


but it’s no longer disconcerting.

to him, I am the phantom.

but every day he gets a

little dimmer, and he starts to

waste

away.

until one day, he’s completely gone.

and somehow, that’s more haunting than

he ever was.

Fall 2020

67

first, violin

Cw: brief mention of self-harm

Shelby Rice

Wren’s sore fingers rested on the spruce neck of her violin as she

leaned back in her chair, grateful for the forty-seven measure break

in the piece they were playing. Her eyes ached, pressure building

in her temples as they struggled to process six hours’ worth of tiny

black dots laid on paper. Beside her, a soft huff accompanied the

mellow melodies the woodwinds churned out. Opening her eyes,

she saw Holly, the associate principal violinist, giving her a look so

venomous she was surprised there wasn’t a faint hissing along

accompanying it. Wren could practically hear her inner monologue

flying at a hundred miles an hour; but then, she remembered the

same thoughts she once harbored about her concertmaster.

She glanced backwards to her left. Peering over a sea of modestly-clothed

musicians, one head stuck comically above the rest.

Rounded glasses and unruly hair graced the head of one Jamie

Monaghan, a look of pure concentration on his face as his fingers

flew over the intricacies of Mahler I, his French horn gleaming

under the bright stage lights. A sort of arch, inoffensive arrogance

danced over his features as his eyebrows moved in tandem with the

switches in partials, the effect amusing Wren so much she audibly

snorted. Again, Holly shot her a look that would have scared a

blind Bach.

They finally reached the double bars at the end of the piece and the

conductor tapped his baton on the podium bar, signaling the end of

rehearsal. Wren knelt down, cradling her violin in her two hands

as she laid it in a plush-lined case, bow nestled beside it. Holly’s

boastful bluster slipped in one ear, gloating to another violinist

about how she caught an accent mark Wren hadn’t. A seed of fear

grew in her stomach and she turned back to caring for her instru-

68


ment, drowning out Holly’s nasal voice the best she could. As she

gently closed the lid over her carefully-crafted child, something

loud and exuberant boomed behind her.

“I never thought I would see the day the irreproachable Wren Carmody

fell asleep during rehearsal.”

She turned around, indignancy written over her face. “Monaghan,

you know full well I was not sleeping.”

Jamie’s face stayed straight while his eyes were alight with laughter.

“If I didn’t know better, I’d think that New York’s next top

violinist was giving up her dreams to stay with me in the Philly

Symph.”

His words struck a chord deep inside Wren. Her hands shook

slightly as she gently zipped the outer shell of her violin case, mind

dancing back to Holly outperforming her in rehearsal. It was one

accent mark, Wren…

An accent mark today, a chair down tomorrow. She forced a smile

and looked up at the wild-eyed man beside her. “You know, they

really missed an opportunity by not calling it the Philly Phil.”

“Yeah, or just the Phil Phil.”

“I’ll raise you one: Phil squared .”

“Ah, there’s the moneymaker.”

Fall 2020

69

Wren slung her bag over her shoulder and carefully grasped her

violin case with her free hand. “You know, it’s a wonder they don’t

hire us to come up with these brilliant ideas.”

“Such a shame our talent is going to waste in, you know, a big five

orchestra.”

Wren snorted, making Jamie gasp in recognition. He pointed an

accusatory finger at her, dramatically declaring, “It was you who

snorted at the end of Mahler. You made Stephanie totally flop that

last horns up—”

“Then you should be thanking me for an easy way up to principal,

Mr. Third Chair.”

He smiled, elbowing Wren’s shoulder as they walked towards the

door. “So, Madam Concertmaster, what’s on the plate this evening?

Arranging a new piece for your quartet? Heading out to the Albrecht

Music Library for the three trillionth time? Or are you going

to show up at my apartment late tonight with all three extended

editions of Peter Jackson’s Lord of the Rings like God intended?”

Wren shot him a look of pure disdain as she pulled her thin coat

on, walking out of the hall into the lobby.

They reached the theater doors. Outside, rain poured, a nearly solid

sheet of water streaming from pearl-grey skies. Wren hugged her

violin case close to her chest, trying to tuck it under her already

too-small raincoat.

“Forgot your umbrella again, Carmody?” Jamie said, expanding

70


his own as he steppedout into the pouring rain. The wind pulled at

his long overcoat, one hand gripping his horn case

as he held the umbrella out towards her.

Wren shot him a withering look. “Don’t give me your sass, Mr.

Third Chair.”

He just grinned at her, his curly dark hair whipping around in the

gale. “Come on. I’ll walk you to your bus.”

“So if you aren’t coming over tonight, what are you doing?”

His legs were long, covering far more distance than hers could at

the same pace. She was nearly jogging to keep up as she puffed

out, “Have to practice for chair auditions next month.”

“Leave it for the weekend, Wren. Come hang out tonight and admire

my striking resemblance to the one true king, Aragorn, son of

Arathorn.”

Choosing to ignore this shameless stroke to his already dangerously

inflated ego, Wren answered his question from before. “If you

must know, I have to work really hard tonight because I’m going

to see my dad this weekend. If I don’t practice now, I won’t have

enough time to prepare before reauditions.”

Jamie sucked his breath in. He knew all about Wren’s father, having

helped Wren rid her apartment of all rope, dangerous chemicals,

and sharp objects the last two times the gentleman in question was

discharged to stay at her home. “How are things with him?”

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71

Wren shrugged. “You know, a lot of the same. The psychiatrists

can’t get him to admit anything’s wrong. I think this stay’ll be a

long one.”

“Is there anything I can do to help?”

Wren looked over at Jamie, earnestness shining in his eyes. “For

him, for you—I really want to help, Wren.”

“I don’t think there’s much either of us can do, Jamie. It’s been

fourteen years and he still can’t deal— ” Wren’s throat closed up

and she felt something other than the rain sting at her

eyes. She adjusted her fingers so they could grip her violin case a

little tighter. “Either way, I need to devote tonight to getting a leg

up on next concert series’ music.”

Jamie’s expression shifted almost immediately to one of flat disdain.

“Really, Wren? We both know Holly doesn’t have the stuff to

dethrone you. Nobody’s taken first chair in, what, two

years?”

She huffed, quickening her pace to match his apparently leisurely

one. “It’s a year and eight months. And that’s the attitude that’s

costing you the principality, Jamie.”

He shrugged. “If that’s the price I pay for having a life outside the

orchestra, I’m alright with that.”

“Look, it’s just that we’re playing Tchaikovsky’s Concerto in D

Major next series and I really want to lock up that solo. I hear one

72


of the scouts for the New York Phil is gonna be down.”

Jamie stopped suddenly just short of the bus station, causing Wren

to walk out from the shelter of his umbrella. The deluge of water

soaked her to the bone as she instinctively shielded her violin with

her body, worries of warped wood and worn strings flooding her

mind. Jamie quickly made his way over, apologizing as he took

his coat off and draped it around her dripping wet form. It pooled

around her as she shivered, hugging her case tighter beneath the

heavy jacket.

“Look, Wren, all I’m saying is that you’re working yourself to

death. You’ve got to give yourself a break.” Jamie pulled the coat

tighter around her, his fingers lingering a little too long on her

shoulders.

Despite the freezing rain dripping off her now-drenched hair and

wind biting at her ankles, Wren felt her face flush. “I’m fine, Jamie,”

Wren said, breaking eye contact, unable to hold his gaze any

longer. The bus wheezed up beside her, and she shook off the overlarge

coat to hand it back to him. “This is my bus,” she mumbled,

face still oddly hot. He reached out to capture her free hand, gently

squeezing it before stepping backwards.

“Just think about it, Wren. When was the last time the world made

you truly happy?”

She sighed, shouldering her case as she clambered on the bus. “I

don’t know, Jamie. The more I see the world, the less I want to be

in it.”

Fall 2020

73

As soon as the words slipped out, she regretted them. She saw

Jamie’s eyes widen; she could almost hear his thoughts jumping to

her father and his many, many breakdowns. I’m not going to end

up like him.

His mouth opened to speak, and Wren, for once, was grateful for

the harsh grating of the decrepit Philadelphia bus doors closing.

She dreaded what Jamie would say as she moved toward a seat

beside an open window, how he would ask in a soft voice if she

needed to talk to someone, or gently assure her that there was no

shame in seeking help. He was the one person left who treated

her with an almost matter-of-fact enthusiasm, whose unflappable

vivacity never wavered in the face of all Wren’s problems. She

couldn’t stand the thought of their friendship polluted by

fear of her father’s issues surfacing in her.

He stood outside her window, his eyes piercing hers, his dark

umbrella shielding his tall, wiry frame from the pattering rain, the

raincoat folded over his arm flapping in the unchecked wind. The

likeness cast a grim tone to Jamie’s normally blithe disposition—a

strangely foreboding contrast to the goofy man she knew. His voice

raised slightly to top the scraping gears of the now slowly-moving

bus, and he said something she didn’t expect.

“Maybe you need to change the little part of the world you’re living

in, Wren.”

Wren carefully laid her case down on her apartment floor, shutting

the door behind her. The apartment was dark and empty, the kind

of emptiness that seeps into your pores the longer you stay. Wren

74


carelessly switched on the ceiling lamp letting light wash over her

little world. A folding chair, a stack of sheet music, a television,

and a music stand were all the room held. Barely taking the time

to glance at the mail she received, she knelt down and gently slid

her violin out of its cradle. No water damage. Safe. The familiar

feel of cool wood beneath her fingertips eased her racing mind. She

put her violin up to her chin, and although her fingers ached and

stomach growled, the looming spectre of a victorious Holly and an

indifferent scout goaded her into practice mode. She let the strings

sing out Tchaikovsky in preparation for reauditions.

The vacuum of the apartment amplified the swift, sweet sounds of

the allegro movement. Her fingers danced over the fingerboard; the

bow flew over its four strings. She created a sweet storm of music

spinning around her, harmonies echoing off the bare walls of her

apartment. The highs and lows of Tchaikovsky wove a beguiling

tapestry of sound, an almost tangible image painted before her

eyes. Her vibrato and tremolo modulated through major and minor,

creating a grand landscape in the vast emptiness of the apartment.

Any passerby would have stopped in their tracks, transfixed by the

rich, silvery melodies escaping beneath the door, but when Wren

stilled her bow, she still felt empty.

Wren’s gaze fell on the picture beside her bed as she turned down

her rough cotton sheets. The gilt frame concealed the well-worn

edges of a photograph featuring a smiling woman and a lovestruck

man, both beaming in front of a run-down Queens apartment. Not

bothering to put on pajamas, she lay down on her creaking bed,

taking in the joy her parents showed in their faces as they stood in

the middle of the sidewalk. She tried to think back to a time when

Fall 2020

75

she was that happy, when she smiled so exuberantly that joy radiated

off her.

As a little girl, all Wren ever wanted was a fairytale ending. The

kind her mother watched on the couch after she thought Wren had

gone to bed—one whose story ended with a swelling orchestra and

two tear-drenched faces (three, if you counted her mother’s); where

misunderstood lovers reunited, kissing in the rain with no regard to

the traffic rushing around them. She saw her father meet her mother

at the door after work with a soft embrace, where he lifted her

off her feet so she would drop her shabby briefcase, her too-loose

shoes slipping off her feet and onto the floor with a soft clatter.

Wren would immediately perform a litany of exaggerated gagging

noises to remind her parents that she was there, that they were being

“gross.” Her father would gently set her mother down and then

she would run over and pick Wren up, twirling her around the

kitchen happily as she asked about her day. Wren would chatter on

about how her father, a historian, had taken her downtown to the

Morgan Library, or how they rode the subway out of Queens to

visit the Staten Island Zoo.

When she was school-aged, she started playing violin in her

school’s orchestra, and she forgot about the happy endings of her

childhood, after disease ripped her family in two. She remembered

playing a shaky arrangement of Adagio in G Minor in the bright

light of the open graveyard, her scratchy funeral clothes hot and

heavy in the midsummer sun. The light in her eyes drowned the

music on the stand, and her quickly gathering tears made the green

and gray of her surroundings marble together, so she just kept them

shut. The sweetness of the bow on strings was a balm to her aching

76


soul, and she continued to play long after the wooden box settled

into the loamy ground.

After that, her father was in and out of hospitals. She spent most

of high school living on pull-out beds, couches, guest rooms in her

friends’ homes; and while most of them were far nicer than her

bedroom in their dingy Queens apartment, she missed her home.

She missed the acrylic paint her mother splattered on their kitchen

table; she missed the Debussy that slipped underneath the door

of her father’s study on the nights he worked late on his book. She

missed the corner of their living room where her mother cleared

out a corner for her music stand and case. She missed too-full

bookshelves in their hallway, stuffed haphazardly with her father’s

dog-eared research books, her crumpled sheet music, and her

mother’s half-dried canvasses sticking them all together. And while

she missed her mother in a burning, aching way, her father’s absence

ate away at her. Her mother was gone, but not lost; to her, her

father was worse than lost. He was irreparably broken.

Not long after the funeral, in one of his short stints spent outside

of a psych ward, her father splurged and bought Wren a ticket a

children’s concert put on by the New York Philharmonic. She was

transfixed by the concertmaster, how his bow danced over the

strings lightning-quick, how honey-sweet notes dripped out of his

instrument. She went home the same day and told her father she

was quitting Girl Scouts. When he asked why, struggling to smile at

her in the dim light of their alley-window apartment, she told him

that she wouldn’t need to bother with it anymore, since she was

going to be the principal violinist of the New York Philharmonic.

Fall 2020

77

Wren rolled over in bed, tearing her eyes off the picture of her

parents, their smiles frozen in place. She looked at the dresser

opposite her. Taped to the wall above it was a picture ofherself clad

in all black, her violin and bow hanging loosely at her side as a

sharp-nosed, messyhaired man with his arm cast over her shoulders

pulled her close.

Jamie’s words from that afternoon echoed in her mind. When was

the last time the world made you truly happy?

She was smiling in the picture—not her usual close-lipped halfsmile,

but a genuine one, with teeth exposed and cheeks pushing

her eyes so they were almost closed. She sat up in bed and walked

over, detaching it from the wall. His goofy grin shone out on the

dim light of the stage, the faint glint of the replica One Ring she’d

bought for him last Christmas in the orchestra gift exchange shining

where he’d loosened his tie, collar unbuttoned. He told her he

would never take it off, in what a casual observer might call mock

seriousness, but she saw earnestness in his eyes.

Beside her bed, her violin case sat open and empty, the instrument

laid to rest beside it with less care than usual. Her bow sat on her

dresser, rosin unapplied. The music for re-auditions beckoned to

her in a sickening way, reminding that New York wasn’t certain,

that Holly was only a step away from concertmaster, that she still

had work to do.

When was the last time the world made you truly happy?

Wren slid her shoes on and left her apartment, bow untouched on

78


the dresser.

Jamie was about to go to bed when a knock sounded on his apartment

door. Confused, he pulled on a cardigan over his You Can’t

Handel This t-shirt and padded his way to the door, wondering who

on earth would be visiting so late at night. To his immense surprise,

standing outside was one rain-soaked and shivering violinist,

clutching in her hands a set of DVDs.

“Wren? Why are you here?” he asked, pulling off the sweater to

hand to her. “I thought you were practicing for next month’s audition.”

He thought back to her comment on the bus and

his blood ran icy cold. “Is everything okay, Wren? Is it your dad?

I’ve got a buddy who works for Amtrak, let me get my shoes on,

I’ll call him and get us the next tickets into the city right

now-”

Surprisingly, she brushed right by him, pulling the cardigan on

one sleeve at a time, dumping the cases on his couch. “No, Dad’s

fine—well, not fine, the same. And I was going to practice tonight.

But then I was thinking, you know, what would give me joy?”

He raised his eyebrows incredulously, picking up one of the discarded

DVDs. Three rented extended edition Lord of the Rings

discs, battered and bruised by thousands of customers, laid beneath

his fingertips.

“And you thought twelve hours of people walking through New

Zealand would bring you joy? Wow, there’s a side to you that I

never knew, Wren.”

Fall 2020

79

She flopped down on his couch, hands fidgeting uncomfortably.

“Actually, I was thinking that, um, spending time with you would

do the trick.”

Jamie stood stock still, a slow smile spreading across his face.

“Well, what are we waiting for?”

80


At the hardware Store

David Sanders

Five Star Football

That’s what I would name

My league

The best the land offers

Corn Bred and Beef

That’s what they’d eat

I come up here on truckin’ jobs

In cities they do not have boys

like you

You--‘ll are so big and tall.

Must be something you eat

Corn Bred and Beef

We ain’t that big.

They must be small in the city.

I’m not even the tawlest of

my buds.

Max, he raised ‘em

Corn Bred and Beef

Fall 2020

81

The flying dinosaur poem.

David Sanders

Talking in triplicate

Inflection imbricate

Consonance crumbling

Rhyme is unraveled

Bye allit’ration but

Rhythm is logical

82


Pool/Locker Room

Morgan Schneider

I. Locker Room

Take me back to being 15,

sophomore year. Lifeguard training, just for the P.E. credit,

And learning how to fall in love with the water. Now,

the polisci hall says you’re drowning in its blueblue tile but I

never

hold my breath when I go down the stairs.

II. Pool

Back then:

sink under, and then all the way down, just to prove you can.

Rocket back up--never quick enough--break surface,

And discover breathing for the first time all over again.

Now:

Fingers and ankles floating,

disappearing,

a memory older than memory.

We ask: when was the last time you were in your mother’s belly?

Suspended

and surrounded.

And I know: we will always be ten times heavier climbing out,

so maybe that’s our natural state--

gravity returning us to sea level.

III. In Between

Take it home with you,

Chlor-ine lingering on skin--

The rest stored inside:

In cells, the interstitial medium,

Fall 2020

83

In tears, the lacrimal fluid,

In the extra saliva in your mouth.

I vomit up some on the way back,

delirious, and always

hungry for more.

84


Fitting

cw: homophobia

Ava Schaffer

The first time I went to New York City, I saw a woman living with

another woman.

I was nine years old and going to visit my aunt who has lived there

longer than I’ve been alive. She told me her friends invited us over

for dinner so we rode the cramped and unsanitary subway to their

brownstone apartment in Brooklyn. I wore my favorite purple silk

scarf in an effort to look fashionable for the New Yorkers.

In my head, I pictured a man with a goatee and black rimmed

glasses wearing a turtleneck opening the large oak door. This man

would have his arm wrapped protectively around a petite woman

with long red hair and earrings the size of golf balls. To my surprise,

two women opened the door. Their smiles were a million

times brighter than the goatee man and his red-haired wife.

These two women treated each other in a way I had never seen

before. A way I didn’t know existed. A peck on the cheek, an arm

around the shoulder. They fit one another better than anyone I had

ever seen before, which shocked me because I didn’t know two

women were even allowed to fit together.

They would pad around their paint-splattered floors with bare feet,

carrying trays of grape leaves and margaritas (I was always given

a Shirley Temple). They had clunky jewelry they made in art class

together and white linen pants that looked like hell to keep clean.

They had bookcases that lined every wall of their house, stairs that

creaked like a symphony, and a large flag draped from their balcony.

Red and pink and white, all mixing together to form a sunset.

Fall 2020

85

It was then that I realized that in New York, love wasn’t constrained.

Not like it was in the home I call Medina, Ohio.

Once, when I was on the swingset at the park, the girl next to me

and I started swinging together. Our paces ended up matching and

we were swinging in unison. The wind tossed our hair back and

forth wildly as she shouted, “Look! We’re married!” because that’s

what kids would say when your swinging matched the person next

to you. My grin was so wide it hurt my cheeks. A boy on the monkey

bars stuck his tongue out at us and proclaimed, “Girls can’t

marry each other!” My new friendnext to me, obviously embarrassed

for forgetting such a well known fact, swiftly jumped out of

her swing and ran away. I never saw her again.

Then there was the time I was invited to a sleepover at Amy Mitchell’s

house in middle school. Sitting amongst thousands of blankets

in our pillow fort, the smell of slightly burnt popcorn filling the air,

we decided to steal a DVD from Amy’s older sister’s room. When

we watched Twilight, I wondered if my friends also had a crush on

both the vampire and the girl.

One day, my French teacher told us he was gay. His warming smile

and pride flag in his room made me believe it was okay to ask him

questions. I visited him after class. In a tone reserved for tough

conversations, he explained the term bisexuality. The word fit me

the same way the women in New York fit each other. Suddenly,

standing under the harsh fluorescent lights of an empty classroom,

everything started making sense.

86


There was that one time where my high school boyfriend had told

all of his friends about my sexuality. I can still remember the heat

of embarrassment on my face as teenage boys would slide me their

phones across the table in class. I can still remember the bile I felt

bubbling in my stomach when I saw the vulgar images and

videos playing on their screens. The fetiziation, the mockery, the

humiliation. All of it made me wish I was anywhere but there.

In France, my host student and I would walk to the school bus

stop every morning. Waiting under the blue street sign of a road

I couldn’t pronounce the name of, was my first girl crush. Enora

had wavy black hair, a button nose, and countless freckles dusting

her cheeks. She wore red lipstick that made it difficult for me

to concentrate and black jeans every single day. When we would

exchange our customary bonjours with kisses on the cheek, I found

it hard to talk, and not just because I could barely speak

French.

Later on that year, I joined my school’s LGBTQ+ Alliance Club.

There were about five of us, all too nervous to actually speak to

one another, but at least we were there. The silence was deafening

but at least we were all hearing it.

Fall 2020

87

further encounters at

web:

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inklingsartsandletters.com

@inklingsartsandletters

@inklingsartsandletters

@INKLINGSmuohio

felicitous thanks to

C a t h y W a g n e r

F r e d R e e d e r

C O S M O S

ARTS & LETTERS

cover art:

VOLUME 24 | ISSUE 1

Amber Landscape by Lila Willis

Inklings Arts & Letters Volume 24 Issue 1

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