Spring 2022 Inklings Issue

INKLINGS
arts & letters
Volume 25 | Issue 2
Spring 2022

Dear Reader,
Woah! Wow! Hi! We’re so glad that
you could make it to Volume 25,
Issue 2 of Inklings Arts & Letters.
We’ve had our eye on you for a while.
But please don’t be shy! The toothy
tongue doesn’t bite.
S T A F F
Elizabeth Brueggemann
Rhonda Krehbiel
Cosette Gunter
Cassiani Avouris
Romie Crist
Annah Hahn
Chelsea Hoy
Eleanor Prytherch
Sophia Balsamo
Jon Dallas Campbell
Nick Felaris
Gabby Hoggatt
Sydney Scepkowski
Ava Shaffer
Wren Whitehead
Co-Editor in Chief
Co-Editor in Chief
Business Manager
Writing Director
Art Director
Outreach Chair
Social Media Manager
Social Media Manager
Editorial Staff
Editorial Staff
Editorial Staff
Editorial Staff
Editorial Staff
Editorial Staff
Editorial Staff
We, your editors, are having trouble
pinning down the spirit of this issue.
There’s too much to fit into a pithy
thematic description. These pieces
tackle the complicated breadth of
the college experience in dizzying
leaps between the existential and the
everyday. Contributors went outside
and spoke to some bugs. They
provoked some Saints. They shared
their wisdom in tackling anger and
its weariness. While reading your
submissions our editor’s table took
gut punches and earnest needlings,
but we also laughed loud.
It’s a challenge of an issue, but in
the most unrelenting and exciting
way. So then maybe it’s fitting that
our cover explodes with it all into a
beautiful, colorful, corporeal…slurp.
Dear reader this issue is also special
because it is our last endeavor as
editors in chief. We are graduating,
and Inklings is another thing that
we have loved but must now pass
on. How do we express the honor
it has been to read and compile
your work? In the most tumultuous
moments, Inklings was always proof

that the Miami community was alive
and creating. What could be more
encouraging?
We want to sincerely thank our
staff for making this issue happen.
You guys are incredible. Thank you
for adapting, understanding, and
sharing. We feel lucky to have met
every one of you. You’re also the
reason that we leave with no worries.
The magazine has never been more
alight than in your capable hands!
With tears saved to be shed later,
Elizabeth Bruggeman and Rhonda
Krehbiel
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

letters
contents
Anonymous
Anonymous
Anonymous
Cassiani Avouris
Sophia Balsamo
Sophia Balsamo
Sophia Balsamo
Anna Boyer
Anna Boyer
Anna Boyer
Liz Browning
Elizabeth Brueggemann
Abbey Elizondo
Maddy Evans
Bryce Forren
Deanna Hay
Anna Hernandez-Buces
Anna Hernandez-Buces
Anna Hernandez-Buces
Anna Hernandez-Buces
Gabby Hoggatt
Gabby Hoggatt
Sarah Holtz
Sarah Holtz
Sarah Holtz
Chelsea Hoy
Elizabeth Huff
Elizabeth Huff
I. O. Scheffer
Olivia Kelly
Olivia Kelly
Madi McGrir
Jackie Michaud
Lucia Morello
13
15
17
18
20
21
23
25
27
29
31
32
33
35
37
39
40
42
43
45
47
48
49
50
51
52
54
56
57
58
59
60
64
66
Ziggurat Built Up from the Pit
Calico Christ
Kuya Says
I wish you liked being held
Autopsy of the Poet's Brain or
Activation Map of the Idea or-
Blind Date with a Grasshopper
ruminating the antacid tablet
Accounting Equation
Seeing You
summer sunsets & starlit skies
Shoreline
Caedmon and Hilda speak in the fields
In 500 ft, merge right onto I-70
beach town
Atomic Male Siren Song
chirp chirp
first communion
god is american and so is my father
put me in touch with rupi kaur, i have
beef; bitch
when you are old enough to
understand this, lola, i'm sorry
death to drosophila
Rhetorical Taxidermy
double vision
Moonlight
To Anyone
L*** Poem
Nature vs. Nurture
rearview
Since Home Is Burnt To The Ground
The Sun, Alone
Orange
your mother is dying of cancer
Remembrance of the June Bugs
grief

letters
art
Meredith Perkins
Savannah Perry
Eleanor Prytherch
Eleanor Prytherch
Eleanor Prytherch
Caleb Ritzheimer
Sydney Scepkowski
Ava Shaffer
Ryan Turrieta
Ryan Turrieta
Ryan Turrieta
68
69
70
72
73
74
83
84
86
87
89
York Street Market Pepperoni Cheese
& Crackers
"fight fire with fire"
Archive
Garden
Metamorph
Selected Records on Dr. Isidore
Baruch Columba de Cruz
driving as the sky spills into your eyes
MOTHER NATURE
Gospel Truth
Homesick Hokku
The Dreadful Word That Continues To
Fall
Elizabeth Cool Leitzell
Romie Crist
Kayla Dooley
Kayla Dooley
Mason Eagle
Mason Eagle
Mel Hale
Shea Hardy
Shea Hardy
Shea Hardy
Shea Hardy
Deanna Hay
Deanna Hay
Deanna Hay
Delaney Kirby
Delaney Kirby
Delaney Kirby
Josette Kochendorfer
Hannah Martin
Hannah Martin
Camryn Mclelland
Camryn Mclelland
Maggie McLaughlin
Maggie McLaughlin
Rheia Newman
Rheia Newman
Rheia Newman
Mary Visco
Mary Visco
Mary Visco
94
95
96
97
100
101
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
114
115
116
117
118
119
122
123
124
125
126
127
128
129
130
132
133
Tooth Fairy
Coming Out
Home
Reclaim
I Tried Mother I Tried
These Paintings Seem to be
Meaningless
Food For Thought
Angel Crunch
Can't Get You Out Of My Head
Like Candy
Smoulder
Hysteria
In A Week
When You Showed Your Tongue It
Was Forked In Two
Growing to Love Myself
Newfound Friend
Trans Magic
Lake McDonald
By A Thread
fever daydream
Cotton Candy Kite
Under the Moon
Chatter
Rainfall
A Charming Lie
Beautiful
Tension
Down to the Edge
It Seeks to Hold
It Seeks to Join

LETTERS

Ziggurat Built Up from the Pit
Anonymous
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zz diligence. zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzszzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
z Perhaps I knew since birth zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
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z acolyte of Sappho’s sin, zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
zz impenitent zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
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zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz hallow hosts. zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz “Confess and be zzzzzzzzz
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zzzzzzzzzzzzzz Martyred zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
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12
13

zz jubilant zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
z liturgy, zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
zzzzz not zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
zzzzzzzzzzz one zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
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We are in the Garden where the Lord
died to solve my sin and I am weeping
The bench beneath me is cold poured concrete
fuzzy with moss and the film across my eyes
I cannot spare a thought to my Savior
preoccupied by the static that stalks me
Yesterday on the roof of the prayer house
I thought to see the other side of the battlement
Nothing stopped me but the prospect
of the overseas shipping fees for my corpse
Surely I am too far from home to die
I say to the good word shut tight on my lap
Calico Christ
Anonymous
Soft sound on the stone draws my eye
A chirping hello, tricolored Cat blinks slow
I cannot form my hands to prayer but
I can reach out, slow and unsteady
to greet the holiest visitor to this tomb
She shoves Her chin into my faltering fingers
insistent and coarse and lovely
and I am thinking She is sent from above
She must be, please, I need to believe
that someone up there wants me alive
14
15

She speaks again and my mind returns
to gentle movement over velvet ears
She has two paws on my leg, book put aside
and Her purr is readily drowning out the static
and I am not weeping now – can’t quite die
when there is a Calico to call on in the gardenbed
Verily I say unto you
Pick yourself up off the ground, dipshit
Spit into the grass, fix your gaze upon the firmament
Cough if you need to, but don’t ever cry
Kuya says
Anonymous
Didn’t your older brother teach you this?
Thought you said you wanted to be a boy
Sticks and stones and bones upon the pavement
Born with bird thin ligaments snapping under ballet-force gales
Let no one formed against you remain
And yet here you sprawl
Only child once again, apple of your little brothers’ eyes
Knobby kneed belle of the ball
Never were one for dancing it seems
Your feet at once too big and too small
Chin up, says auntie’s tallest son
Two for fl inching, one for the r o a d
Prodigal son, can go anywhere but home
16
17

I wish you liked being held
Cassiani Avouris
I implore/ingratiate/involve myself to your domestic long-hair back pants
strut
(breed: deer trot and fox cheeks and anti-linoleum tendencies)
I love your celery eyes
Hauls bony ass up couch arms to slow-blink eyes at me
we acquiesce
laptop stole your lap of rest
curved claws overgrown, coldpressed
on bare legs, long fur melting-shape
truly little guy, feather dusting tail wraps arm—
covers phone keyboard pringles conglomerate
Your Torbie Camo in our brown-beige speckled world
Engorges perfect pike teeth and unhinged jaw snake-snapping at
string, beef, and stroker fingers
the softest belly known to un-man, since Your Misandrist Realm
keeps lesbian culture
secret with tan curl fur, together in pocket warmth underbelly
hold your, calico foot :)
so you can meow: merp mbrp mrip your little way down expansive hall-lands
last wanderer in twixt-couch roams, we mark: “
she’s hungry for a re-shake-it-up halloween dish dinner
she missed you walking home backpack burdened
she wants you a little feeling of her featherfur
you scared her! ms. adorable Scamps ‘til
stinkbugs sound her hunting warble: oh girl, drink your water”
croaky meows catch dustbugs in the window plants
did I mention your homeward herding instills love for bedcuddle insomnia
moments
18
19

Autopsy of the Poet's Brain or
Activation Map of the Idea or-
Sophia Balsamo
Blind Date with a Grasshopper
Sophia Balsamo
there's a light on the horizon
red-dayglow-fire in the eyes
burning yellow through the soul
setting the bramble dry of the body up in sparks
it's shining brighter than the sun
beck-and-call across the sky exploding
telephone wire come to life
you’ll have to be quick to catch it in the logbook of the blood
aha ! lucky day !
your call number has been found
sticky-fingered child holding
emerald exoskeleton pulsing with
white swirl of breath and blood:
an alive thing. a marvel to these nerves that know nobody.
pinched wing-joints held trapped
to prevent escape, a triptych
finger
body
thumb
battle-bruised legs spread in the grass. spine touched to tree bark.
set a table for two
our picnic blanket the sun-heat expanse of exposed limbs
water first: it is polite to ask your guests if they are thirsty.
each dip into the lip of the cup causes fluttering in the accordion stomach
long legs fighting governed movement
barbs getting caught in
bloodied hangnails
persevere for your loved ones. pain is temporary. and dinner's ready.
fingertips full of bladed olive branches
greens offered from another’s fork
see the spittle-coated mill of incisors
mash the strands to pulp wood
20
21

the awe of mechanical process. splendor found in the act of survival.
like in the symmetry of a meal, laid out on the good tablecloth
or the beauty you watch form in other children’s chalk drawings.
ruminating the antacid tablet
Sophia Balsamo
soon the dark will creep into the horizon line
the silent ring of July's curfew
and you will give the flat plateau stretching between his beaded eyes
a goodnight kiss
today i am:
zipwire skeleton ferrying blood and guts and
cosmosis soup
there is primordial ocean cupped in the back of my throat
teeming with the sparks and shocks of
the esophagus
dark matter expanding at the very center of me
pain is an ever-growing friend of mine
and yet.
i remember the bacteria my skin cells feed
the way even breathing keeps alive a whole life
cycle of beings
an endless creationism ongoing in my stomach lining
on the bleakest blackest putridest of days
i hold these lives close
these organisms who care for me
even poorly
am i not the same?
i do not begrudge them failure
resolving instead for a distant kindness, try to remember:
pills that quell my body's swelling waves
water to soothe the aches
22
23

heat and probiotics and breathing exercises and rest
this not-self care is gratitude
extended to the swirling nebulous neighborhood i cradle
in this knit-together constellation
of body and bone
May the flesh move us both forward.
Even in times of turmoil.
Amen.
the 1st thing
(the most important thing)
they teach you in accounting is:
Assets = Liabilities + Equity
it’s the concept of assigning ownership:
the principle of yours vs mine vs ours vs theirs
where assets are worth-y things and
liabilities are what is claimed by others
while equity is what we can truly call
Accounting Equation
Anna Boyer
our own
our right
what? you’re shocked, i know.
but ledgers can hold constellations
if you know where to look.
what i’m trying to say is this:
all my life i have budgeted
my time
my dreams
my very heart
like love was an expense
i could not afford.
[that’s a decrease in assets and equity
if you’re keeping track:
Debit: Feelings Expense
Credit: My Love]
24
25

i thought it was a drain on my Net Self.
[“Cost of Goods Sold”
to my “Inventory of I” if you will]
Seeing You
Anna Boyer
but now i’m thinking it might be a liability
(of a good sort).
increasing my assets and the pieces of me
that others have a hand in.
sure, there are a few small expenses
that come with it.
but i can’t deny i’m feeling richer,
even as you’re accumulating interest in my heart
(of the continuously-compounding kind
we were taught was only theoretical).
-[Debit: My Love
Credit: For You]
I never see you anymore.
It’s not for lackatrying,
nor for lackadaisicals.
It’s no one’s fault and
mea culpa, mea culpa.
Mea Maxima Culpa.
Everything’s a choice, afterall.
Where does a friendship begin to wither?
We were peas in a pod
on a milkweed vine,
and from the moment we were
p o k e d & p r o d d e d & p l u c k e d
we bled white (lies).
Now I’m left
mixing metaphors
like lead paint
[Praying for a butterfly
to kiss the poison from my tongue.]
trying to find the right shade
I think it was a
little more… um…
again.
26
27

That? Maybe less of this?
Can I tell you a story?
In these margins of our lives,
do you have a minute to spare?
Starving people will eat anything;
time is a vulture
staring me down.
See,
there were these two ships:
out looking for each other.
They passed in the night
and left none the wiser.
Sad, isn’t it?
We could argue [parallels v. perpendiculars] all day,
but it’s more melancholy to think
they met just
once.
I never see you anymore.
And I am afraid
that one day someone will point to your picture,
asking if I know knew you,
and I will have to say,
“I used to.”
-I keep looking over my shoulder
expecting to see you:
there’s nothing but my shadow.
summer sunsets & starlit skies
Anna Boyer
we curl our toes into the ground beneath
an anchor of grit and grass and ghosts.
we loose laughter from its leash
as the long golden fingers of a dying star
trace our bared necks,
cup our upturned faces
one last time.
[it’s not that nothing becomes something
or that something becomes nothing, but
even hydrogen runs out.]
we spin roundnround for
no singular point of light, though
the vastness of the universe calls
and we would paint the sky with conviction
if we could.
there is something
b u l l e t p r o o f
here, something
i n v i n c i b l e .
whether it’s
hurling stones into the ocean
crushing dead leaves beneath feet
28
29

twirling petals between fingertips
catching snowflakes on tongues
snapping your teeth together
in a flash of a smile after
Shoreline
Liz Browning
as though Life, itself,
is just begging to be expressed
one actionmomentmovement at a time.
look at me! look at me!
a child cries out
seconds before he leaps.
i’m telling you:
these are the days
we leave footprints burning
in the sidewalks.
I wash my hands without
thoughts of bashing my head
against the sink creeping in
I wake up and
snooze my alarm
but don’t wish for a coma
I eat all three meals
because I have hunger
I got here myself
(a lie).
- i was here.
i exist.
Parents held me as
I sobbed like a scraped-knee child;
Sister and friends patiently listened as
I cursed the name I still can’t quit
But,
credit is most due to
the twenty milligrams that only cost
seven dollars per bottle of thirty
and a pity-soaked conversation with
my second favorite pediatrician
(truth).
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31

Caedmon and Hilda speak in the
fields
Elizabeth Brueggemann
In 500 ft, merge right onto I-70
Abbey Elizondo
Abbess, allow me acquiesce to miracle
desperate happen ings haphazardly these haptic bumblings
happen happening
Hapless shepherd hopeless humbled I come to
a startling hilt— befuddled, aflame ineff
* hic * able echo of monastic
halls
I bleat I haw
“I like to watch you
stumble; poet be decked in upper lovely—
Glow, sun-shadowed artist! sing!”
“throat-struck and startled, choking beatitude
you are alight
—you are fine
shriek !”
Hurt and here and hallowed
tongue-sharp I hymn I hymn
Past evening, the drink was
loaming in its cup, bread and
crust, I could not grip the cut
ting edge of me, blue in mystery
til sun rose over hill— this field
crested now in light reveals divinityspark
—praise be creation, be God
dressed in effer lasting green
Works Cited
Chairs, Alyssa. “A Grieving Heart: A How-To Guide for Losing
a Parent.” Open Hearts, Heavy Minds, Flightless Bird
House, 16 May 2016,
https://openheartsheavyminds.net/blog/a-greiving-heart/
how-to/guide-for-losing-a-parent. 1
Docter, Pete, director. Up. Written by Bob Peterson, Pixar Animation
Studios, 2009. 2
Kimberly, Simonne. “Larissa Kacie Graduates Valedictorian, Honors
Late Mother in Graduation Speech.” Bowman Report
[Bowman], 45 ed., no. 10, 21 May 2016. 3
Kimberly, Simonne. “Heather Kacie Killed in Head-On Collision,”
Bowman Report [Bowman], 45 ed., no. 9, 14 May 2016. 4
Schmidt, Gary D. Okay for Now. New York, Clarion Books, 2011. 5
Todd, Alex. “New Summer Car Models, 0% financing for 3 months!”
Bowman Car Dealers, 13 May 2016,
https://bowmancardealers.com/sales/new-cars. 6
__________________
1
Why isn’t this article helpful? My counselor said this would give me coping tips. I’ll keep
searching.
2
We watched this every Friday night after she returned home from work. I can still remember
the scenes where she could hardly breathe from laughter, the scenes where her face would be
buried in a soft tissue. I made popcorn forthe both of us, and let my dog fill the space next to
me.
32
33

beach town
Maddy Evans
__________________
4
Driving home from school, she called me. I thought she was worried about me, of all
things. Her voice sounded brighter than it had been in months. Then silence filled my
ears.
5
I’m going to be okay. I’m going to be okay. I’m going to be okay.
6
I found this search on her computer a few weeks after graduation. A new car? She didn’t
need to buy a new one for me. I loved our car. Jeff sounded close enough to Jetta, and dad
was gone long enough that no one in the family noticed the name. It was supposed to be
our last road trip, one last adventure. Guess it’s just me and Jeff with her silently watching
from the backseat.
one day i’ll wake up to blue flowers in a field of white
somewhere i can feel the murmur of homegrown deep-rooted local
folks
and families with umbrellas are separated by a million grains of sand
i’ll clean myself under a rusted shower head and feel wood soften
beneath my feet
my feet will be rough from when i grind down the earth beneath them
my face will be spotted and scarred
a layer of red polish on my fingertips, always chipped but never
washed away
i will breathe and lie down and feel my chest swell until i think it’ll
give out and then i’ll feel
myself falling and i’ll remember to breathe again
the birds have something to eat in my backyard
each beer will be a gift of nectar from some god
everything is white, even when it’s not supposed to be, even when it’s
peeling away, even when
i know it’d look better without
there will be yellowed dog eared books
shirts smelling of old cologne
a restaurant where i have a table but the waiters always forget my
name
it never gets dark too early, i’ll no longer feel a lake effect snow
only the occasional little hurricane
but when they come, that’s when i’ll find you
your shape ever-changing
34
35

cheeks and legs, hair and waist and shoulders
under the white field of blue flowers
and i can whisper as many i’m sorrys as i can
until we’re both asleep
Atomic Male Siren Song
Bryce Forren
It’s a satan-spawn snake that
beckons me to bite from your adam’s apple.
The sun is so low that God won’t notice
the eden tucked behind these bleachers,
where your sentences spill into
the harsh metal walls
of my adolescent skull.
There’s acid in your words when
you wonder what it would feel like to kiss me,
to feel the hair on your face
scratch the hair on mine.
I say it would itch, a
prickling sweater, like the
stubborn scabs that I pick at in class,
but stay close, these red spots aren’t contagious.
There’s no Man in my voice,
no way to ask you without coarse dissonance
to till my tonsils with your tongue.
The right words are left lodged in my molars.
I wait for the lump in my throat to dissolve so
your boyish breath can fill my lungs.
36
37

A tilt of my head and the motion is mirrored.
Backlit, burning to answer your question,
the whites in your eyes are a magnet to mine.
chirp chirp
Deanna Hay
But the spirit ensures that our magnets repel.
The same poles
charge our sockets,
sore incandescence.
God is a watchful audience
in the aluminum risers,
looking past His almighty sandals
to find us suspended
in a web of support beams.
I want you to wonder how it feels,
but His narrowing eyes
spare us the itchy collision.
So I tiptoe the edge of our midwestern eden
and eyeball the apple that lingers, uneaten.
A chirping cricket peeps out
Into an echoing silent night
The frigid winter air hangs
Frozen in the branches
Naked without their leaves
chirp. chirp.
No harmony joins
Stale and crisp the ground remains
Underneath the lonely cricket
Who woke from sleep too soon
The moon shivers in the dark
Lying pale atop the bleached soil
Hush, says she
It is the midnight season
There is no love in a barren world
Did a nightmare rouse the bug
Or, in a nightmare did it awake
A chilling quiet on the earth
chirp. chirp.
Summer’s song fell on no ears
38
39

first communion
Anna Hernandez-Buces
i wore an ivory dress and delicate little gloves
i had a rosary i’d convinced myself was made of diamonds
i was
(young, too young to yet feel the same pressure
those diamonds felt, being crushed and molded into)
something perfect.
i looked like an angel
he said i looked like an angel.
(something perfect)
i think i only look like an angel when someone wants me.
(i don’t want to look like an angel,
i want to feel holy again.)
with baby fingers in my mouth went in a body and
too big of a gulp of wine, a bitter taste that
my mother used to joke you only like once you have kids
as body and too much blood passed my lips,
i felt holy
(i have not felt that holy since)
not since i have let other bodies,
blood not my own
pass my lips
touch me
(don’t touch me)
we don’t drink the wine in church anymore
i didn’t want to anyway.
not after his friend brought wine that tasted like god
and he waited,
waited for me to feel holy again to
touch me
i wore an ivory dress and delicate little gloves
following in my family’s footsteps,
following their plan
40
41

god is american and so is my
father
Anna Hernandez-Buces
put me in touch with rupi kaur, i
have beef; bitch
Anna Hernandez-Buces
papa bought a book
how to lose your accent
he’s american now, and americans don’t have accents
they don’t understand him at work, at church because
papa speaks with an accent when he reads aloud at mass
how to lose your accent
he thinks it worked
(but you cannot hide an accent from god.)
he bought a book and he thinks it worked
and i don’t tell him
(i can never tell him)
that his accent is never stronger
than when he reads aloud in church.
(it’s my favorite sound.)
do not ask me about mango trees,
ranchero on the stereo,
black beans on the stove
and cut up fruit at my desk
i am not that kind of brown girl
i don’t fear my mother’s broken english,
hate her for the words she can’t pronounce.
i don’t avoid conversations with my father because
i’m too white and not scar(r)ed
go rub one out to some other poem
about silence and mangoes
cruel mothers and distant fathers
(i am that kind of brown girl)
i feel too much pressure
to be the kind of brown my father pretends
he’s not
to be the kind of brown my mother regrets
leaving behind
but i don’t want you jerking off to
my inability to speak to family
my father’s machismo temper tantrums
or the smell of arroz y frijoles on the dinner plates
42
43

get your white tongue off my dick,
stop sucking me off
to hear about
my mother’s nonapology of cutting up mangoes
and setting them on my desk because she loves me
(and she does!)
when you are old enough to
understand this, lola, i'm sorry
Anna Hernandez-Buces
i am the first daughter of a first daughter,
the ache of which lives in my bones.
i am the first daughter of the first daughter to leave,
the first daughter born in a land that is not home
(and will never be home).
i can feel the guilt of that weigh on me.
as if i feel what she feels, a connection between
first daughters and their mothers and i feel
guilty
for stumbling over what used to be my first language
for not knowing my cousins anymore
for leaving
(as if i were the one that left.)
i feel the pressure too.
of being a first daughter.
pressure to be
better
and smarter
and kinder
(i am the example
or i am the cautionary tale.)
but first daughters must always grow up,
they must always be the first to leave so whatever i end up becoming,
one day,
i will pack up all my lessons,
all the pieces of me left cracked from under pressure,
44
45

hoping some
might have
turned into
diamonds
(when i wasn’t looking)
and i will pack up my aches and my guilt and go,
bringing with me the connection of first daughters and their first daughter
mother,
an unsevered line of solid gold like the bracelet i was given when i
was born.
if my nightmares of miscarriage don’t come true,
my girl will be the first daughter of a first daughter of a first daughter too.
(oh god.)
how much of that pain will she carry in her marrow?
what ancestral fuck ups will i not be able to shed for her?
what will i inevitably force her to carry
until she shoulders it off to a first daughter of her own?
the flies keep coming back
flit flit flitting round my head
land on arms and knees preoccupied
hand thumps thickly against my ribs
no small corpse for my efforts so I keep
hit hit hitting at my flesh
beat the dust off of me - apostasy
wage unholy war on the bearers of pestilence
death to drosophila
Gabby Hoggatt
they fling themselves into the ersatz window web
tap tap tapping birds feast their fill
i don’t know what draws them in enticing
fill my air with poison if it gets them gone
root through our fridge and trash can
scrub scrub scrubbing away old spillage
break out the good wine - sauvignon
seduce these damned invaders to their deaths
46
47

Rhetorical Taxidermy
Gabby Hoggatt
double vision
Sarah Holtz
Cases upon cases of bugs spread wide in beautiful rigor mortis
watch over students fumbling through half-hearted arguments.
Bone bleached poriferans, coral that has never known the sea;
two-headed bodiless calf that has never known the sun.
Stare down a hawk laid low, glass against vitreous
surrounded by eyeless rodents, pinned deep and true against styrofoam.
Glass jars with metal lids screwed tight against the smell of preserved fish.
See how the cell becomes blastula, becomes plastic vertebrate?
Learn how to form your words in a room piled high with
modern necromancy!
Structure your persuasive essays on a desk sprinkled with loose lost fur!
There’s a new stain on the floor today I think may be blood.
Museum man says, “don’t lick it and you’ll be fine” (that’s not what I
asked).
he sits down in the café with the same blonde hair as- no, keep typing
my eyes like scouts over him. Twice, thrice it is not him and yet cruel
calculations himness persists, smokey around his table mind
puddles in my skull
again and again this half lucid search
for bits of
memory stuck to him, for the
old nuances of our – no.
focus.
a joltofelectricity freezes a wicked flavor of thrill into my blood:
he is turning his face to the room.
His double but I don’t trust it – smiling, seeing past
walls, pressing phone to ear, mouth paused open,
waiting to reply, lifting coffee cup to its mouth
might put it down again the next moment and be
him,
aged beyond recognition or surgically morphed with
someone else,
just himself enough to haunt me
the double only a trick,
a deception,
labyrinth arithmetic.
48
49

Moonlight
Sarah Holtz
To Anyone
Sarah Holtz
Hanging out in my doorway after dark.
Dark blue wind curses by.
Moonlight spills into my kitchen. Pictures on my walls are waiting to be
taken down.
Day comes back in snaps.
Rain patter like pop rocks on my umbrella.
Bird feet shapes in sidewalk frost,
like leaves swept away leave behind all their shadows.
Umbrellas clustered like giant dead metal spiders around doorways.
Blurry blue digits over the oven. Kick the trash can over and over.
Keep forgetting to write in my calendar. Keep dropping
my charging block when I uncoil it. Keep dropping
my eyes when someone looks at me. Keep trying
to walk in step with my body.
Not convincingly.
Tomorrow I am slumped over the upright. Dark chords under numb fingers.
One of us is out of tune.
He is Japanese.
White hair and labored breathing –
Quiet age thinks nothing of itself.
What do you do with the wounds that you heal
(when you heal so slow you could wound)?
What happened to the Japanese Americans could happen to anyone.
What happened to the Arab Americans could happen to anyone.
What happened to the Jews could happen to anyone.
She is Chinese.
Shaking voice that pauses after Chinese an admission, or a prayer
Says she is still stung by the whispers
|foreigner|
How do you cope with the eyes that you feel
(bitten under)?
There is a long answer in him, uncoils
The advice of grandfathers
and the adults that were trying to make a life for us.
But what do you do with the sad that you feel?
mr. rogers? anyone?
He says we keep our heads down, try to make a life for ourselves,
and if people trust us, they trust us, and if they don’t,
there’s nothing we can do about it.
...anyone?
50
51

L*** Poem
Chelsea Hoy
when they flutter and flit to their own rhythm, and
I can’t stop doing spins? So maybe
I’ll just grab your hands and we can dance with them too
I think so. I really hope so.
ok ok. so a poem. for you. I think
the problem is, words are just dancing
bugs that decide to get into marching formations
on the page. as much as my college degree
says otherwise
how am I supposed to catch these bugs and
lead them into my own patterns when honestly,
I’m still too young to have a net
“English Major”
but I want a net. Impossibly tiny so I can watch the
bugs waltz below, scan the crowd, and
pluck the perfect ones and arrange them just
right for you
You’ve always been afraid of insects.
Terrified of vulnerability. Is this L***?
whats just right? I think I know but then your eyes
snag mine unexpectedly from across the room and
suddenly I’m a glass jar full of glitter, fuzzy brain matter,
fragmented story ideas, unfinished to-do lists, phantom
cravings for anicedchailattewithoatmilk
swirled around in gentle pirouettes
how am I supposed to find the bugs meant for us
I think so. I hope so.
52
53

Nature vs. Nurture
Elizabeth Huff
The weather is getting warmer and I'm once again
thinking of our family bike ride
how we rode down a back alley and the sun
filtered through the branches above us,
flickering in my inhale.
It's one of my first memories of peace.
Back home, we declared it a tradition.
By the following spring, you were gone, and
I had no interest in a bike without training wheels.
Soon it will be hot again, almost unbearable.
I thought your question posed rocket science
but you don't want an answer.
I don't know why I'm here in the first place—
training wheels, I guess,
but I don't want you in my stories.
I want to go on a bike ride
I want to make mistakes
I want daffodils,
hero or no hero.
It's getting warmer again, and I'm thinking
about summer, about who will return to the
northwestern heat and what mistakes I will make
to prove that I once existed there when it ends.
Last summer, I almost had a reason to regret you.
If the sun had been a bit more forgiving, there may
have been nothing left to worry over
but I've been thinking about comfort movies,
about accepting the love we think we deserve.
The air is warm again, and during a 2am
storm I stop to barefoot run through the puddles
and steal a daffodil from public property.
I leave it on my dashboard, let it bake under
the unfiltered sun for weeks, call it preservative.
I've been falling asleep on my favorite love story,
long gone by the happily ever after.
The daffodil flakes, piece by piece,
like the same song on repeat.
I used to know who the hero was but lately
I can't remember the words.
54
55

rearview
Elizabeth Huff
Since Home Is Burnt To The
Ground
I. O. Scheffer
toothache; redefine atrophy.
my nails are lighter blue and longer than our last conversation—
trojan horse—
stalactite icicles melt in the corner and stay there and I leave
the puddles alone.
getting what you want is the same as not wanting it if you stop squinting
(blame lenses for rebellious eyelids)
the ceiling sags; I organize the floorboards, trying not to
look up
symptoms:
choke; deep breath is a diagnosis
maybe I learned this abandon
like the faster you run the slower your gut knows to follow
country road rollercoaster
change the scenery when strong takes its mask off
forget to come back
(hunger radio silent)
the carpet is molding but who could
mind the smell when you
breathe this
shallow
56
57

The Sun, Alone
Olivia Kelly
Orange
Olivia Kelly
The sun set earlier then.
I left
Blue not-velvet-not-velour seats and the Sixth Graders bus surfing.
To
The hill between me and home.
Someday, I’d fly down it, and tear the skin off
my ribs
in the process
Hissing
Through coppery breath.
But today, the sun is golden and
I dream perpetually of an archetypal orange. It’s a navel orange,
saturated so deeply that a picture of it would have to be printed
in black and white shading so as not to insult the hue. The
orange I’ve never had has the thick sweetness of roasting paprika,
cardamom, clove. It haunts me, because I know it exists.
Some fecund tree is growing my orange, fat and round and ripe.
When I tear the binding strip off the top of the first supreme, its
fingers will spread like the petals the full orange came from, and
I will not let a drop of juice down my pinky. I will be starving
the minute I taste it. I will unhinge my jaw to swallow it, rind
and all. I will lick my fingers clean of all stickiness when it is
finished. I will want another, to savor.
My sister would be home soon.
I didn’t yet know how to cook.
The climb up Kewanee was endless,
But bathed in light
that told me my eyes were lit
To
The same color as my skin
amber ember umber
If anyone had been there on the hill to look.
Just to catch me in color,
the sun set earlier then.
58
59

Act 1
your mother is dying of cancer
Madi McGrir
setting: a white hospital room
a twin bed placed in the middle of the room,
your mother lies, watching tv.
a long bench pushed to the right wall,
facing the open door to the Hall of Noise.
your grandparents sit there softly weeping.
enter: BIRD THAT HIT THE WINDOW
(introduced by flying in to right hall window)
BIRD THAT HIT THE WINDOW: did you?
enter: you
you think the bird is a robin
you: no
BIRD THAT HIT THE WINDOW: i heardyou:
only speak when spoken to
if you don't talk,, you might become mute
and if you’re silent, you won't be spoken to
leave me alone, i can’t stand your squawking
BIRD THAT HIT THE WINDOW: you don’t even know what this
means yet, do you?
Act 2
your mother is in the bathroom (offstage)
the weeping has stopped from your grandparents,
Exit.
you don’t know where they are.
you lie on the long bench on your side, facing the Hall of Noise.
enter: BIRD WITH BROKEN WING
(through door between white room and Hall of Noise)
you: leave me alone
BIRD WITH BROKEN WING:
you turn away to face the wall, your back facing the Hall of Noise
you: did you?
BIRD WITH BROKEN WING: i’m sorry
you: you are causing a scene
BIRD WITH BROKEN WING: i don’t like to lie
you: i will give you my teeth if you leave
BIRD WITH BROKEN WING: what good is teeth without a
tongue
you: you can show your teeth instead of speaking,
it helps
people like teeth
they just want teeth, trust me,
they’ll hate your call
Act 3
setting in a cabin on a campground
a trundle bed pushed to the side of the right wall,
you lie, pretending to be sleeping
your father is there, at the kitchen table
drunkenly calling you a liar
you wish he was sleeping
enter: EVERYONE
(introduced after april 2019, you haven’t seen them for months
maybe years)
60
61

you originally thought EVERYONE would hate the BIRD the same
way you do but as it turns out EVERYONE really likes the BIRD
and EVERYONE keeps telling you the BIRD is a robin like
literally everyday EVERYONE is pointing at the BIRD saying
it’s a robin and you’re starting to think you never thought it was
a robin purely because of the principle, i mean how would these
people even know what a robin is, you’re the one who audited a
bird watching class in college after you met the BIRD where you
saw robins every week at like six a.m. and heard their call a million
times, it’s burned into your brain and trust me, you know the
BIRD is much more annoying than a robin which is pretty hard to
do, robins calls areloud and everywhere and obnoxious like why
do people call them a songbird there’s no rhythm or harmony just
squawks you can’t forget even if you tried and you know from the
wikipedia (that you searched up to see why they’re even called
songbirds because that literally has to be mistake right) that robins
are apart of the thrush genus of birds and like does EVERYONE
even know what thrush is outside of the bird genus like thrush in
medical terms is literally a yeast infection in your mouth which is
disgusting like what pervert would name a bird genus after that
but to be fair to EVERYONE you only know what thrush is because
your mother had it as a side effect of chemotherapy and how would
EVERYONE know that they haven’t seen your mother in months
maybe years but anyway back to what i was saying EVERYONE
points them out everytime to the extent where you’d rather just
slam your head against the wall than hear another fucking robin’s
call again, i mean you don’t even like birds whoever said you did
obviously doesn’t know you but it’s easier to just accept EVERY-
ONE is going to point out the BIRD is a robin until the day the
slamming of your head against the wall kills you because they need
the BIRD to be a robin more than you need to be okay and it’s not
like you can really change EVERYONE’s mind and EVERYONE
can’t even imagine the immense pain you’re in and they have no
idea what to even say to you and EVERYONE’s grieving too like
it’s such a senselessly horrible thing that just happens right and
like you and EVERYONE are just expected to move on even though
you and EVERYONE knows she didn’t deserve that much suffering
and to be honest like you don’t even know what you want EVERY-
ONE to say to you like you’re a different person completely now
like you’re actually traumatized and EVERYONE can tell but no
one wants to bring it up and nobody knows how to act around you
because you’re literally so fucking sad you can’t even cry thats how
sad you are no one talks about it but you know theres a kind of depression
that’s so deep you don’t even realize you’re sad anymore
you just think you’ll be like that forever and that’s how you know
anything EVERYBODY could say wouldn’t change what happened
or how you’re feeling so just accept it you why are you even complaining
i mean robins aren’t even that bad they are just a bird
you’re being so overdramatic it’s just the BIRD EVERYONE likes
birds why dont you just say the BIRD is a robin just say anything,
anything at all why aren’t you speaking you haven’t reached out to
EVERYONE in months maybe years and EVERYONE’s worried,
like literally EVERYONE is worried about you, they’ve heard you
started drinking and that’s so not like you like actually not like you
at all that’s your father not you and EVERYONE’s already gone
through enough pain with that so just say anything say fucking
anything to EVERYONE they mean well i promise they do please
say something look the BIRD is coming just say the BIRD is a robin
that’s so simple just say it, speak for fucksake
you:
you:
you:
EVERYONE: look! a robin!
you weep
EVERYONE stands there, they haven’t seen you cry before. you
know they think you’re crying for a different reason than why
you’re actually crying and you’re seething with rage and want to
yell but you can’t stop fucking crying.
BIRD WITH TEETH: it’s okay, i won’t tell.
the BIRD smiles
62
63

Remembrance of the June Bugs
Jackie Michaud
but a fair warning of the swarm coming.
Little girl discovers there is no moving away from
the June bugs:
only divine timing, and brave swatting,
and running to your car.
I stand on tip toes, flexing with unease:
up, down, up, down,
waiting for the divine timing, chosen by me,
to open the side door out.
In a fuzzy wash of tan and pink,
little girl regrets going out on the porch,
the home-stained wood, already occupied
by the swarm of June bugs whizzing by.
As a sprint to the car is a bit embarrassing,
(The neighbors’ opinions are priority)
I decide to walk-run, soft-jog, holding
my breath to prevent a lung-full
of pinchers and squirmy legs.
Emerald smack in the middle of her forehead,
little girl cries and runs,
flies and lungs,
creepy crawlies everywhere.
She walked too close to the garden.
The new June bug is the new Brood bug,
a new moon pet, a new noon threat.
Blind as a mole and loud in my neck,
The new creepy crawlies
are the Brood X: bug checks,
bed checks, and bug sex.
It’s almost time for the June bugs!
Almost a threat from her mother,
64
65

grief
Lucia Morello
I. you are the grief i am asking to stay.
you with your skin made for teething, your sleeping eyes
sprawled across the bed, violet hair mussed. i know that there is
a dark inside you that pauses too long at every mirror, stands on
stopped trains, fizzes in your blood and smashes every soft
thing. i know that i will never be enough to bring the light back
to you. i know i will have to ask you to not curl up at the foot of
the bed, to lay by my side. i know that there is something distant
in those sleeping eyes, those love-crumbs-that-turn-so-quick,
and i will give up a lifetime to hold one in each hand, to run
each finger down your spine, to crush your bottom lip and draw
blood.
wear each part of myself down as i always have. there is a weight
to me that is sometimes good and sometimes bad and makes me
sit you down and talk relentlessly, walk you through a grey-skied
trauma and point out each water tower, each spot where i had been
kissed or killed respectively. i know that i have left things before
and i will leave things again whether they are good or bad things
and you are a good thing i do not want to leave. you are a light
that shines through me and every falling leaf and every pink or
purple sunrise and the blood that runs through me and out of me,
dropping onto the tile floor. i am asking myself to stay. i am asking
myself not to give up like i always do. i am asking myself to curl up
next to you and let everything be. i say please.
II.
the grief i am asking to stay is a separate entity.
each night as i look at the grey of you i pray, hands clasped, that
grief in their dark cloak will curl up at our feet. i say please. i
say here. i say under her flags, by the ivy, if you don’t mind,
please, i won’t kick, i promise, i can’t say the same for her. and i
imagine them as they enter the room, closing the door a little too
loud, wiping the blood off their face still, and lay down across
the sunflowered room, like a loyal dog that stays there until the
blue morning takes you in its arms. i say please. i say please.
III.
i am the grief i am asking to stay.
i know i am fickle and dark inside, and i have thrown away every
candle, every sun, every cow i have known to feel your ribs
against mine. i will take every suffering to be held in your eyes.
but i am my own dark, and i turn off my own lights, and i will
66
67

York Street Market Pepperoni
Cheese & Crackers
Meredith Perkins
"fight fire with fire"
Savannah Perry
you tease me with your transparent veneer
and i become your willing prisoner,
held captive by the fantasy of what i cannot yet
have you are beyond the moon and stars;
an angel so pure you make the gods repent
when you sneak into my daydreams
i am insatiably yours;
let me unravel you
let me devour you
let me taste your sacred blood
and worship you with my teeth
i want to watch you crumble against my lips
and disappear so delicately into the depths of my
labyrinth i do not understand why i must destroy the
things i love but you are my favorite fatality
no one noticed
the blazing battle against obedience
ignited in eight year old bones,
a grandma who loves me very much
bought me this shirt in Florida
ripped off a skinny frame and
thrown, burned in the fire
started in your backyard
years later, the smell of cooking
hair wafted into your kitchen,
a pre-teen could not stop
placing the steaming hot straightener
to already crispy ends
too bad, too burnt, two years
later a head bounced with
artificial curls, curls carefully
crafted by a red-scarred hand, a boy
said hair looked better that way
did you ever notice
my secondhand, disregarded
resistance; girls (women) tell me,
to “fight fire with fire”
but what do they expect when
you’ve grown with a bucket
in all
the places
slowly emptying
that
burn
68
69

Archive
Eleanor Prytherch
do not begrudge yourself the heartshaped blue rock
to you doesn’t recognize you from the dating app
up ballet when you were little worry about the ache
fun of yourself when you start doing yoga but
Watch your roommate eat a cosmic brownie sleep
of fresh fruit get out of the habit of journaling even
muddy on a hike with a girl it’s still on there listen
wonder if you were abused don’t forget to water
be ok
from the hippie shop hope the girl selling it
made just for lesbians wish you hadn’t given
in your wrists when you knit too fast make
understand why girls like it in this cruel world
on the top bunk again long for just one piece
though you want to keep it up get your shoes
to podcasts on the walk to the library and
your plants for a few weeks even though they’ll
70
71

Garden
Eleanor Prytherch
Metamorph
Eleanor Prytherch
I can’t say I’m a child in this body any more
I have lengthened in age towards eyes that have made it out
and you have not
you wore the walls of my chest raw against each other while I smiled
and wrote you poems that died unopened on your floor
I make things with my hands and open myself and I am so so gentle now
I hold my rage close watching you
spit and leak the greasy stuff on our quiet friends like it is your birthright
to leave rubble and I am Herculaneum
already thoroughly sooted at the base of you
72
73

Selected Records on Dr. Isidore
Baruch Columba de Cruz
Caleb Ritzheimer
Isidore Baruch Columba de Cruz was born on 8 April
1967 in Puerto Rico. Growing up as the only son of the wealthy
and influential Columba family of Vieques, Columba graduated
from Yale University at the age of eighteen and obtained his
doctorate in biological archaeology at the age of twenty-two.
Columba’s fame derives from his discovery of the ancient
“Antillean Civilization” during an excavation at the Bahamas’
Crooked Island on 22 September 1988. Within the island’s
Praying Hands Cave was entombed a human mummy roughly
10,000 years in age; it was found in close association with a
number of atypical technologic artifacts.The discovery of these
relics, in concord with contemporary reports of similar relics
unearthed in the circum-Caribbean region, southwest Atlantic,
and Gulf of Mexico shoreline, confirmed the existence of the
indigenousAntillean Civilization as proclaimed by PLEROMA.
Upon the realization of the gravity of this discovery,
Columba was appointed to the experimental hurricane
research organization Outflow, a group financially supported
by PLEROMA, as its chief archaeologist and expert on
Antillean Civilization matters. He began work with Outflow
as its Scientist-in-Residence on 30 August 1992 and worked
closely with Outflow bioengineers including Dr. Victor Maria
das Chagas Guerreiro, his personal disciple who is presently
Outflow’s Vice-Commander.
Columba passed away in unclear circumstances on the
“Roatan Expedition” of 24 October 1998. His intact remains
were found in the inner sanctum of an Antillean ruin near one
artificial entity of Antillean creation, as well as one semi-organic
mechanical structure also of Antillean origin.
What follows is a compilation of remaining personal
records or relevant scientific texts authored by Dr. Isidore
Baruch Columba de Cruz, his relatives, or his colleagues.
Most such records faced suppression or destruction on the
direct order of PLEROMA in the years immediately following
Columba’s death.
Journal Entry of Rafael Ezequiel Columba Cortes- 5
December 1972
The Martyr is making his yearly visit tomorrow. I found
it inconsiderate that he deigned to visit on Saint Nicholas’ Day,
but one cannot negotiate with the Martyr once he has taken
interest in one’s affairs.
But he had sent me a letter, which arrived on 3 December;
the Penitent had given him a stern talking-to not long ago and as
such he had to keep his visit short. I feel as if that will be
somewhat of a mercy for little Isidore. Our son became so
excited on the previous two visits, when he had heard that the
Martyr was coming and was going to tell him more stories
of our ancestors. But invariably the poor boy would suffer
crippling nightmares for weeks after.
Isidore has been talking my ear off all day, wanting to
hear the Martyr’s stories and promises for his future. That robed
man has prophesied so many wonderful things for my son. It
is a father’s urge to be proud and hopeful, but Esperanza and I
have our concerns. And not just
because of our son’s inevitably impending terror.
I have so much faith in his abilities, the faith that only a
young father can possess, but nonetheless I fear for the pressure
we are subjecting him to. Were Esperanza and I wrong for
this? Sometimes my mind outpaces me. We chose to submit
ourselves to the Martyr and to PLEROMA, but do we have the
right to make that choice for Isidore?
My son is so gifted. If anyone could expose the glory and
works of our ancient ancestors to the world, it would be him.
Yet I fear that I have irreversibly erred already in
preparing him for his role. What kind of father forces a fouryear-old
child to learn to ride a horse, forcing him to fall off
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over and over until he begs me and Esperanza to desist?
It is my most solemn prayer that the Martyr is sincere in
his words to me, and that his wishes do not align with those of
the Penitent.
Fragmentary Journal Entry of Isidore Columba- 1993
Father has passed away. I will discuss my grief another
time and in another entry in this book. As I attended the funeral
yesterday, old thoughts from my childhood struck me [...]
The robed man and my parents encouraged me to pursue
archaeology. They had said it was in order to prove true these
tales of our ancestors, and that I was destined to bring salvation
to [...]
Yet here I stand in service of Outflow.
They majority of these people are convinced that my talk
of “Saints” is mere madness or taking ancient familial legends
at face value. They do not know that the blood of the Antilleans
has run in the veins of the Columba family for centuries through
the proud women who mothered us, those who have resided in
these islands since time immemorial.
But I am inclined to believe Mills and Creed-Hoover
know that I speak the truth; those two have been assets of
PLEROMA, too, since time immemorial [...]
When Father spoke to me on his deathbed, before he no
longer could, he begged me to stop “The Penitent,” no matter
what had to be done [...]
Report on Antillean Humanoid Entity Spotted Over Gulf of
Mexico- 4 October 1995
4 October 1995- Hurricane Opal Reconnaissance Findings
Hurricane Opal, a powerful Category 4 hurricane with
winds of 150 miles per hour, formed over the Bay of Campeche
on 27 September and assumed unusual satellite characteristics
the following day as detected by Outflow. An aerial expedition
into the hurricane was ordered on 1 October, to commence at
the time of Opal’s projected peak intensity on 4 October.
Penetrance into the eye of the storm by two Outflow
aircraft revealed the presence of a humanoid entity seven feet
in height levitating in the eye. Through analysis of pressure
differentials, it was possible to discern that the entity was
driving the hurricane’s movement.
Attempted contact with the entity resulted in the complete
loss of one aircraft and all personnel on board. Entity made
proclamations of “punishment” for “human sin squandering
(its) home” and made attempts at attacking the remaining craft.
Entity targeted with ballistic missile; entity revealed a set of
spiraled jaws and manifested an electromagnetic barrier to
deflect the missile. Entity, however, was forced to descend due
to resulting pressure anomalies. Outflow craft was forced to flee
to avoid destruction.
Entity bore heavy jadeite armor inscribed with motifs
consistent with those from the Antillean Civilization; it carried
seven large spears of a similar form to those of the Antillean
Civilization. Everything leads us to believe that this entity,
tentatively designated the “Helicoprion Saint” due to its
physical resemblance to the ancient spiral-jawed shark, is of
Antillean creation.
Could more such entities exist? Could they have the same
abilities?
Fragmentary Report on Antillean Pneumatic Transfer
Relic- 10 March 1997
10 March 1997- An Antillean Pneumatic Relic, Unearthed from
Praying Hands Cave
The remainder of the artifacts from Dr. Isidore Columba’s
1988 excavation at Praying
Hands Cave, Crooked Island have been released from
containment [...]
Object CI-00P is informally designated the “Antillean
Glider” due to its Antillean origin as well as a passage found
inscribed on a nearby jade tablet excavated at the same site,
referring to a “glider” whose description matched CI-00P.
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Object CI-00P is a tripod two meters in height; it
is topped by a harpoon-like object 1 meter in length. It is
composed of an unknown solid material bearing the closest
resemblance to vitrified jadeite [...]
Object CI-00P operates by latching into a solid surface by
the feet of its tripod and ejecting its harpoon into a target. No
source of power or movement is detectable for this motion
to occur. Harpoon tip is optimized for contact with human solar
plexus [...]
An incision was made into Object CI-00P to investigate
its internal contents. Internal contents of CI-00P revealed an
intricate network of branching “veins” composed of a fine,
down-like thread. Similar “veins” were found in extremely high
concentrations in the head of the harpoon structure, taking the
form of microscopic barbs.
This “thread” is biologically consistent with materials
designated as Hunter’s Cords, which have the capability to
contain human souls indefinitely [...]
It is believed that Object CI-00P may have the capacity to
move souls between sentient entities [...]
Update on Anomalous Antillean Humanoid Entity Group-
20 August 1997
20 August 1997- Critical Update on “Saint” Entities, Part One
Outflow’s aerial scouting expeditions into tropical
cyclones have returned disquieting, albeit expected information
regarding the “Saint” entities. Eight such entities exit and
regularly engage in active internal control of tropical cyclones
in the West Atlantic basin.
Observations of Saints, as well as attempted combat
against them, have led us to conclude that they possess
exceptional abilities of cellular regeneration. Few injuries, even
direct hits by ballistic missiles, are able to inflict wounds lasting
more than 120 seconds at most.
Saints have also been observed to possess the following
abilities: wind control, lightning control, air pressure control,
remotely triggering waterspouts, and flight. Some also are able
to deploy force-fields which they refer to as “overcasts.” It is
believed that such “overcasts” derive from a projection of the
Saint’s resident soul.
Three Saints will be discussed in this entry; these were
the first three encountered by Outflow.
“Helicoprion Saint”- This powerful and physically
imposing Saint was the first to encountered by Outflow. Its
appearance is akin to that of the spiral-jawed shark Helicoprion.
The Helicoprion Saint possesses nigh-impenetrable jadeite
armor, exceptional aptitude in throwing spears, exceptional
speed and strength, and sophisticated control of air pressure.
The other Saints seem to respect it as their leader.
“Progenitor Saint-” This brutally violent Saint is of
the highest interest to Outflow. Its abilities as compared to
its brethren are unexceptional, but it possesses an incredible
capacity for regeneration and cellular differentiation.
“Crinoid Saint-” This Saint bearing the motif of the sea
lily is only ever seen in the close company of the Helicoprion
Saint. Notable for its extremely long arms and rictus grin, it
has also been known to speak of Antillean esoterica and history
closely matching that of recovered records and knowledge
bestowed upon Outflow by its benefactors.
Letter of Dr. Isidore Columba to Dr. Victor Guerreiro- 1
October 1998
Dear Victor,
I hope this letter finds you well, my friend. I hope you are
enjoying your vacation to Cape Breton; someday you will have
to take Danielle there! I know she loves fishing and hunting as
much as you do; I have also seen the way you two look at each
other while you are supposed to be working!
But more serious matters must be discussed, Victor. I
have some concerns which I would like to confide in you before
it is too late for me to do so.
The Roatan Expedition, despite my continuous protests,
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is scheduled for 24 October. We will be flying to Roatan and
entering the Antillean temple there in an attempt, ostensibly, to
establish contact with the Saints. We are reasonably certain that
at least three or four of their ilk reside there.
Truthfully, and I am unsure whether you know this either,
the intent of this expedition is to kill at least one Saint, ideally
the Progenitor Saint, and take it into our custody for our
experiments and the development of new technology. Can you
think of anything more disgusting, Victor?
The Captain and Commander are enraptured at these
thoughts and what this boon will bring. Damn them all to hell;
damn them for the way that they submit themselves to fate.
As much as I despise the hurricanes that the Saints
bring and the suffering that results, one cannot argue with ten
thousand years of grief for a lost home. Who are we to force our
wishes on them by barging in, like a conquistador claiming
another people’s ancestral land as his own? Who are we to think
that we can kill these poor deluded innocents, if we are simply
human beings? We could never dream of achieving godhood as
they have.
I know that you share my heart, Victor. You too appreciate
the beauty of this world, despite the unflappable smog of sin
over everything.
I cannot allow this expedition to proceed smoothly. I know
that you are intended to come along too, and you must also not
allow it to proceed. They are likely to obtain at least one Saint; I
pray that, if they must do so, they will simply take it with them
and not kill it. God forbid that they take the Progenitor.
If they persist in their foul schemes and do not desist in
plotting to take the Progenitor, I will have no choice but to enact
the protocol that I have entrusted in you, and you must take my
place at Outflow as I have taught you.
Plan to have the Antillean Glider brought along. Do not
disappoint me in seeing these instructions through to the very
end.
Your friend,
Isidore Baruch Columba de Cruz
1998 Roatan Expedition Logbook - Night of 24 October
1998 (Fragmentary)
04:05 CST: Antillean temple compound breached by
Commander Tanya Creed-Hoover, Lieutenant Commander
Bret Greene, Lieutenant Glenmore Stevenson, and Dr. Victor
Guerreiro.
04:07 CST: Progenitor and Helicoprion Saints encountered in
temple antechamber.
04:08 CST: Lieutenant Commander Greene killed. Powered
armor useless. Cellular matter assimilated by Progenitor Saint.
04:10 CST: Useless.
04:11 CST: Useless.
04:12 CST: Useless.
04:13 CST: Commander Creed-Hoover killed by Progenitor
Saint. Powered armor useless. Everything useless. Cellular
matter liquefied and redactedredactedredactedredacted
[...]
04:25 CST: Progenitor Saint subdued by Dr. Guerreiro.
04:26 CST: Helicoprion Saint departs into temple catacombs.
04:30 CST: Progenitor Saint confined in intrusion sarcophagus.
[...]
04:45 CST: Temple sanctum breached by Dr. Guerreiro and
Lieutenant Stevenson.
04:46 CST: Remains of Dr. Isidore Columba found prone on
floor. Remains were redactedredacte and redactedredacted
completely intact redacted
04:47 CST: Crinoid Saint’s remains, completely intact, noted as
lying next to those of Dr. Columba below the “Antillean Glider”
mechanism. Saint is completely inert.
04:50 CST: Crinoid Saint has stood up and resumed signs of
life.
04:51 CST: Crinoid Saint has walked to antechamber to view
the remains of Creed-Hoover and Greene.
04:52 CST: Crinoid Saint returns to temple sanctum.
04:53 CST: Crinoid Saint displays unidentifiable emotions.
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Crinoid Saint speaks of “fate” and “cowardice” and “the elect.”
04:55 CST: Crinoid Saint stares directly at Dr. Guerreiro and
departs into temple catacombs.
[...]
Note Found in 2003 in Dr. Columba’s Former Study at
Outflow HQ- Written in Mid-1998
My parents had odd priorities. I remember when I was
four years old. Father wanted me to learn to ride a horse.
Father said it was necessary that the scion of the new
world know how to ride a horse.
I was familiar with them; from the wild mustangs whose
hooves shook the earth of our island. Their freedom entranced
me. Nobody constrained their movement.
I fell off many times, but I eventually did learn to ride a
horse, to bend it and break it to my will. But I hated it; I felt as
if I was violating a sacred freedom.
I still remember that man who wore a robe. He would
visit our estate once a year, and my parents spoke to him as if he
was an old friend.
That terrifying man talked to me like a grandson and
listened to my inane ramblings. In return, he told me tales
of a beautiful world since lost to time and human sin. In my
fascination, I made the pursuit and discovery of this world into
my calling.
My parents and the robed man confided something in me.
I was fated to discover this bygone world and, in doing so, I
would bring salvation.
I willingly donned those bridles which they presented to
me in pursuit of a legacy. I chose this fate. The Crinoid Saint
laid down his life for me because I forced him to.
I constructed this tomb in which I must languish with my
own two hands, and the third day will never come; nobody is
coming to roll away the boulder for me.
I now know things that no man was meant to know, but
this is my penance for forsaking my humanity.
driving as the sky spills into your
eyes
Sydney Scepkowski
sunset casts blindness
bled bright over interstate
squint on, westward bound!
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MOTHER NATURE
Ava Shaffer
my mom creates beautiful things
it is winter and she wraps garland around our mantle. next to the
photos of our graduation and grandparents. there’s a painting I
did in fourth grade, and she’s placing that by the photos, front
and center. every Christmas morning since I was born, she gives
me an ornament to symbolize my year. a typewriter, the Eiffel
tower, a Volkswagon beetle. when I grow up I will only buy sturdy
pines, to make sure the branches of my future tree are strong
enough to hold all the memories of my childhood.
it is December and she hangs enough lights to make me
forget that the sun has gone down hours before.
snowy white winters to get to their orange
carpet summers.
it is fall and she is placing pumpkins on the front porch. she spends
hours in the local pumpkin patch because she knows the importance
of patience. she lets me be messy, guts and seeds spreading
across our wooden kitchen table. she never thinks about her
design while carving, just dives in head first and somehow creates
magic.
it is October and Halloween is approaching but my mother
is not afraid of anything. because she believes in color
theory and the rule of threes. because she changes spaces
with the fall of the leaves. because she finds beauty in the
minuscule and mundane. because she makes creations wherever
she goes, and I am grateful to be one of them.
it is spring and she has the cardboard boxes out because it is time
to clean. she teaches me that there’s beauty in clutter, that maximalism
is an expression of the creative. but she also teaches me
the quiet resilience in a fresh space and a new mindset. she paints
bookshelves and tears up carpet and changes entire rooms with
the blink of an eye.
it is May and I never understood how childbirth could be
beautiful but when my twin and I are driving down our
country roads with smiles on our faces and the trees are
blooming again, I kind of get it.
it is summer and she surprises me with a vase of sunflowers in
my room. she cleans off the back porch and sweeps away the
dust. she transforms a barren grey space into something inviting,
somewhere that people like to be with people.
it is August and she is putting a bright orange carpet on
the back porch, a reminder that people are like rooms
and rooms are like seasons and they go through their
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85

Gospel Truth
Ryan Turrieta
Homesick Hokku
Ryan Turrieta
From North to South—
Africa rebuilt America: after
The natives lost; brick by brick,
Blood-drop by blood-drop.
When did freedom become
A reason to hate; what about
Speech, means silencing
The right to disagree?
How are we supposed to live,
I mean truly live, if you never
Realize or acknowledge that
Human means me?
I am the topsoil you march on.
I am a combination of mingled kingdoms.
I am the bark from every lynching tree.
Why must I convince you, anything?
I
California,
Progressive and nurturing:
My soul flows deep there.
II
When I left my soul
In her meadows of heaven,
Autumn was in pain.
III
I wish I had time;
Realizing time is fragile:
Not now, back then—
IV
Knowing nothing hurts.
Everyone around you breathes
What you feel again.
V
The flowers are dead,
Next, to the songbird’s quiet—
Shared soliloquy.
VI
A rose clipped its wings
In beautiful suicide—
Aglow, crimson light.
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VII
Did you say something?
I felt you before we met;
Gone, as fast as this.
VIII
The moonlight drew you
Dreaming of an orange sky—
Nothing fixes goodbye.
IX
Right now, I beseech:
Speak to me through kisses—I
Need your tongue to breathe.
X
Doubt no more my love.
You are the poetry of life:
California.
The Dreadful Word That
Continues To Fall
Ryan Turrieta
And before I’ll be a slave
I’ll be buried in my grave
—Robert Hayden, Runagate Runagate (1962)
They lynched my mother
because I aks her to be born.
When I think on what they did,
I be curious—How can a country so “free”
encapsulate such ruthless humansavagery,
the way that they did?
When I be remembering
the muffled whimpers seeping
from the choking heart of my mom,
I remember I trembled, chilled full
with fear, as each instant drew closer
and I knew that she knew, I would never be born.
I remember just before I was never born,
I aks my mom to be born, because I
wanted to read the whole wide world; I wanted
to meet my father. Now, having met neither,
I still wonder, after my mother was dragged through
countable centuries, dragged far away from family,
How can this country ever hope to overcome itself, and,
Will I be alive when it finally do?
I wish these words could make
my parent’s dream-child live.
I wish you would stop and think
about history, because it is real as you.
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BIPOC History is American History; the two are
never separate and inform each existence. Jimmy
Baldwin said: “I love America more than any other
country in the world, and, exactly for this reason,
I insist on the right to criticize her perpetually.”
Turn off the news and read. Read. Read. Read.
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92
ART

Tooth Fairy
Coming Out
Elizabeth Cool Leitzell
digital art
linocut - linolium, ink
Romie Crist
94
95

Home
Kayla Dooley
relief print- ink on paper
stoneware, watercolor,
acrylic, dried flowers, moss, sand
Reclaim
Kayla Dooley
96
97

Reclaim
Reclaim
98
99

I Tried Mother I Tried
Mason Eagle
oil on canvas
These Paintings Seem to be Meaningless
oil on canvas
Mason Eagle
100
101

102
103

linocut - linolium, ink
Food For Thought
Mel Hale
104
105

Angel Crunch
Shea Hardy
acrylic paint
acrylic paint
Can't Get You Out of My Head
Shea Hardy
106
107

Like Candy
Smoulder
Shea Hardy
acrylic paint
acrylic paint
Shea Hardy
108
109

Hysteria
In A Week
Deanna Hay
colored pencil
oil and charcoal
Deanna Hay
110
111

112
113

When You Showed Your Tongue It Was
Forked In Two
Deanna Hay
acrylic, gold leaf, pressed
flowers, snake skin, detergent
acrylic paint and marker on
wood canvas
Growing to Love Myself
Delaney Kirby
114
115

Newfound Friend
alcohol markers, collaged
paper, ink pen, recycled stamos
Delaney Kirby
colored pencil and gel pen
Trans Magic
Delaney Kirby
116
117

Lake McDonald
Josette Kochendorfer
digital photography
oil paint and charcoal on
canvas, thread, fishing line
By a Thread
Hannah Martin
118
119

120
121

fever daydream
Cotton Candy Kite
Hannah Martin
digital art
photography
Camryn McClelland
122
123

Under the Moon
Camryn McClelland
digital photography
color reduction
woodprint
Chatter
Maggie McLaughlin
124
125

Rainfall
A Charming Lie
Maggie McLaughlin
black and white monotype
charcoal and pastel
Rheia Newman
126
127

Beautiful
Tension
Rheia Newman
oil on canvas
oil on canvas
Rheia Newman
128
129

Down to the Edge
Mary Visco
oil on canvas
130
131

It Seeks to Hold
It Seeks to Join
Mary Visco
woodblock print
woodblock print
Mary Visco
132
133

web:
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further encounters at
inklingsartsandletters.com
@inklingsartsandletters
@inklingsartsandletters
@INKLINGSmuohio
felicitous thanks to
C a t h y W a g n e r
C O S M O S

cover art:
"Beautiful" by Rheia Newman