Fall 2021 Inklings

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Volume 25 Issue 1

INKLINGS ARTS & LETTERS

S T A F F
Elizabeth Brueggemann
Rhonda Krehbiel
Cosette Gunter
Cassiani Avouris
Romie Crist
Annah Hahn
Chelsea Hoy
Eleanor Prytherch
Sophia Balsamo
Casey Bergman
Jonathan 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
Editorial Staff

Hello again dearest readers,
Welcome to Inklings Arts & Letters;
we’re so glad that you’ve found your
way to our pages. Sit down and rest
a minute; this issue is a cozy one.
We’ve just turned on the heat and it
hisses through the walls. There’s a
cat purring nearby, or is it a laptop
fan? The night turns into a.m., but
there’s still work to be done. Join two
bleary-eyed editors and take a break
with Volume 25, Issue 1.
This semester our contributors
commiserated with the past,
collected themselves, and a few
even fell in love. If anything, this issue
gives a compassionate voice to past
and present selves alike. Dear reader,
extend yourself the same grace.
But beware! These pieces also
introduced us to a menacing cast
of characters: a disagreeable Big
Toe, a bloodthirsty goose, and the
world’s scariest tooth fairy. Step
carefully, and always survey your
surroundings.
Such an issue would not have been
possible without the boundless
imagination and vibrancy of our
contributors. In every season, their
creations—even the spookiest—
glow with sincerity and warmth. We
count ourselves lucky to be in their
company, and extend our gracious
thanks to each of these cherished
contributors.

We hope the fall issue provides
you, dear reader, with a moment of
calm before a well-earned winter
hibernation. Allow yourself to be still
with this most recent issue, and take
whatever kind of rest you need.
Signing off for the evening,
Elizabeth Brueggemann
& 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

contents

Cassiani Avouris
Lucy Bierman
Mike J. Baker
Anon
Ryan Frittinger
Anna Boyer
Elizabeth Brueggemann
Jonathan Campbell
Evan Gates
Kit Gladieux
Paige Harris
Deanna Hay
15
17
18
20
22
27
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
38
letters
applecake catharsis
Hey Birds, we have a Little Problem
with kill-able flies, if you can't already
tell
i knew why i came here but when i
looked my planner was empty; or,
looking around outside the library
Psalm 87 Neurodivergence
Exulansis
How the Summer Dies
coming home, home coming
hold on (me)
Uncooperative
at mass with mother earth
i ain't know how i talk (Did I Ever?)
you stole my sense of art (and i think i
love it)
on sex and strawberries
Trapped
Au Aubade

Gabby Hoggatt
Chelsea Hoy
Sophie Malloy
I. O. Scheffer
Eleanor Prytherch
Shelby Rice
Sydney Scepkowski
Ava Shaffer
Anne Whitfield
42
43
46
56
57
58
59
60
62
64
66
69
71
letters
banyaga
Hand Over Hand (after Kaveh Akbar)
Executioner Goose
The unfortunate state of childhood
pantoums
Playground Isolation
a list of things, now and then
driving playlist
(night shift)
ELEGY FOR THE FIVE YEAR OLD
WHO DIDN'T KNOW HOW TO SMILE
THE SWORD IN THE BONE
Wigilia
in the afterlife
Sargasso

Lauren Bielawski
Olivia De Leon
Shea Hardy
Deanna Hay
Gabby Hoggatt
M.Bea Hosenfeld
Hannah Martin
Grace McGann
73
74
75
76
77
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
94
95
96
art
Luna Moth
Rabbit in the Moon
Outta Here
Socially Unjust
The Inquiring Mind
Big Toe's Dissent
BLEGH!
Tooth Fairy
Forget Me Not
Morning in the Marietta
Sunrise in bed
Gentleman and Scholar
Old Eden
What's Left of the Childhood Carcass
can't stop the flow
Chrysalis (Triptych)
Collecting Myself
the cycle continues
Serendipity

Maggie McLaughlin
Ava Shaffer
Katrina Shafor
97
98
99
100
art
Happy Place
They Say I Have My Father's Eyes
Activation
When She Sees Me...

LETTERS

applecake catharsis
Cassiani Avouris
bringing apple peels to the edge of the woods, washed of wax—
autumn then old rain soaked quick through muddy socks
little me toddled down the hill where years’ worth of leaves bleached grass
straw color underfoot
kroger bag caught little slices in folds
fingercold humidity glue
round from curvature-small apple clinging to plastic; pile-on-ground, hold
my last peel
inside
red numb toes kicked socks thrown to laundry room
under west facing window peeling paint portal to deer haunts (re: dear to
us)
mother doe eyes a find a day later
goes a long way
fall dreary enough say a little apple
damp footprints lead back to kitchen, Mom saved surprise peel thick with
apple
good white cloth in hand
oven
sprawled on kitchen chair watching opposite
tomorrow square slices paper towel-wrapped, too early for a kindergartener
to know
cake from apple
breakfast in car
bring transitive shift//call mother//through the phone tells me:
honeycrisps and cinnamon sticks
hands
her kitchen’s ghostwarmth on my
melted sugar bonds clove and flour and browned wedges from the pan still
a little crunch
15
1

yellow lightbulbs are sepia-touched rising church loafs and burnt banana
bread
help imagine october cat hand towel (thrifted-new) folds into familiar
threadbare linen
homemade comfort in a nine by thirteen
treeline
sweater-ready, walking to the
16

Hey Birds, we have a Little Problem with
kill-able flies, if you can't already tell
Cassiani Avouris
potted plant pests//curled around//wire grids
miniature bat wannabes
dead in square [frames] of empty space
hung on for dear Life, left behind a stop or two ago
—like pigeonholes for fleas!—
Foreground Exoskeleton Corpses pepper in sunset clouds
(screen slotted)
“needs halloween-rubber skeletons? we have that whole cemetery”
fruit flies, fly dies
little guys, appetize?
Your Short Pecker Beaks
[sparrow flock comes callin’ squallin’]
yellow feathers on the
window wire
>Hungry<
birdfeeder D.I.Y.
Bare scaly clawed feet
Take a little treat ;)
17
1

i knew why i came here but when i looked
my planner was empty; or, looking around
outside the library
Cassiani Avouris
Take your seat under praying mantis green, morning young trees
Darkened classrooms turn the saturation of the sky
Painful to the eyes before Es and me three all before the
Cs of mask-revealed noses
blanket of sirens
Security.
Background_ _ _ White Noise
constant near constant crumbling
ear drums fold inside
Miniature kingdom
in the arc of lavender stalks bowed down
or (o’er)
d(r)ead crunch of leaves
Leaf boating is a popular recreational activity
swarms ant herds hordes holding treats of sidewalks
curling
swirling
wriggling
tie threads like maypoles lace patterns in the dirt
the gleam of a tarnished memorial plaque and painted benches
~interrupt*^
18

19
1
vague nature dreams of lacy ants
Ugly RedBrick Str8-And-Narrow Take
Center Stage

Psalm 87 of Neurodivergence
Cassiani Avouris
O lord, god of my salvation, I cry out day and night before you
Return me to pressed carpet stairs scooting down
counting each thud through ache of teeth
stuffed animals lined on twin bed
feel felted souls fortifying voided marble eyes
Show me river valley mountains laying down
become sleeping bears in the backseat car rides
They made me an abomination among themselves
eyes swallow space of sensory distress
set a watch over my lips gated guard protects my words
lonely palms share space between worry stone
echolalia lines of “show forth your praise” show fourth yore days low w-orth
or way s
no a.a.c. helps (mouth shall) hello hi how are you im-fine-howareyou
Quiet Hands allocate like spoons of honey itching oils
They encompassed me like water all-the-day-long
make haste when corner becomes fever dream playroom
Little House maladaptive, Narnia prairies like everlasting mossflower
Intercede on my behalf against allodynia hands clench Mask like shield
20

wrent temples two fists dig forehead shrinking inner spiral
heed the penciled-in voice of my supplication
O lord god of my salvation I spin the roulette of on-going//list
stim from fingerprint ridges swollen knees lancing toe bones headlocked in
place
learn bliss (weight of four tiny paws) sink into thigh
byzantine incense and charcoal on knuckles
O lord god of my autistic, permit this prayer to rise
21

Exulansis (series)
collaborative work
Works:
The flaw of man by Lucy Biermann
Depression Nap (interlude) by Mike J. Baker
Airport Crush by Anon.
Peace of mind by Lucy Biermann
Time passing by Ryan Fritinger
CypherEmoteVoid.exe by Lucy Biermann
Constant Agony by Ryan Fritinger
Retirement by Lucy Biermann
The American Dream by Lucy Biermann
22

The flaw of man:
Thanks for nothing. Thanks for nothing? ThAnKs FoR nOtHiNg.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Depression Nap (interlude)
Woke up in a good mood (satire)
I hope you have a nice day
I’m Fine Im Great Im Ok (derogatory)
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Airport Crush
Met the love of my life in the airport the other day
Sad enough we’ll be going separate ways
I’ve been praying all day for both of our flights to get delayed
Gate 3 is boarding I know I am horny I know she won’t text me or call in
the morning
I didn’t get her number I already love her
Flowers to no address, god I want meaningless sex.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Peace of mind
My house is covered with peanut butter,
Eggs in the sink,
I am depressed.
23

(end)
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Time passing
Dust gathers on the windowsill
Emptiness consumes my lifestyle
Need a way out.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
CypherEmoteVoid.exe
9 import java.util.Scanner; // Import scanner and mismatch exception
10 import java.util.InputMismatchException;
11
12 public class HeadSpace {
13
14 public static void in my heart(Strings[] args) {
15
16 // import emotion to read user input
17 Scanner keyboardReader = new Scanner(System.in);
18 String repeat = "overthink";
19 int row = 0;
20 do {
21 do {
22 try {
23 // checks to make sure that input is a valid excuse
24 System.out.printf("Why am I like this");
25 row = keyboardReader.nextInt();
26 if (row < 1) {
27 throw new IllegalArgumentException();
28 }
29 } catch (InputMismatchException e) {
30 System.out.println("Invalid emotion");
31 row = -15;
32 keyboardReader.next();
33 } catch (IllegalArgumentException e) {
34 System.out.printf(
35 "No result with an input less "
36 + "than or equal to happy");
37 }
24

38 } while (serotonin == 0);
39 // save user activity as null for number of repetitive thought processes
40
41 for (int i = 1; i <= row; i++) {
42 for (int j = 1; j <= row; j++) {
43 if (i % j == 0) {
44 System.out.printf("I’m fine.");
45 } else {
46 System.out.printf("I can't do this anymore.");
47 }
48 }
49 // enter after each row
50 System.out.printf("\n");
51 }
52 // ask user if they want to repeat
53 do {
54 System.out.printf("Is it worth it (y/n)? ");
55 repeat = keyboardReader.next();
56 } while ((!repeat.equals("y") && (!repeat.equals("Y"))
57 && (!repeat.equals("n")) && (!repeat.equals("N"))));
58 // repeat if user enters y or Y
59 } while (repeat.equals("y") || repeat.equals("Y"));
60
61 // end
62 System.out.printf("End life\n");
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Constant Agony
Take a selfie
Upload to twitter
BodyDysmorphia.jpeg
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Retirement
I am 21 years old
But,
I am done.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
25

The American Dream:
The //
F itne -ssgr a m pacer = t/est .
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
26

How the Summer Dies
Anna Boyer
The summer dies singularly
Dropping like a dazed doe
Who (enchanted by headlights)
Stepped into the path of a car
Driven by a nice couple
On a country lane
At night.
The girl says “can’t we help it?”
Lifts its head to try and
Gift a little comfort
[Its eyes are bright and frantic]
The boy says “i don’t think so.”
Twisting his toe in the gravel
Knowing it is all but gone
[Its eyes begin to go glassy]
She doesn’t realize she’s
Killing it (faster)
Sending the blood to
Pool in the lungs and
suffocate .
He doesn’t know how
It happened (suddenly)
Absent and then present
He wishes he’d have taken that last turn
slower .
27
2

Summer’s end is a m e d l e y :
Plum juice running down your chin
Watermelon rinds in a compost bin
Pearly red smile beneath green skin
Mosquito-bite-red skies
And swollen orb drifting
Dozily to settle on the humid horizon
Title:
Why The Air Shimmers
Summer is flies on a deer carcass
On the side of the road
Headlights growing fainter
f a i n t e r
Blood still warm
(but starting to clot).
Fur is stiff.
Its eyes are dark.
f a i n t e r . . .
[And its eyes?]
28

coming home, home coming
Elizabeth Brueggemann
Bonfire yard, and all the teenage things—car keys, block heel—get lost
tossed to dark-pooled grass in the after-dance cascade
Auburn crown of short thick whorls seats herself at bench’s end,
tunes her deck of telling and speaks in soft cascade
She opens windows in me—barely moves her hands—
plucks a card that knows I never effortless-anything—I do not cascade.
All rush and rim, love comes in like wind—
a show of her backless dress and its flow-black cascade
My seized-up knot, my ball of rope, turns one thin shoelace
and slips through its tie, loose in a longing cascade
We could flow together sometime, I hope, her company
vibrato through the pool of me, and the breezes nighttime cascade
29
2

hold on (me)
Elizabeth Brueggemann
I see your sore, core-through ache
this pinnacle fate, stone-planted as a flag
in me snagged
pluck twinge I cannot shake
our full weight
compress you to stamps, postmarked—
dated—going out
for dinner
sway (in one breath) him him hymn
and the sink—running—sounds familiar rush
you were then
cut-through with music
prone now to
sprout four-times hands,
arc & wheeling, on-fire
lover my odd seraph
still oncoming
I twist a rustless hangnail loose
shallow pinpoint-chasm weft
30

Uncooperative
Jonathan Campbell
31

at mass with mother earth
Evan Gates
glory on high, rise o’er
put my face into the dirt
sing hymns to the worms.
32

i ain't know how i talk (Did I Ever?)
Evan Gates
my granddaddy used to drive us ‘round in the tractor
all muddy-shoed and indecent
i took the four-wheeler and catapulted down country-bama
whoopin’ and hollerin’ to no end
come back for some fried delight n sum bis-kits
if yer real lucky, might even be some pecan pie.
sumthin lost in translation from my folks to up north
think i learn-t what “bittersweet” meant
after the grits got too watery and mah-ahk-cent
was makin’ me look sumthin stupid
put yer vowels in the right places and quit
“fixing” to do this, “pitching” a fit about that
at first i was just pretendin’ to sound like the yanks
but now when i go down south fer a family reuni’n
i sound all high-and-mighty with my fancy
ohio-ass education; “you know that’s a rich kid’s school,
boy, you ain’t sounding how you used to be.”
my friends are thinkin’ we’re just toothless hicks, uncle chris,
hillbillies and rednecks who ain’t got nothing
but good football, good food, and miseducation.
(man, y’all midwesterners be thinkin’ like sumthin else;
need someone to put the love of god in you
and bless yer heart.)
i ain’t even know what i sound like no mo’
feels like i’m always putting on someone else’s ahk-cent
instead of my own
when i was knee-high to a grasshopper,
they said i’d sound a lil thick in the head
when i got grown, though, it only slips out every once in a while,
and when they laugh
i say “ope, my bad, didn’t mean to sound like that.”
33

you stole my sense of art (and i
think i love it)
Evan Gates
i used to write about chicago evenings and campsite burnings
and the fever pitch of teenage rage, the melancholy ring of teenage despair,
but you greedy bastard,
you changed all my poems to love songs.
i can’t paint the side of appalachia or the snowfall of my favorite month
because i want to paint everything i love about you instead,
a sprawling exhibition of colors and moments
that still taste electric, still spark something strong in my vision,
it was a dark and stormy night when my thunder
was stolen by you.
you know what, i can’t even get mad
because you’ve never taken a damn thing for granted
and you’re maybe the least selfish person i know
other than the saints they made me pray to in grade school.
i’m no worshipper but my mind’s got an altar dedicated
to the microscopic details of your face
and i’m not sacrilegious but my love for you feels like a prayer.
(my god, steal some sleep instead!
or something that will do you some good)
and quit swiping at the words i have left for everything else;
how is it that the only thing i want to write about is you?
let me capture the look in your eyes
when we see each other through the shades of distortion
i’ll call you a thief and sit there
like i didn’t hand my heart over to you in the first place.
34

on sex and strawberries
Kit Gladieux
when all you know is
sour blood-orange and
acid breath and
metal in your mouth,
you will not be prepared for the first time
you eat a strawberry off of the vine.
sugary sweet and
gently warmed by the sun and
you can’t help but laugh
as you wipe the lingering juice
from around your stained grin.
35

Trapped
Paige Harris
Within me lives another version of myself.
She occupies my soul and lives through my dreams.
I feel her dancing within me to Prokofiev and Tchaikovsky,
Possessing the grace of a dove.
She occupies my soul and lives through my dreams.
Her movements flow and swell inside me,
Possessing the grace of a dove.
But that is where she ends, and I begin.
Her movements flow and swell inside me,
From my heart to every hair and muscle in my body.
But that is where she ends, and I begin.
That is where I split in two.
From my heart to every hair and muscle in my body.
When I attempt her perfection,
That is where I split in two.
My body rebels
36

When I attempt her perfection,
the Dove like grace disappears
My body rebels
And Turns to that of a hen.
Possessing the grace of a dove,
I feel her dancing within me to Prokofiev and Tchaikovsky,
She occupies my soul and lives through my dreams.
Trapped within me lives another version of myself.
37

An Aubade
Deanna Hay
I saw you
last night
again.
It was so nice
to see your sweet face
I can’t remember
what we did
I think
you smiled
at me,
I know I see you often
did I smile at you?
it’s nothing of my choice.
38

swirling colors
misty limbs
Here I am again.
Washed out
eyes
fading grins
Do you feel that
crimson fire
burning
within blue sapphire?
Mind out of
sync
realm beyond time
need I find a link
lacking the clock’s chime?
Did you hear
the
tik
tok
I think I’m late
39

Did you find another date?
Your ivy green eyes
live
in my
shaken
head
I wonder do they reflect new
sapphire eyes,
in a lucid hue
do they glitter
with hints of gold
on a new prize
or
when you lower your lids
are you met
with ancient reflections
of that stormy blue
that lacks lustre
40

eons after
their beautiful
explosive
death
I hope to see you
again
soon
in a space
with visible outlines
all sense awake
perhaps tomorrow night.
41

banyaga
Gabby Hoggatt
mothertongue return to me
i beg in the foreigner’s infection
touch my tonsils
draw out the gutteral smoke of industry
let me swallow the shores of palawan
speak silver sand dripping from my lips
let me reach out pinewood hands
dried out away from your monsoon sun
and hold just one golden syllable
close to my orphaned chest
42

Hand Over Hand (after Kaveh Akbar)
Gabby Hoggatt
They tell you to be wary of the brown bear
that haunts this ridge soft fur with
the force of a cannon beneath. Me,
I am not one for caution
or rather it
did not occur to me that I wasn’t
Aspens cling to the crags in long
labyrinthian lines of root networks A thousand years ago
the first of their kind braved the same thin air that I
cannot seem to swallow and was
glad of the sunshine that leaves me brainless
White-tailed deer trot lazily
by where I am jealously pulling
myself from the brambles The sun tags in the fireflies
to light my failure slumped into
the side of a pine with my
bootstrings tangled The roots of my teeth
ache but the bear might enjoy the crunch as she’s chewing
me down to the marrow (I’m only borrowing them)
Tolling bells spin the cerulean day into
splintering night streaks of pure
godsblood streaming like foam across coffee Light
out of the void of beginning like so
much gold peeking from the bottom of the crik
silence to speak of
like so much
43

Before the sun bleaches my bones they will have forgotten me
When their messiah swings low
what then?
Silly little skeleton thought they could climb
thought she was
more than
a piece of nothing
There is a hall not far from here where I
spat out my oatmeal and brewed my tea until I could
not taste the leaves
(I have
always poured too much cream)
It will not fit
the cupping of my hands
the industrial-strength sink
Spills into
where a
curry encrusted pot lies in wait
Too much sugar
to serve
Ingredients in towering stacks of cubes
Perhaps that circling bird is for me
come to peck out my
liver
called by the gods to sanctify my body
Perhaps I shall hold my tongue and be burned
(away)
44

JoyJoy (after Camonghne Felix)
Gabby Hoggatt
Cebu welcomes us inside
her greenery and there
comes relief unimaginable, tasting the salty
dried dilis of the market, tin roofs wet
with the first touch of hurricane air.
After the throttling smog of
Manila’s thoroughfare, my
heart breathes deep the kicked-up dust of ancestry
and I miss my cousin, my
other half, but I rejoice that my auntie
is not here to spit on this echoing joy, to peel
back my flesh with her evil eye. A-
fter I quarter a mango
for my brothers, I sit in the yard with
my second cousin’s chickens. A hen bobs her
way over to peck at my shoelace, and I find I can smile with all my teeth.
45
4

Executioner Goose
Chelsea Hoy
The best time to fight a goose is at the crack of dawn. Everybody knows that.
This is why, at approximately 5:30 in the morning every Saturday, hordes of
people shuffle into one of the largest stadiums in the nation.
As if programmed to do so, they stumble from the ticket booth positioned at
the entrance and trudge to the concession stand, wiping sleep from their eyes.
They stand in line, waiting to purchase bird-shaped breakfast delicacies like
sausages, bacon, and clumps of scrambled eggs. No one is entirely sure how
they get them to look like that. They are too afraid to ask.
To the side stands the souvenir shack. There, spectators can buy almost any
momento they can imagine. Autographed geese feet. Crowns made of dead
bird feathers. And the most coveted of all: Trading cards of the most infamous
Goose Gladiators and Gladiator Geese. Every Saturday, the most adamant of
fans line up hours before opening to get their hands on the rarest cards. Just
last week, a man stabbed another man over a shiny “Level 5.5 Goose Who
Disemboweled Alexei the Crane” card.
Once the audience has loaded their arms with as much memorabilia they
can manage, they move to their seats and stare with anxious eyes into the
colosseum pit below.
Today, no one can look away. For they know Aves the Fowl would be
clambering onto the field at any moment.
Deep underground, underneath the stomping feet of the eager audience, Aves
sits in the prep room, strapping metallic boots to his legs. Various weapons in
many lethal shapes and varieties hang on the oak wood walls. Curdled blood
and sweat cling to the air and sting at his nostrils. Ezra, the lanky storeroom
manager wearing a graphic t-shirt and khakis, sits next to him. He hums some
repetitive melody as he shines Aves’s chest plate in his lap with a well-worn
cloth. A golden crest gleams back at him. A grand goose, ancient and matted,
flaps its wings high in the sky. Ornate letters AGCD curve up from the bottom.
“I heard they’ve got a level 4 lined up for you today, sir,” Ezra says, his voice
surprisingly deep for a man of his stature.
46

Aves rolls his eyes, standing to stretch his legs. He grunts and
lunges onto one knee. “Level 4? You can’t be serious. They were so
desperate for me to stop by this town, and when I finally do, they give
me a level 4? I was fighting 4s in my first week at the Academy.”
“I’m sure, sir. But I believe this one is a pretty fierce one. Rumors say
it’s a hybrid. Sharp teeth and knived feet. Took the last guy’s arm off.”
Aves shoots him a glance. “Or so I’ve heard…” Ezra responds quietly.
“Hybrid or not, it is still a goose. All geese have the same weaknesses.
My mentor, William the Hawk--perhaps you’ve heard of him? He was
top ranked at the Hunters Lodge. Anyway, he used to say: No goose
is a good goose. Always go for the throat, it's the longest and most
exposed part of the body.” Aves moves from his position and takes
the chest plate. Ezra stands behind him, securing it into place. “You
know, now that I think about it, I don’t think he was right. The neck is
not the best place to strike. Have you heard of the Barlowe Theory?”
“Can’t say I have, sir.”
“Barlowe believed that the most crucial weak spot on the goose is the
leg. Between the first and second web on the left foot. As soon as you
hit, that goose is done for.”
Ezra’s eyes flick up to the back wall of the room. Numerous
taxidermied goose heads stare back at him. He gulps away the lump
in his throat.
“From what I’ve seen, and I’ve seen a lot, it’s the most accurate.
Sometimes it takes a few blows to the neck to take some of those
suckers out. But immediately at the foot, they are down in seconds.
It’s
probably the best theory we discussed in school. You know I was the
valedictorian my year, right? I don’t want to think about all the hours
I spent memorizing those anatomy sheets and battle theory.” Aves
chuckles. Ezra doesn’t say anything as he steps away. Aves grabs a
hefty silver axe from the wall. Once he sets the bottom of the hilt on
the ground, he can see the weapon at its full height. The top of the axe
head reaches his collarbone. With one flourishing sweep, he rests it on
his shoulder.
47

Ezra’s feet don’t move for a moment. There are no windows this deep
underground for light to stream through, yet, Aves is glowing.
Aves clears his throat. “I’m feeling really good today. You look
capable, go pull some strings or something and get me the highest
level they got. I wanna put on a show.”
Without hesitation, Erza turns in his sneakers and scurries out of the
room.
…
Thousands of feet thunder in the grandstands. Voices cascade and mix
together as they shriek as loud as their throats allow. A charismatic
voice plows over everyone from the commentary booth.
“Hello and welcome to the Gladiator Goose Games! Today, we
have a special treat for you folks; all the way from Ill-Eagle City, an
Academy for Goose Combat and Defense alumnus: Aves the Fowl!”
The crowd erupts in a cacophony of roaring like Aves had just stepped
into hell with the wailing souls of the damned.
He bows deeply up at the people circling above him as they become
nothing but white noise. He squints, trying to see the gate opposite
him a few hundred yards away. What type of monster will they have
prepared now? he wonders.
“This lovely morning, he will be challenging...a...wait, you have to
be joking? You’re not? Oh shit, my mic. Sorry about that, today he
will be challenging a level 8 goose: Executioner Class. How the hell
did we get one of these? Oh no--” His sound cuts off as more people
begin to shout from the audience.
Static buzzes in Aves’s brain. Level 8? Images of his mentor’s scarred
face flash before him. The morning sun beats down. Sweat springs
from his forehead, dampening his brow within the burning metal
helmet.
He bounces from foot to foot, all too aware of the thousands of
eyeballs prying into him. Hoping to feign confidence, he lifts his axe
over his head and yells with all his might. His eyes squeeze shut,
praying that they couldn’t decipher the panic in his tone.
48

There’s no way in hell this is the same beast, he tightens his grip.
No hunters have been able to find it after what happened. Chill.
Remember your training, valedictorian.
Dissected carcasses. Assault formation. Weapon handling. Theory
lectures. His mentor’s voice bounces around his mind: Their noses
may not be very prominent, but they can smell your fear.
Suddenly, the gate across from him creaks open. Silence blankets the
dome. Like a fork scraped against a ceramic plate in a dead world, the
sound echoes around the arena.
The door only lifts a few feet, just enough for the creature to waddle
out without hitting its small head. Everyone clutches their breath
close to their chest. No one dares to move, swaddling their limbs
close to their bodies.
Seconds drip into eternities as every fluid ounce of blood rushes to
Aves’s ears. Finally, a singular orange webbed foot steps out into
the sun. With each stride, more and more of the creature leaves the
shadows. Almost immediately, its small beady eyes lock with Aves’s.
He’s surprised he doesn’t shit out his stomach then and there.
Spiked collars ring up its neck. A small round barbed helmet protects
its skull, matching the pointy suit of armor strapped to its feathered
body. Dirt-encrusted wings stick out of slits molded in the sides. Tiny
blades covered in brown smudges, which Aves hopes is rust instead of
blood, enclose its feet.
Aves’s knuckles whiten on the hilt of the axe. There’s no way he can
forget that face. The nefarious glint in its eye. The way its beak curves
slightly like it was smirking while it lunges at you with its feet blades.
That face is the last thing his mentor’s saw--that fowl visage. Blood
splatter across its feathers. Chunks of flesh between its tiny geese
teeth.
Something bubbles in the pit of Aves’s stomach as the beast takes
another step towards him. His skin burns. His mind rapidly flips
through the slides of his memory. William smiles back at him.
Instantly, he is ten-years-old again. He stands in his wintry village,
49

pulling his thin jacket close to his miniature body. Snowflakes stick to
his shaggy brown hair. Frosty winds chill his nose and fingers. Goose
honks fade into the distance. Smoke billows out from log houses as
people, his friends, run around screaming for their loved ones. Alone
and without a family now lost in the fire, Aves watches on unsure
of what to do. Suddenly, a large hand clamps on his shoulder blade.
“You cold?” A kind voice ponders.
Aves looks up, only to be met by warm round eyes. He isn’t given the
chance to respond before the man starts shrugging off his thick fur
coat. With a smile, he drapes it over Aves’s shivering frame. “Where’s
your family?” he asks. Aves doesn’t answer because, at that moment,
he understands he was looking at it.
The man, William, takes him to the Hunters’ Lodge where he trains
him in the ways of the Goose Hunter. Hunting geese is not a simple
task, you see. They are dangerous creatures. But somebody’s gotta do
it.
Eventually, Aves enrolls in the Academy. William tries to hold it
together as he takes photos of Aves standing outside the school gates
with his new uniform and acceptance letter. But Aves knows that as
soon as he pulls away in the car, William will be crying to some sappy
love song on the radio. When they hug at the entrance, neither of them
know it will be the final time.
Months go by. They try to keep in regular contact but as school life
progresses, Aves finds less time to call. He excels in every subject in
school and soon finds he is eligible to graduate early. As soon as he is
handed his diploma, Aves decides to go surprise William.
Once he gets back to the Lodge, he learns William left with a group
on a mission to capture a villainous goose in the west. Confident in
his abilities, Aves tracks him to his site and attempts to join the battle.
Instead, he is forced to watch on as this impossibly mighty goose
tears through their flanks. He stares from the sidelines, hidden in the
brush. The creature launches from body to body, showing no mercy
for any soul. Then Aves spots William. He watches as his beloved
mentor pulls out his goose saber from his hip, only to be stopped midaction.
Aves tries to run to William’s aid, but he’s too late. The beast
50

leaps at a speed Aves’s eyes cannot track. As if propelled by cannons,
it clings to William’s figure. With a scream not even death could erase
from Ave’s memory, the monster shreds into William’s face flesh.
Aves sprints over to him, cradling William’s bleeding face. It’s
contorted and ripped like a Cubist painting. Blood sputters out of
William’s mouth and dots his lips as Aves leans in close to hear his
final words. Life leaves William’s eyes before he has the chance to
utter a word.
Unable to deal with his grief, Aves falls into a spiral he is still not
proud to acknowledge. Gambling. Too much drinking. It all comes
to a head when he gets his hunting license revoked. Tears sting at
his eyes as he looks up to the Hunter Council. He is unshaven and
hungover. “Please, I need this. It was a mistake. I honestly didn’t
know it was the Council’s money. I can pay it back, if you give me
enough time.”
The Head Councilman looks down from his impossibly high desk
onto the groveling figure below him. Pity creases his face. “Aves,
we’ve given you too many chances. You’ve given us no other
choice.”
Aves falls to his knees. His fingers dig into the wine-red shag carpet.
“Please, I’m begging you. Without this, I- I....”
The Head Councilman’s voice softens. “Aves, I’m only going to say
this once. I knew William. We were good friends. And I know how
proud of you he was. When you were off at the Academy, he would
not shut up about you. As far as he was concerned, you were his son.
You know what he would’ve wanted for you. So please, ask yourself:
what I am doing right now? What do I want to do? Because I can tell
you right now, this is not what you want.” Aves then watches as the
Councilman takes the tiny piece of plastic William had wanted so
desperately for Aves and cuts it down the middle. The two halves float
down into the wastebin at his side.
Aves steps outside the Lodge, his suitcase next to his boot on the
pavement. Above his head, a flock of geese fly south. Murderous
anger flares through his body. You. I can’t let you live so easily.
All he knows is that he needs to murder geese. And that he is insanely
51

good at it.
The roar of the colosseum snaps him back to reality. The goose is
closer now, poised and ready to strike. “We meet again,” Aves croaks.
“Prepare to meet your end!” He leaps forward, axe aimed at its head.
But the goose is too quick. It jumps away, just missing as the blade
careens into the ground, sending dust flying.
“Come back here!” Aves yells, lifting the weapon over his head once
again. “You need to pay for what you did!”
In one instant, the goose is right in front of him. It cocks its head to
the side. Aves cleaves his axe down hard, aiming for the spot right
between the webbed toes. But somehow, once the weapon is brought
down, the goose is gone. It appears behind him, almost floating in
midair. With all its goose might, it strikes him in the back, knocking
him to the ground.
His axe flies out of his grip. The arena spins above Aves as he stares
blankly into the sky. Cotton ball clouds lazily drift by. A goose-like
shadow slithers in to obstruct his view. His eyelids flutter. Its face is
that of impossible-to-describe nightmares. Unspeakable fear chokes at
Aves’s vision.
“You’re powerful,” Aves groans. “But I think I’d be angrier if you
weren’t. I couldn’t stand it if some piss-poor bird made a titan like
William fall.” The creature does not move, calculating how to finish
its enemy. It stares at him with dead, unforgiving eyes. Within a single
blink, it jabs its beak forward. It sinks into the muscle of Aves’s bicep.
White hot crucifying pain burns up his arm as Aves rolls out of the
next attack. The goose brings down its feet blades, just missing Aves’s
left eye.
Aves clambers to his boots, gripping his upper arm. Blood trickles
through his fingers and down the length of forearm. A few drops
splash onto the bottom of the sandy arena below.
“And it looks like the Executioner Class has landed a pretty
significant blow to our hero.” The commentator shouts from the
stands. An eruption of “boos” claws at Aves’s ears. “This is shaping
up to be quite the battle. I wonder who will be victorious?”
52

It will be me. Aves glares at the goose. He can’t help but know that the
goose must be thinking the same thing. Aves picks up his monstrous
axe and scans the arena field for the best strategy. Everything he
learned at the Academy zips through his mind once again. Then it hits
him. He slings the weapon over his broad shoulder and sprints to the
opposite side of the arena.
Within moments the arena audience watches as Aves positions
himself on the side of the gladiator pit. Like a swimmer launching off
from the edge of a pool, he uses the wall to propel himself towards
the beast, trying to replicate the technique he saw end his mentor. The
goose dodges and dashes to the other wall. For several minutes they
both repeatedly bounce off the walls, trading blows in the middle
of the field. A scratch here. A puncture there. Their arms and wings
move so fast, the audience sees nothing but the shifts in the wind.
“What on earth is going on down there...” The commentator says
from above.
Finally they both stall, breathing heavily. Blood drips from various
wounds on both of their bodies. Dirt covers the goose’s feathers. Mud
clings to Aves' metal armor. “Perhaps they are evenly matched. How
boring.” The announcer muses.
Aves’s insides stir. Blood swirls throughout his veins like a pot on
the brink of boiling over. His gaze locks onto the goose’s foot yards
away, completely clean without anything close to a scratch. That is
where I need to strike. Right between the webs.
He pauses. Those are the tiny feet that killed William. In an instant,
William’s smile shines down on him again. The unkept blonde locks.
The kindness behind his eyes. The strength of his protective arms.
For a moment Aves catches himself thinking: can I ever be a man like
him?
Aves doesn’t have a moment to process before the goose thrusts itself
towards him yet again. The look on its face shouts, No. You will never
come close to him.
He lands a solid punch on the bird before jumping back into the
crowd of spectators. Thousands gasp and shout. The announcer
practically shrieks, “In a shocking turn of events, Aves the Fowl has
53

leaped into the crowd?! Hey, isn’t this against the rules...shouldn’t we
get someone down there to stop this?”
But no one could. With a shit-inducing snarl, Aves rips the breakfast
sandwich out of the limp grasp of the elderly woman next to him.
Her eyes roll back as others sitting around her catch her fall. Aves
doesn’t notice as he tears the bread off the sandwich. “Am I seeing
this correctly? Did he just steal that woman’s sandwich? He can’t be
serious, is he planning on using the bread to lure the goose? This is
definitely against the rules. And most geese have trained themselves to
tolerate bread. There’s no way this will work.”
Aves jumps back into the pit, bread in hand. Staring into the goose’s
merciless soul, he breaks the piece apart while holding it far from his
body. This is a long shot.
It takes a few moments for the creature to notice. Once the waft
of bread graces its nose holes, it stops like deadweight. Within an
alarming split second, its pupils constrict. With all his strength, Aves
throws the food towards the beast. The bread does not even touch the
sandy ground before the monster descends upon it.
While its distracted, this is my chance. Aves readjusts his grip on his
behemoth of an axe. The bird’s neck pecks down on the gluten at
light speed. Aves’s gingerly steps towards it, lifting the blade high
above his head. He can’t control the triumphant laugh that escapes his
mouth. “This is for William!”
It’s puny head snaps upwards. The look behind its devilish eyes forces
Aves to stop mid-action. This beast will cut me clean in half. It starts
to poise itself for attack. Panic fires throughout Aves’s synapses. He
can only think of one thing to save himself. He throws his body onto
the ground, tossing his weapon to the side. His meaty hands clasp
around the stick-thin ankles of the goose. I’ll try to break its feet here.
But the goose knows. As soon as Aves makes contact, it starts
thrashing its wings wildly. Slowly its body pulls off the ground. And
Aves with it.
Aves watches as his boots leave the sanctuary of the sand. The electric
voice shouts overhead,“Jesus Christ! The Executioner Class is taking
Aves into the sky! Holy shit, this is unprecedented. What do we do?!
54

I’ve never seen a beast this strong.”
The crowd shrieks and jeers as Aves gets further and further away
from the colosseum. They must be thousands of feet above the sand
now. He glances up at the creature. Somehow he understands. It plans
on taking him far away from here. I can’t believe I forgot geese can
fly.
55

The unfortunate state of childhood
pantoums
Sophie Malloy
howls of midnight air flush my cheeks
I was ugly then
my hair a tangle of wild curls
unbound by evil eyes
I was ugly then
my skin bloomed at every inch
unbound by evil eyes
smile crooked as the crescent moon
my skin bloomed at every inch
evil eyes stole my
smile crooked as the crescent moon
pealed the ugly away
and left me with nothing
56

Playground Isolation
I. O. Scheffer
Can’t sit still, but can still get A’s and B’s.
I think there’s something wrong with me
and so do my classmates. They tell me I’m weird.
I am. When I go to school, my intestines twist
inside me like black wires all stuck behind the
computer desk on my grandma and grandpa’s
white basement rug that’s been stained over the years
with spilled drinks and nosebleeds and vomit and pastries
from me and my cousins.
If I untie the knot, my guts will spill out,
and if I’m unlucky—I am—the boys and girls
will realize the extent of my inadequacy and,
once again, I’ll be left alone at recess beneath the shade
of a tree, excusing myself from play because
my skin burns easy.
57
5

a list of things, now and then
Eleanor Prytherch
the smell of tomato plants
invasive yellow not-buttercups growing in a waxy sea around the compost pile
opossums sidling up to the light of our sliding glass door after my sister and i
were in bed
bragging about our cornucopia of fossils to foreign friends
midwestern unafraidness to let things rot and rust, to let barns collapse and
grasses to grow
sunshine in the sad of winter, arguing over which season is best
i could smell fall coming by the time i was eight
i knew the call of owls by the time i was younger than that
making soup with the neighbor kids from dandelion leaves and sweetgum
spikes, hose water in a
beach bucket
scraped knees and scuffed toes, pacing in imagination by the side of the house
oars gliding through water, swirling, my favorite sound before i could read
hungry for the far away sobs of loon
the lake water is sweet and brown, glorified tea steeped with years and no heat
poems built up in me about the deer, always ghostly never not magic
58

driving playlist
Eleanor Prytherch
we’re simmering in the
backseat sun
your eyelashes in profile and
text miss spellings
appalachian silent laugh
carefully we toe the steady ground
under our feet for the first time
i will it back towards my
shaking cornfield summerself
like the air over the concrete
knuckles to the telephone pole
to settle the dust
stepping towards this saltine mountain afternoon
59
5

(night shift)
Eleanor Prytherch
thoughts from the concert in a city i don’t live in (night shift)
during the last song
i lean my head against the cool railing
amp buzz remembering
you lifted my chin with the arc of a gentle finger
kissed me in the middle of a mountain kitchen
and turned back to the stove
60

61
6

ELEGY FOR THE FIVE YEAR OLD
WHO DIDN'T KNOW HOW TO SMILE
Shelby Rice
mothermayi sort of looking thing / i don’t think
put your blanket away / not enough credit but
links and i can’t study / in my six by six room
mother is on the other end of her house and i,
make it all alrightwhat / makes you feel teeth in
other—no lover no life only / gruel at three p.m.
can borrow a bit of your health i eat my own /
about what’s leftover emergent grandfather fig-
62

here’s where i’ll sitandstay keep / your video on
too much left for me to / use canvas splashed with
with the eighteen lights and the / knowledge that
the speaker, am / reducing myself to bone grit to
your liver she doesn’t really think / or know or do
/ there is another ________ left to do / you think i
bell pepper children nurtured on borrowed care /
ure promises / don’t—
63
6

THE SWORD IN THE BONE
Shelby Rice
once and future _____ comes
else to take the throne nobody else to
left but thronelet to claim. feel
for the laytime if i don’t do it nobody
mother i’d look pretty in a coroside
i crave glory in the battle and my
& sword clasped abreast while
clamor for my hand but not the person
courtly life behind find my
planned, not be suffocated slowly in
shield of victory sword aloft mail
finish me off final & sweet & cradle
64

65
6
to grips with the reality she’s facing nobody
let her die at lance-point nothing
once-fervent politics pushed aside
will is there democracy in this body? sure
net but that doesn’t mean i want a baronet at my
vanquished body set ablaze warpaint on cheeks
flames caress me but now i sit on velvet suitors
who extends it; oh to run away to leave the
chivalrous nemesis to end my life the way i
the thorns of my own home but ablaze on the
linked closed off heart and i’ll let death
me to my true home at last—

Wigilia
Sydney Scepcowski
My family’s love language is talking about grisly crimes at wigilia. The first
syllable begins with a “v” sound, and the remainder follows like a rhyme of
“fig-eel-ee-uh.” Our last name is entangled in the edge and melody of the
Polish language. Our love and history, audible and assured.
Like the pronunciation of our traditional Christmas Eve dinner, my family’s
parties are a contradiction. We are a quiet and stern revelry of downturned
gazes and flatlined lips that barely color our mouths. Our small talk is bites of
pickled herring washed down with long sips of wine.
If my grandma was at the table, she’d be the first to speak above the trill of
silverware, her voice crackling and labored by nearly a century of life. While
I picked every sliver of cabbage from my haluski noodles, she’d offer a
memory about a neighbor back in Arizona who committed suicide. Or a story
she saw on the news about someone getting shot in Chicago again. Death was
the heartbeat of our Christmas.
Outside, the frozen-over ponds and oil refineries of northwest Indiana fumed
with winter gloom. Inside my aunt’s cottage, the camera flash warmed us for
an instant. I’ve since thumbed through photo albums from those years, and the
one constant is my grandma’s averted gaze. Even back when she was sturdier
than the frail woman I knew, she never looked at the camera.
Her eyes were nearly the same ones she gave my father, except for the color.
Grandma’s eyes were the source of the brush of gold that circles my pupils. I
used to wish they were pure, watery blue like Dad’s eyes. Now I just want to
see Grandma, her hazel eyes we share, alive and reflected back to me.
She died in the spring, and now the family is running out of things to talk
about that don’t end with my dad’s oldest sister blotting away tears with
a festive appetizer napkin. She feels the guiltiest: the caretaker and eldest
daughter who kept the laundry clean and bills sorted. She was at Grandma’s
apartment in the assisted living home every day for the last months.
My aunt asks the table about the little boy who went missing in Hammond.
66

“He drowned,” someone says, probably my dad. My knife sidles
up to sweet potatoes, Mom’s recipe that won over the in-laws. She
maintains eye contact with me, a hint to say something nice.
Changing the subject, I remind the table how Grandma would
disapprove of the potato pierogis Mom served. Why would you fill
a dumpling with more starch? My aunt sighs. Her smile, though
weak, brings tenderness. She hesitates before, then her voice skims a
whisper.
“Let’s open the cedar chest.”
In my memory, Grandma’s cedar chest was preserved as lore: a relic
from her unwed past spoken about often, but always distant and
never seen. It didn’t feel real until we were huddled in our garage that
Christmas, looking down at the aging craftsmanship of cedar.
The bench-like thing groans as my dad raises the lid of the chest. It
is hollowed, almost empty aside from a thick fleece blanket and one
of those car flags with the Chicago Cubs logo. No jewelry, no linens
from Europe. Grandma’s legacy had probably been cleared from the
chest months ago by her daughters. I was gone, one state east, when
they sorted through the remnants of her not-quite-ninety-five years.
My mom suggests that I use the chest for storage once I move into an
apartment. All at once it is too much. I feel cold. The garage is dim
with atrophied rust. I need to go inside now; I cry too easily to stay
and stare at the empty box. Mom and I return to the kitchen in silent
understanding.
“Get everyone in the dining room for opłatki,” she says, reaching into
the cupboard for a saucer.
Dad and my aunt join me. I make them coffee while my mom
tears open the packet of opłatki wafers she got from church. She
even spoons honey into a ramequin. Grandma would have wanted
to sweeten the opłatki, which had the same tastelessness as a
communion wafer.
Holding the saucer stacked with opłatki, Mom says the blessing. She
is a high school theology teacher, so prayer comes naturally to her.
Mom cries like I expect her too; our sensitivity makes us alike.
67

Warbly breathing, the rhythm of grief, escapes her as she passes each
of us a wafer.
I turn to my aunt first. Breaking off a corner of my opłatki, I wish her
peace and joy for the coming year. We exchange opłatki. I embrace
her, breathing in the comfort of mint and meringues woven into
her sweater. Beside us, Mom and Dad dip the wafers in honey and
exchange their halves. This is our tradition— our expression of love.
The cedar chest was never empty.
68

in the afterlife
Ava Shaffer
my mom will tell you there’s a Heaven with a capital H
that has fat babies in Pampers and Katniss Everdeen
bows in their arms they sit atop puffy white clouds and
look down at those still on earth keeping a tally of every
wrongdoing in their little spiral notebooks until it’s finally
your time and you go up the sky’s staircase and are either
beckoned through the golden gates or you are cast
down and down and down
my sister will tell you there’s nothing that’s why you have
to live life to the fullest right here right now she says
religions are all smoke and mirrors that they’re hiding
the truth that there’s nothing there never has been never
will be she has no problem discussing this at the dinner
table as my 90 year old catholic grandfather tries not to faint
my best friend will tell you there’s reincarnation and karma
and the girl who passed away junior year turned into a blue
butterfly the butterfly was at every ceremony and funeral and
it’s in your dreams too now how can you deny that she tells you
69
6

this with tears in her pretty big eyes and you can do nothing
but believe her but you believe the others too so
where does that leave you
70

Sargasso
Anne Whitfield
I want to lie in the dark
With the writhing eels
Let them eat my body and
Tell me their secrets let
Them make me like them
Something other than
Human (other than fish)
Let me follow the current
Far away and transform my
Body into the unrecognizable
Let me rip it apart and start
Over, let me never doubt
Let me always find my way home
Aristotle, I will bear myself
Out of the womb of the
Mud, of my own corpse
71
7

ART

Luna Moth
Lauren Bielawski
copic and micron pens
73

Rabbit in the Moon
Lauren Bielawski
collage
74

color monotype on
stonehenge
Outta Here
Olivia De Leon
75

Socially Unjust
Olivia De Leon
posca marker on
cardstock
76

oil paint on canvas
The Inquiring Mind
Olivia De Leon
77

78

79

Big Toe's Dissent
Shea Hardy
acrylic on canvas
80

acrylic on canvas
BLEGH!
Shea Hardy
81

Tooth Fairy
Shea Hardy
gouache on paper
82

digital photography
Forget Me Not
Deanna Hay
83

Morning in Marietta
Deanna Hay
digital photography
84

digital photgraphy
Sunrise in Bed
Deanna Hay
85

Gentleman and Scholar
Gabby Hoggatt
ink on paper
86

charcoal on paper
Old Eden
Gabby Hoggatt
87

What's Left of the Childhood
Carcass
M.Bea Hosenfeld
white charcoal on paper
88

digital painting
can't stop the flow
Hannah Martin
89

Chrysalis (Triptych)
Hannah Martin
oil paint on canvas
90

91

92

93

Collecting Myself
Hannah Martin
pastels & charcoal
on paper
94

acrylic & ink on
canvas, thread
the cycle continues
Hannah Martin
95

Serendipity
Grace McGann
digital photography
96

polyester plate print
Happy Place
Maggie McLaughlin
97

98
They Say I Have My Father's Eyes
Ava Shaffer
photography

mixed media
Activation
Katrina Shafor
99

When She Sees Me
Katrina Shafor
oil paint and
powdered pigments
0100

101

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

cover art: "Gentleman and Scholar" by Gabby Hoggatt