Windward Review Vol 21 (2023): Myths and Hauntings
"Myths and Hauntings" brings attention to the intimate connection between mythology, story, haunting and human history(s). With contributions from around the US and beyond, Myths and Hauntings is a collection made to empower creators beyond spaces and cultural prescriptions of beliefs. The pieces in the volume expand, negate, shock, and bring warmth to a stark world of narrative history(s). As a modern creative publication, we are pleased to showcase creators that have put their whole selves into their work. What emerges is an embodiment of cultural myths, hauntings, and more, 2023.
"Myths and Hauntings" brings attention to the intimate connection between mythology, story, haunting and human history(s). With contributions from around the US and beyond, Myths and Hauntings is a collection made to empower creators beyond spaces and cultural prescriptions of beliefs. The pieces in the volume expand, negate, shock, and bring warmth to a stark world of narrative history(s). As a modern creative publication, we are pleased to showcase creators that have put their whole selves into their work. What emerges is an embodiment of cultural myths, hauntings, and more, 2023.
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Lighting lotus boats on the night of Loy Krathong. Filling water guns<br />
on Songkran. Picking peppers with the monks. Nine people were killed<br />
here. The abbot. Six monks. One of them a novice. A nun, aunt to the<br />
young monk. A temple employee. Shot in back of the head. Some shot<br />
again in the torso. Placed facedown in a circle. “These people were<br />
peace-loving,’’ said the judge. “These people didn’t seek violence.’’ In<br />
Buddhism, the kind I was raised on, we believe in the karmic cycle.<br />
Rebirth. Another chance at life. No gods to burn <strong>and</strong> sacrifice for. No<br />
Heaven. No Hell. The end of suffering. The end of rebirth, but not annihilation.<br />
I wonder where those people went. What lives they live now.<br />
I wonder if they’re still at the temple, as frogs or worms or chickens. I<br />
wonder if their ghosts are still waiting to be born.<br />
If they were reborn, then why can I feel them?<br />
I don’t know if he’d love me. My blood is mixed. My tongue is foreign. My<br />
love is queer. I’ve crossed so many borders, frolicked in frozen fields <strong>and</strong><br />
danced in dusty deserts. I never knew him. I don’t know how much of<br />
him will survive me. I wear a necklace. The chain is Thai gold. Pure <strong>and</strong><br />
soft. The pendant is a little shadowbox. Encased in Thai gold is a small<br />
Thai coin. Dirty <strong>and</strong> unremarkable, honestly difficult to identify. The<br />
coin was burned with him. One coin for each of his children. His ashes<br />
are interned at the temple. Some are with us. The coin is what I have.<br />
Not memories. Not stories. Not ghosts. Him. Here. I never knew him.<br />
The gold burns my chest. It fills it, like water has penetrated my lungs.<br />
The whole Pacific. And it spills out of my mouth. It fills the desert,<br />
drowning the canyons <strong>and</strong> mesas. It washes over the plains, splashing<br />
the Rockies <strong>and</strong> drowning the valleys. I feel him. In the laundromat.<br />
In my small apartment. I see him now, out the window of the car. He’s<br />
dancing amongst the pronghorn. He’s sliding down the hills. He’s kissing<br />
the clouds. He leaves no prints in the snow, no current in the air, but<br />
there he is. In my eyes. In my voice. In my blood.<br />
He’s here. Right alongside me.<br />
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