Marr's Field Journal Vol 34

A Word from the Editors
Dear reader,
I am dearly grateful to have been
able to edit Volume 34 of Marr’s
Field Journal. I and my staff observed
that many submissions
this years reckoned with memory,
the body, and hardship. For
this reason we chose to orient
the cover collage around the
heart and between the hands.
Like these grounding points of
the body, the contributors to this
year’s publication have provided
spaces for readers to ground
themselves in shared experiences.
To our contributors: thank you for
your vulnerability and stunning
creativity. To our readers: thank
you for seeking out art. Such is an
act of extreme importance.
I am thankful for everyone involved
in this process. Most importantly,
thank you to the Marr’s
Field Journal staff. You worked
hard this semester and I say earnestly
that it is a blessing to know
all of you. You are adored.
Sarah Scarcliff, Editor-in-Chief
Reader,
It’s wild to understand how
quickly another year of working
on the journal has come and
gone. Team, your hours of analysis,
promotion, page layouts,
and more have culminated in this
beautiful release of Volume 34,
and I couldn’t be more pleased
with your hard work. Every meeting
with you all is a blast, and I
cannot wait to continue working
with all of you in the future.
To everyone who submitted, it
was fascinating to see the themes
of violence, love, and nature
come together so seamlessly as
we poured through each piece.
Thank you for your bravery in
sending us your work and for
providing us with the real meat of
this year’s journal.
Finally, readers, I appreciate all
the love and support you provide
in allowing us to create this
compilation of art in print again
this year. I am so grateful to have
this experience editing Marr’s
Field Journal, and we couldn’t do
it without you.
Maya Mungo, Managing Editor

Table of Contents
4
violet allure
Ellie King
5
summer
Caleb Buell
6
(gauzy curtains)
Emma Day
7
(cotton has
thorns and is
hard to pick)
Emma Day
8
The Nun pt. 1
& 2
Jane Zhao
10
The Virgins
Bianca McCarty
13
Knacker’s Yard
Samantha
Mattison
14
Rattlesnake
Everest Wood
15
(swift and
flashing love)
Emma Day
16
We on our way
Aliyah Johnson
18
Pointillism
Rowan Aldridge
19
Reflections in
Shinjuku
Emily Will
20
Liturgical Cycles
Bianca McCarty
21
You believe me
like a God
Bee Hydrick
22
Homunculus
Bianca McCarty
23
Cherry
Anna White
24
Running
Annaliese
Skerpan
25
oh captain my
captain
Caleb Buell
26
Body of Nature
Jalyn Christina
Dantzler
27
Absolem
Caroline Peters
28
over the edge
Ellie King
29
Sacred
Ellie King
29
Cherry Blossom
Ellie King
30
Came Crawling
Back
Brandon Smith
31
Gone Cold
Sylvia Glynn
32
My Hair is Not
the Enemy
Mallori’
McKenzie
Wilkerson
34
Makers
Konnor Todd
Carrie
35
Strange Flavor
Will Broadhurst
36
Ache
Henry David
Mauser
37
Nyoooom
Tanner Jones
38
(Rob)bed of My
Heart
Ethan Henry
and
Bianca McCarty
40
Kerið’s Reverie
Ellie King
41
Icarus Fallen
Anna White
42
time occurs no
more in here
Noah Saunders
43
Intestinal Hub
Tanner Jones
44
neptune
Caleb Buell

45
Industrial’s
Arboreal Dream
Ellie King
46
Catching the
Midnight Train
Ellie King
47
Light Pollution
Elizabeth Ayden
Jones
48
I’ll Be 21 in June
Emily Workman
49
It’s the Cat’s
Floor
Bennett Ogle
50
Cue
Konnor Todd
Carrie
51
Mercy
Lawson McVay
52
Bathroom Towel
Annaliese
Skerpan
53
Sisyphus’
Sonnet
Dawson Eli
Wilcox
54
Snow Monkey
Emily Will
55
Thoughts at
Your Funeral
Dorian Anne Pate
56
Carl Elliott Attic
Tanner Jones
57
Cockroach
Rowan Aldridge
58
Without Water
the Human Body
Will Die
Brandon Smith
59
Breathe
Elizabeth Ayden
Jones
60
Admire
Brandon Smith
61
pillars
Caleb Buell
62
No great
disaster
Rowan Aldridge
63
Island Sentinel:
A Flag’s Silent
Vigil
Ellie King
64
Arboreal Echoes
Zachary Foley
65
(ode to the
sycamore)
Emma Day
66
Furnace 1
Konnor Todd
Carrie
67
R&W
Rowan Aldridge
68
Magnolias and
The Legacy
Museum
Brianna Byrd
69
A Dreadlock
Story
Miracle
Crawford
70
Watched
Carson Silas
71
Front Porch
Annie Jicka
72
“About the
Markett”
Olivia Womack
74
Finest Things to
Choose
Rowan Aldridge
74
TAR/PIT
Spencer Hadley
75
The Wheelers
Emily Will
76
Swan Song
David
Washington
Moore
77
Tinted Pane
Rowan Aldridge
78
Little Things
Julia Sarrel
79
to show me love
Caleb Buell
80
Crazy Shark
Poem
Drew Altman
81
Arcade Carpet
Chrissy Gronke

violet allure
Photography by Ellie King
4

summer
Poem by Caleb Buell
find me
where sunrise meets the vine.
where lilac spills
from the heavens
to paint
the hydrangeas and
where moonlight fills the glass.
where bubbles rise
with the laughter
to accent
the bouquets of pink
hyacinths.
here, i am
forever surrounded with
the flowers,
sprawled in the meadow
and hugged by the earth.
peacefully alone.
the friends,
covered in the memories
and anointed with love.
in good company.
here, i am
happy.
i don’t think
i could ask
for much more.
5

(gauzy curtains)
Poems by Emma Day
Danny Verbena proposed on the beach,
Slid a glossy promise on my soft left hand
And told me he’d love me
forever and always.
I got it
I finally did what I’m good for
And soon they’ll all watch me,
my trailing white dress
I’ll give up the ghost and
become her instead
Fade into Mrs. and Momma and Ma’am
But I got it
I finally did what I’m good for
6

I was born in the pines,
in the thick mess of mosquitoes and Spanish moss,
In the sweet-tea saccharine heart of the old ways.
It’s hard to work hard when you need gills to breathe air,
When your grandfather tells you stories of the
white-collar
white column
white cotton
picket fence days.
The women are mothers or grandmothers or nothing
Nurses and teachers and waitresses
Nursing and teaching and waiting on men
who wouldn’t dare hit them
but don’t mind hating them
Don’t bat an eye at his drinking and wandering eyes
Your son needs a Daddy
Your son needs to take on the family business
Your son needs to spool wire and break rocks until his back shatters
Your son’s going to college?
What, you thinks you’re too good for us now, boy?
I’ll be just like my momma
by time I’m nineteen,
Full of babies and full of anger and full up with righteousness,
Lord knows this is all I’m good for but the Lord knows I’m good,
The Lord says
let there be a balm in Gilead,
but I’m here with Vaseline and a doublewide,
Spitting mad cottonmouth,
fuck you for asking.
Playing at blissful ignorance and seething in my church shoes,
Bristling porcupine in blue gingham.
My momma dug my grave here and I’m staying put,
thank you very much.
(cotton has thorns and is
hard to 7 pick)

The Nun pt. 1
Digital Art by Jane Zhao
8

The Nun pt. 2
Digital Art by Jane Zhao
9

The Virgins
We’re Spy Wednesday types,
Watching mass on TV
And wondering where the hell storks get babies from,
Making U turns over and over again—
Now it’s just a circle.
Take me out now,
Because all your lovers
turn to the priesthood after you let them loose.
Lay me down in the dirt with God,
Poem by Bianca McCarty
Hey, you might be assumed into heaven
If you try hard
enough.
“Lord, hear our prayer.”
It’s a plea.
Well,
It’s more like bitching at an omnipresent God
Who’s got bigger problems than us—but
Who could ever be bigger than us?
Because we’re the shit,
Us in our plaid with long, weepy hair,
A craving for stained glass windows.
10

And that’s the truth,
We’re a TV show,
we’re something different,
We’re bad women,
good girls,
Forceful by nature,
practiced in Catholic docility.
Surely, it’s like watching a train wreck in navy blue,
Not quite the Virgin’s blue—but close enough.
Closer than whatever the Hell
The episcopal school has going on.
“I’d rather be a sinner than a saint.”
We have a way of getting heretical
When the Holy War’s on the line.
And we burn our tongues
With curses and library coffee for a dollar—she,
A friend, drinks it black chased with Splenda.
It’s all Godly if you look at it without your eyes,
If you look at it the way we saw it,
Through the eyes of another,
Through the eyes of writers
And poets
And artists
And TV producers.
11

Because lives like that need romanticism,
Need less realism,
Less of what’s really going on,
Because who could take it if they felt the truth?
You need a gutter mind to survive
Bad boyfriends,
loving mothers,
theology class,
Middle school math,
bone tumors,
and sulfur water.
We never tasted the forbidden fruit.
Alas, we were never in the garden in the first place.
No,
Eden wouldn’t take us,
Not with these rolled skirts.
12

Knacker’s Yard
Short Story by Samantha Mattison
“All that we see or seem is but a dream within a dream.”
Edgar Allan Poe
Oonagh awoke to blue moonbeams bathing her comforter
and spilling onto the dusty floor. The biting air needled at her ears
and cheeks, and she sucked in a sharp breath. Rubbing sleep from
her eyes, she padded over to the window and reached for the
sun-bleached curtains. Before she could close them, she spotted
something rather curious. A stream of fifteen or twenty girls were
walking, in a line, to the center of Knacker’s Yard.
Standing on her tiptoes, Oonagh pressed her nose to the
cold glass. The girls were all clearly students, same as her. Night
rendered their navy uniforms deep black, and Oonagh thought they
looked like oversized ants. She watched as the girl in front shuffled
her way through the ankle-deep snow and approached the well in the
courtyard’s center.
Gripping the stone, the girl stood up on the wall of the well,
facing straight ahead. To Oonagh’s horror, she stepped forward,
falling out of sight. The next girl moved up.
To read all of “Knacker’s
Yard,” locate Volume
34 Prose using
this code
13

Rattlesnake
Poem by Everest Wood
I appreciate the honesty of a rattlesnake.
“Don’t come any closer. I bite.”
She says.
Every year when she sheds her skin,
Leaving it behind as a testament
To her survival
And to her growth,
Her new body
Diamonds shining, and
She adds another rattle to her promise:
“Don’t come any closer. I bite.”
Her honesty is a gift –
Her bite will be the last touch you feel.
Her fangs dripping
With her venom and your blood and her truth –
“Don’t come any closer. I bite.”
I have learned to be honest like the rattlesnake.
She has taught me to survive
And grow each year,
And when I shed my skin
And once again become a person
You have never touched,
I will add another rattle to my promise to myself:
Don’t come any closer.
I bite.
14

(swift and flashing love)
Poem by Emma Day
Its hard when you knew the
stakes from the start. Its hard
to feel justified in your anger, in
the sadness like fishing weights.
The little “i told you so” voice
behind you whispers that she
knew, she saw, it was clear from
the start. The rod springs forward,
the fisherman asks your
taste in music, the lure is shiny,
the hook tugs your lips towards
the shore. He admires your dripping
scales as you gasp, tossing
you back in, pierced. You’ve
been here before, you can see
through the plastic shimmer,
the bait, the red. But it looks just
like food, like truth, doesn’t it?
You’re so tired, aren’t you, and
look. It’s almost the real thing.
15

After Danez Smith’s “Dinosaurs in the Hood”
This time let’s get it right. We’ll start on time and finish on time.
We’ll be like Tom Hanks on Cast Away before the plane crashed.
We should all go to bed at 9pm and wake up at 3:00am
like white people before a flight that leaves at 6am, white people always
on time, we got to be on time like them white people.
We on our way
Poem by Aliyah Johnson
Don’t use colored people time. On CPT we always telling folks “We on our way,”
Not that we just hopped in the shower or is still picking out our outfit.
That we still making sure the shoelaces match the color of the watch
because it’s the new style. Says who? Says us because them people gone copy
it anyway but we already on to the next. I want us to be that on time!
Nah this time we laid our clothes out on the bed the night before
Like they just been bought the day before that, and we been saving them for a
special occasion. Like Valentines Day in high school. I want us to be on time.
like we know we got to meet the bus at the stop that day, so we don’t be running for it,
and we don’t be sweaty and stinky because our crush got to notice the us and the fit today.
16

I don’t want us pulling up at the function late like we just got done smoking a blunt
After hanging out with the fam on Thanksgiving Day. Our thoughts faded like the smoke,
filling our head with remnants of funny jokes so that we are cackling in front of our aunts. No
at the function you know them people bout to whisper cause we Niggas away, so we got to
be on time! Like showing up at 6:30 when the event is at 7:00 that is on time!
We can’t leave early either. I know it’s gonna be a lot of them folks up in there but we can’t
leave early either. I know you tryna make it back home to watch a movie on Netflix but we
can’t leave early either. I know you don’t know that many people, but we can’t leave early either.
Bro, I know anxiety got you in a choke hold and sentences aint workin but we can’t leave early.
I know how we do. They gone have drinks there, so we’ll be cool, and I heard what’s her face is
gonna be there so that makes five. No sitting in the parking lot. No running by McDonalds to get
something to eat first. No road rage because you are speeding down the Freeway. & No taking naps
before the function & no taking naps before the function & no taking naps before the function : It don’t
ever work out. I say this because I know US, so I know we better than this.
This time we will get it right.
We’ll start and finish on time
17

Pointillism
Poem by Rowan Aldridge
Do you remember the time
When I was in a dark spot and you were there
And you said “everything happens for a reason”
And I wanted to believe you
Then there was the time
When I was in a dark spot and you were there but not really
And you said “nothing happens that was not meant to be”
And I thought that I believed you
At last, there was the time
When I was in a dark spot but I lifted it,
And you weren’t there but you said “there are no such things
as coincidences”
And I realized I believed you
And now, I am in a time
Where I can see how nicely the dark spots fit together
And they are beginning to form an image I quite like to see
And I chuckle because
There are no such things as coincidences.
18

Reflections in Shinjuku
Photography by Emily Will
19

Liturgical Cycles
Poem by Bianca McCarty
Does the train know that it’s woken me up?
Does the conductor find it fulfilling that I
Am now host to two open eyes,
And a mind straining against the dark,
And an eyelid that’s been twitching since last Sunday.
These Lenten days I prostrate before the cross.
I wear myself weary like I am meant to do
To be a true and honest catholic.
Let train horn wakefulness be some kind of fasting,
Some kind of starvation for the Lord.
The wave will break soon.
And soon I will be burnt and clear skinned,
And life will keep tearing past me,
And I will be glad I worked hard,
Because whatever I have is intrinsic.
20

You believe me like a god
Digital Art by Bee Hydrick
21

Homunculus
Poem by Bianca McCarty
curled up somewhere in my body.
He puts his limbs in my limbs,
wearing skin like rubber gloves,
loosening teeth,
and cracking glowstick capillaries.
These things tend
to be men.
I’m just nutrients.
Honey, wait
until it grows.
22

Cherry
Digital Art by Anna White
23

Running
Poem by Annaliese Skerpan
I started running because I
hated it.
I hated my sore hamstrings,
hated gasping for air,
hated my forced effortless smile
as I promised others
I loved how the snot ran down my chin
and face rubbed raw against the cold air.
I hated it.
But I still set my alarm
to five a.m.,
still slipped on my pre-tied shoes
and let my aching mind propel me through town
because,
maybe,
if I learned to love running
there was hope
for myself.
24

oh captain my captain
Poem by Caleb Buell
starboard steered,
bow piercing the crest
and landing with
unwavering unease.
chop.
chop.
chop.
they grow weak,
but the mast must hoist cloth
again.
treasures abound,
it calls from afar.
i have no choice but to captain
another.
bouncing over the blue,
see my sea of wreckage.
soon
the grip fails,
and the wheel winds towards the
west.
soon
capsized,
sail torn and wood adrift.
my head bobs above the surface.
another ship
navigated to the necropolis,
Atlantis unattained.
“blame the wind and waves,”
i say.
“ill advised, i carry no fault,”
arms pulling me to land.
hands on spokes,
set forth from the sands.
pleasant conditions,
as always,
but a storm brews in my mind,
as always.
the inevitable overturn
must have cause.
obstacles for an obstinate
illegitimate
captain to condemn.
liability seeps between my finger
tips
with the water filling the hull.
cupped hands cannot empty the
contents,
but they can push me to shore
after i sail back to the debris,
confidence restored,
and still crash
in the still sound.
25

Body of Nature
Poem by Jalyn Cristina Dantzler
The “Nature of a Sista”
“Lyte as a Rock”
Black women are nature
Ancestral Eve
From the soil of earth where the roots grow to the mountains and
trees that touch the sky
A tree trunk, as a young girl’s body was once described
Objectified
She turned that comment into a body of nature that she can glorify
Toes as the roots, stretching to the deepest of earth’s core
Soil and dirt serving as a nutrient provider
Legs and hips define how wide or narrow the base will be
The waist and stomach as the trunk– curvy
Arms as branches kissed by the sun
Fingers as twigs leaves producing life
The head covered with thick bushy leaves to serve as shade
Glistening when it rains
Curly one day, braided the next
A woman’s body represents the beauty and fruits of nature
Stretch marks as flowy rivers
Breasts as mountains
The largest organ as a roadway
Hairs on the face, arms, legs, back, stomach, and bottom as grass
plains
Hips and curves as valleys
A small bush in between the legs a large bush on top of the head
Protective Barriers
A secret cave leading to unknown wonders
She is Nature
26

Absolem
Poem by Caroline Peters
How does youth escape
the fluttering jaws
of muted flowers, lament frogs,
crocodiles without claws
Who are you
scraping underneath the glass
breathing out
then out again
yet still the smoke won’t pass
Stupid girl
the length of time
ensures your dullness
you are empty-headed, unintelligent
although eyes will continue
to stare at your fullness
When you start to see the folding skin
peel, curl, and fall
you begin to see the life once lived
and the wisdom in it all
27

Over the Edge
Photography by Ellie King

Sacred
Poems by Ellie King
A mystical veil
fog floating in milky swirls
over ancient pond.
Innocent petals
white, blushing delicate pink
All withered too soon.
Cherry Blossom
Poem by Ellie King
29

Came Crawling Back
Drawing by Brandon Smith
30

Gone Cold
Poem by Sylvia Glynn
She’s not speaking with me
She’s not speaking
She’s not
Hair crawling from the sockets
Curtains falling from the rod
Vices squalling from the day-old
cup of coffee
It could be any cause
Every day I pray to God
That she has not gone cold
but just forgot me
She’s not speaking with me
She’s not speaking
She’s not
Pull my hair right from the sockets
Strip the curtains from the rod
Drown the cancer in the day-old
cup of coffee
My heart rotten, her heart frosted
There’s no saving grace from God
That could ever console
How she just forgot me
31

My Hair is not the Enemy Prose by Mallori’ McKenzie Wilkerson
The fluorescent lighting bakes the sixty-foot bathroom to a
degree of quiet irritation. A water-soaked towel sits upon the
counter as the girl struggles to wipe the conditioner out of her
eye. Combs and brushes with product residue lay abandoned
on the marble counters as they fearfully awaited their turn of
exploring the unknown. The saving grace that is conditioner
coats the curls and coils like butter. She’s mesmerized by the
definition that’s left behind. She’s amazed at the way that the
hair recedes like the water during low tide. Finally, she’s at the
stage where her hair is twisted like ropes, but she hopes that
there won’t be a tug of war at play. After hours of being in a
box with constant distress, her tired body is revived by the soft
pillows and a night’s rest.
Melodies of the birds cut through the darkness of night
which awakens the sleeping beauty from her curse of tiredness.
The fluorescent light awakens once more but illuminated
a disaster that she’s tragically seen before.
“My hair!” She looked in the mirror terrified as she realized
that her bonnet took a one-way trip to Australia, which left her
promising style looking a mess.
Her brain scrambled to find a solution to the problem as she
had her first day at her new job in an hour and thirty minutes.
Slick back bun, a puff, and even a wig could not help her due to
the time crunch.
“Why is my own hair the enemy right now?” She asked
annoyedly to the empty bathroom in near tears (it was almost
comical).
After thirty minutes of contemplating half-baked hairstyles,
she decided to put her hair in a neat head wrap that resembled
a low bun; she then continued on with her morning routine.
Dashing out the door and into her car, she makes it to work
with ten minutes to spare. She went through the rest of the
day smoothly by copying papers, emailing, answering phone
calls etc. Everybody was friendly and truly made her feel welcomed.
Besides the hair upset in the morning, everything was
peaceful until her boss came up to her with a smile that hid
words that would alter her life.
“Hey, how’s it going?” They inquired.
32

“Good, I just finished my last phone call of the day, and I’m close to
being done!” She said proudly.
“That’s great! But, just one little tip, for next week, I advise that
you wear your hair in a more different way as it can be distracting,
especially in a corporate setting.” They said as their eyes scanned the
basic head wrap that shielded her hair underneath.
“Anyways, See ya Monday!”
They left before she could even get a syllable in. She stared off into
the distance stunned because she was confused. Yes, she was rushing
with her hair today, but it was neat, and put together. What about it
was distracting? What about it deserved to be pointed as “unprofessional”?
As a matter of fact, what did she do to deserve to have her
mood spoiled or for her hair to be looked at as the foe to the constructed
idea of professionalism?
Nothing made sense, but in order to not lose this opportunity that
she was gifted. She wore her hair in a slick back bun for weeks. She
didn’t even attempt to wear it in a puff, box braids, even cornrows, or
any of the various styles that she held dear because, for all she knew,
she could have been reported to HR.
However, when those fluorescent lights turned on, it illuminated
the dim shell that just wasn’t herself. It showed all the parts that were
tucked away inside her. It revealed all of the damage that was caused
by one singular event. At that moment, she missed staying up and
combing through her hair until 12:00 am. Though she was frustrated
and annoyed with her hair, she was happy because she didn’t have to
bend it to the will of someone else. She didn’t have to feel like a shell
of her former self, nor did she seriously think that her hair was the
enemy to her prosperity.
She wanted to feel that amazement again. She wanted to feel that
pride in her hair that she once held. She wanted to be able to choose
the hair that she wore and not be subjected to wearing a style simply
out of fear. Therefore, she realized that she had to be her hair’s Friend.
She had to be the one to support and protect her hair in the face of
strife. She had to be the one to advocate and love her hair because,
in the end, who would? Who would be the one to tell her that her
hair was beautiful if she didn’t? So that morning, she breezed out the
house with her twist-out done to a “t.” Though there was a small worry
about what was to come, she found solace in the friendship that was
like no other.
33

Makers
Photography by
Konnor Todd Carrie

Strange Flavor
Poem by Will Broadhurst
Another cuticle cut,
It stings,
And I makes sure to not
Stain my pants with red.
I lick the wound
Like mother wolf
Heals her cub.
That strange flavor,
The iron in the blood.
I would never admit it,
But even though it hurts,
I like the taste.
35

Ache
Poem by Henry David Mauser
I dream,
Careening through scenes of
manifest fantasies,
Excluding every clue of experience
that would fail the passing
semblance of consistence.
I breathe,
And see the unforeseen substance
of things unseen.
Shades of suggestions momentarily
materialize,
Extending the expanse of exhalation.
The feet of fleeting eternity accede
to receding breath,
But still the ghost of a notion rises
on the horizons of my mind.
The premonition presents the
antithesis of sense,
And the reveries reservedly
removing, soon depart.
Yet providence is bent upon
entangling intelligence,
And the echoes cave an etching,
unimagined, on my heart.
36

Nyoooom
Photography by Tanner Jones

Rob(bed) of My Heart
Prose by Ethan Henry and Bianca McCarty
“Come on, we’re gonna miss him,” my friend Sara said, grabbing
my arm and pulling me towards the front of the line.
“Fine,” I said, rolling my eyes and holding onto my copy of The Mortal
Instruments by Cassandra Clare. I would much rather spend my
time reading than going to some stupid meet-and-greet for Robert
Pattinson, whoever that is. I’m not like other girls in my small Ohio
town; I can read.
My friend Sara had dragged me to this convention for Twilight, a
vampire book that every middle school girl read but I never cared for.
I took off my headphones and paused the song “Welcome to the Black
Parade” by My Chemical Romance. Sara was always making fun of me
for listening to bands that she’d never heard of.
“Well, if I have to stand here while you meet Robert Pattinson, then
I’m gonna read,” I said angrily, brushing my black hair out of my eyes.
Finally, we got to the front of the line, and Sara’s face got red as she
walked up to Robert Pattinson.
“OMG, you’re Robert Pattinson! I’m your biggest fan. I’ve seen all
your movies and I have your poster up in my-” Sara started.
“Who are you?” Robert Pattinson said huskily, interrupting her.
I looked up from my book and saw that he staring at me. He was
much more handsome up close than Sara had described him.
“Are you talking to me, Robert Pattinson? Wait, I recognize you:
You’re Cedric Diggory from the Harry Potter film franchise!” I exclaimed.
“What book are you reading?” he said in a soft voice.
I blushed and started to tell him that he probably hadn’t heard of it
when he said, “No way, that’s one of my favorites. Here’s my number,
we can talk about it later.”
By this point, Sara had passed out, and people were trying to revive
her. Robert Pattinson’s manager came up and told him it was time to
go.
“But I don’t want to go, manager! I want to talk to...” he looked
back at me. “Wait, I never got your name.”
But his angry manager just dragged him away before I could say
anything else.
------
Later, I was going for a walk to clear my head and listen to Panic! at
the Disco. I started to cross the street when a car came out of no-
38

where. The driver slammed on the brakes, but it was too late.
“Please don’t hit me!” I yelled, but the driver hit me.
After a second of lying on the ground, I managed to look up and
saw a familiar face standing over me.
“Are you ok?” asked Robert Pattinson.
I tried to stand back up, but it was difficult to move. I limped towards
him but tripped and fell into his arms.
“It’s ok, I’ll carry you,” Robert Pattinson said. He explained that he
had a second home in Waterville, Ohio, and he could take me there to
nurse me back to health. I tried to say no, that I was fine, but when I
looked into his eyes, I was transfixed.
Robert Pattinson took me to his beautiful, dark, secluded mansion
and fed me soup.
“This soup is good, but it could use some garlic, Robert Pattinson,”
I said to Robert Pattinson.
“No!” He yelled suddenly, then calmed himself and said, “Uh, actually,
I think I ran out of garlic, so I would have to go get more, but the
store is really far away, and actually — wait — I think they’re all out of
garlic anyway so there would be no point.”
“Ok,” I said.
Later that night, Robert Pattinson carried me to his bedchamber.
There was only one bed in the mansion, so we would have to share it,
he explained. I blushed and clutched my book closer.
He set me down on the bed and tucked my hair behind my ear.
“I have to tell you something that has been eating away at me ever
since we met,” Robert Pattinson whispered. “I think I’m falling in love
with you.”
“I think I’m falling in love with you, too, Robert Pattinson,” I murmured.
“I have one more surprise for you,” he said teasingly.
At his direction, I closed my eyes and waited for him to return.
Finally, after about a minute, Robert Pattinson told me to open my
eyes. I opened my eyes.
He was wearing his Cedric Diggory quidditch uniform from the
movie Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire (2005). My face flushed.
He sat down beside me and leaned in towards me. But right as I
closed my eyes to kiss him, he lunged forward and bit my neck.
And it was in that moment that I remembered: Robert Pattinson
wasn’t just Cedric Diggory in the Harry Potter film franchise; he was
Edward Cullen, the sexy vampire in the Twilight film franchise.
“Robert Pattinson!” I exclaimed as I took my final mortal breath.
“Call me Rob,” he whispered, and then everything faded to black.
39

Kerið’s Reverie
Photography by Ellie King

Icarus Fallen
Poem by Anna White
Inspired by Be Gardiner’s sculpture “Icarus and the
Guardian Angels”
Here I rest
On a bed of stone
As hard and cold
As my forgotten bones.
In the shade of the oaks
I can’t feel the sun,
The one whom I love,
Who rent me undone.
But my jailors, they suffer
The same fate as I.
We are wrapped up in stone,
Ne’er again to fly.
41

time occurs no
more in here
Poem by Noah Saunders
time occurs no more in here
no clock to tick or sense to feel
idas steps keep time as she
tap
tap
tap
through
eschers
halls
her steps keep no time
for there is none to keep
around the penrose stairs
up
or
up
up
up
down
down
down
down
her steps maintain a constant pace
no need for speed velocity
no time no time to keep the pace
through
timeless
halls
tap
tap
tap
42
just

Intestinal Hub
Photography by Tanner Jones

neptune
Poem by Caleb Buell
312 B.C.
aqueducts filling pores
and sweeping away lashes
from the whip of your words. Dolus and Roman.
“don’t” us and
row, man,
upon the stream
flowing from your source. god of water,
fall at your disposal,
and carry me to bed,
taring the tears
your power summoned.
44

Industrial’s Arboreal Dream
Photography by Ellie King

Catching the Midnight Train
Photograph by Ellie King

Light Pollution
Poem by Elizabeth Ayden Jones
The road signs change
From a rich man’s name
With boulevard behind it
To county road
With a number behind it
The pavement gets grayer
And the white line on the side goes away
Only a faded yellow one in the middle remains
The grass gets taller
The trees get bigger
The houses get smaller
The buildings downtown get shorter and
Few and far between
Have an open sign on the door
And those that do
Are hardly ever lit
There’s no light pollution
Unless it’s a fall Friday night
You can faintly see the local high school stadium’s
Light pollution
In the cloudless, star-speckled sky
Dotted with an occasional airplane
Running towards someplace
Where there’s light pollution
47

I’ll be 21 in June
Poem by Emily Workman
i am
afraid (of forgetting)
i sometimes think the past is burying me
but i only remember (the hollowness)
the shadows where we lived, briefly
and were gone
i cannot recall if my cheeks and ribs
hurt from laughing or crying
i have pictures i never took
and i don’t recognize anyone (even me)
it was (yesterday)
so long ago–
tried to count the days and couldn’t get past (twelve)
when we moved out
somewhere there’s a home
where we never (died)
grew up
and i could live off of that thought alone
of (climbing trees and hanging off the limbs–
we never fell
only paused to watch the clouds roll by and the sun
christen our faces)
running, arm-in-arm, together
pulling each other inside
as mom called for dinner
and in that is eternity
i am
afraid (of forgetting)
48

It’s the Cat’s Floor
Poem by Bennett Ogle
Stubbing my toe as I walked to the fridge,
I wince, I grimace, I catch the cat’s glance.
The cat will, perhaps, give me a nudge – fudge.
Does he or can he see me as a man?
There’s no milk for his saucer - I spiral,
Where to, I do not know. The floor – of what
this four-walled room with stove for pristine pies
or my mind which cannot make bread from wheat.
I pull my knees to my chest but free them.
My very own flesh rejects condolence.
I mustn’t let my being become the thrum.
Either I’ve cried or I spilled the dog’s bowl.
Nothing and yet all is a warmonger,
A surrealism with realistic skylights.
Tomorrow I will feed the cat salmon.
He’ll forgive, but I still live life in skits.
49

Cue
Photography by Konnor Todd Carrie

Mercy
Poem by Lawson McVay
Slash through my twisted, fibrous sinew,
Bash in my head with your iron-wrought hammer,
Sever my muscles—please, continue!
Carve my bones like kindling in winter;
Pop out joints—take your share—
Rip the teeth from out my jaw,
Bend my limbs until they tear,
Rend my organs with your maw.
Would that you now break my body,
Than leave me whole—
But leave me here.
51

Bathroom Towel
The towel holder used to fall
every time I dried my hands.
Screws too small,
holes too loose,
it clattered to the floor.
Poem by Annaliese Skerpan
I used to pick it up.
Push the screws back in.
Swap out the dirty towel.
Wash the old one so it would be ready
next time the holder fell.
But today,
the laundry wasn’t done.
It huddled in the corner of my room,
mercifully hiding,
knowing I couldn’t bear to see it
when I lay huddled on the floor too.
But today,
my arms were too tired to pick up the towel,
my fingers confused how to grasp it
after growing accustomed to the release
of motivation slipping through their gaps.
But today,
my mind was too exhausted to watch it fall
again.
Today,
I bent down to dry my hands on the towel
that rested on the bathroom tiles
and walked
away.
52

Sisyphus’ Sonnet
Like Sisyphus and his stone,
September stayed stuck to my wall.
Past it, October swept in,
bringing with it a fool’s early fall.
Washed linens long forgot,
laid to rest in damp despair.
Washed again and left to rot,
entombed in dank dark air.
Poem by Dawson Eli Wilcox
A silk smooth countryside,
but forewarned and preordained,
obstacles from the noose did rise,
midsummer night’s dreams began to wane.
For all is lost when time finally fails,
nothing is left to soothe the heart that ails.
53

Snow Monkey
Photography by Emily Will
54

Thoughts at your Funeral
Poem by Dorian Anne Pate
Grief is a swift wing sweeping / An uncut gem / In the city
you took portraits of people clutching pearls / I’d forsake
every cent for another second with you / There is no
epitaph except a crumbled shopping list covered in your
cursive / Does a grain of sand consider itself a grandfather
to a vase? / Maybe your body believes in something
greater than you do / Death is a patient parked car / To
be stolen on a street lined with trees / like tall jade towers
/ with you behind the wheel / I cannot touch it / Or
make it move / It is something to stare at till it passes me
too

Carl Elliot’s Attic
Photography by Tanner Jones
56

Cockroach
Poem by Rowan Aldridge
Cockroach skitters across tiled egg floor
Hazy dim bulb lights a smoke-yellow room
There is a fight outside the door in the hallway.
Trash is rotting
There are plates in the sink
The trash is piled up near the door
The food on the plates was burnt and bland
Cockroach skitters up peeling wallpaper
Television lights a smoke-yellow room
There is a man on the news. A war is happening somewhere.
Trash is rotting
There are plates on the table
The trash is rotting under the couch cushions
The food on the plates was cold and tough
Cockroach skitters down clogged shower drain
The light under the door is not enough to see by. But he knows the
room is smoke-yellow.
There is soap scum in the shower. Be careful not to slip.
I am rotting
The bathroom has never been cleaned
The hair in the sink is rotting
The stains in the toilet come from food that was cheap and greasy
Cockroach can skitter wherever he pleases, and so he does.
57

Without Water the Human
Body will Die
Illustration by Brandon Smith
58

Breathe
Poem by Elizabeth Ayden Jones
Dusty piano keys. Wheelchair skid marks tattooing the floor. Little
orange bottles with white caps. Big pills to swallow. I’m afraid there’s
nothing more we can do. Held prisoner to a pillow.
There are things worse than dying.
Waking up to get the news. Crying on your knees in the
shower. Mindlessly driving without the radio on to a one-lessfamily-member
home. Receiving casseroles, cakes, storebought
chicken, and I’m so sorry from everyone you know, and
some you don’t. Finding clothes to wear for a funeral you never
wanted to have to attend.
There are things worse than cancer.
Lying down at night only to remember they are gone.
Feeling tears run down your face, around your ears,
around your neck, and onto your pillow. Hearing their
laugh in your daydreams. Their suffering replaying in
your nightmares.
There are things worse than losing someone you love.
Waking up only to snooze your alarm. Hardly
ever catching yourself with a smile and feeling
guilty if you do. Never having an appetite.
Getting through the day only to lose it the
moment you lie down at night. Sobbing until
your eyes hurt, then your head, then your body,
and then your heart.
There are things worse than remembering they
are gone.
Inhaling.
There are things worse than grief.
Exhaling.
There are things worse than dying.
59

Admire
Drawing by Brandon Smith
60

pillars
Poem by Caleb Buell
“heed the destruction,
lest fate of fire fall.”
a simple decree,
one to shield
from descent
onto the wicked.
the love of Lot
should suffice.
to keep eyes forward
maintain the promise
and prevent wonder
or wander.
still Sodom tempts,
taunts the command,
to come and
bear witness upon
the blazing trail.
and though i may
have long masked my
pillars on a sturdy
foundation,
the covered cracks
lack strength
to uphold appearances.
so
Atlas crumbles
to the weight,
wishing to see behind,
salt becoming
with the turn.
61

No Great Disaster
Poem by Rowan Aldridge
Gray fog drifts through evening leaves
And I stand there among them.
If I run, I will stumble.
If I stop, I will die.
Carry on slowly, through the evening leaves.
I look up at branches that grow barren by the day
But the joy of the seasons comes from this death, and renewal.
If I sing, I will croak.
If I weep, I will die.
Melancholy is a happy compromise, I think.
There is no great beginning.
There was no great disaster.
The hardest thing of all is the Tune carrying on without us,
Ignoring our narrative, rewriting our songs.
All we can do is walk slowly through the graying trees. Hum our song.
Listen to the birds, feel love for the bees,
It’s fine to feel a little wrong.
62

Island Sentinel:
A Flag’s Silent Vigil
Photography by Ellie King

Arboreal Echoes
Photograph of stained bald cypress cells by Zachary Foley

(ode to the sycamore)
Poem by Emma Day
Bending skyward, borne from pebbled ground
Tri-cornered leaves, palm-up to catch the light
Soft scales of gray your mighty torso shroud
To touch the sky, grand arms reach soft and white.
Viridian in summer, coral blooms
In autumn, cloth-of-gold bedecks your shade
When wells go dry, and arid mistrals loom
Beneath your sanctuary, life is laid.
Wise men note your natural penchant toward
Those places where your steady roots may bathe
Your alabaster hands above the grove,
A quiet voice that asks to keep the faith.
Proclaiming water with your striking lines,
Could you thus prove a deity’s design?
65

Furnace 1
Photography by
Konnor Todd Carrie

R&W
Poem by Rowan Aldridge
reeds and wood, of what good
are they to me I have spent
so many years now thinking
of them and they somehow
never made an appearance
what, should i ask to stop
what they are doing and
greet me that is
absurd. a very bad idea
that would undeniably make me very happy.
they are ok
where they are. I should
not ask too much
from them, if they are to
stay green.
67

Magnolias and the
Legacy Museum
Poem by Brianna Byrd
Alabama, where are your sons? Where is your
Bountiful seed? Has your harvest returned to the dirt so soon?
Could it be that the brown flesh of your crops was
Deemed rotten before you examined their cores?
Explain how your magnolias grow so broad. Are they
Fertilized by the compost of bodies that you once
Gallowed? Are the numerous that
Hung in the balance of your
Injustice still tending your soil after death?
Judge, Jury, and Executioner. You lifted people in the sky like
Kites. You strung them over branches like ornaments, except the
Lights you used were from torches, and not
Multicolor bulbs. Yes, you mobbed those you thought were a
Nuisance. Wrapped your rope around their necks and noosed it. Then,
when the
Ordeals concluded, you beamed in photographs with lifeless frames.
Your
Pride apparent in the postcards you sent your brother Mississippi.
Query? Are you disturbed when their blood cries out from the
ground? Are you
Remorseful and ready for reconciliation? Or do you wish to be
Silently stubborn? Steadily shying away from the
Transgressions of your past and their generational implications.
Understand that unless you truly repent for the
Violence you unleashed, your inheritance
Will be full of
Xenophobia, racism, and the most brutal bigotry. Your
Youth will become
Zealots for the wrong causes. The sun will nurture the extensive red
clay
And the magnolias will continue to
Broaden and bloom as epitaphs for the forgotten.
68

A Dreadlock Story
Poem by Miracle Crawford
My locs, a beautiful tale of resilience and grace,
Between wild, unkept and each coiled strand in its rightful place.
A symbol of culture, a story to tell,
With history woven, I wear it well.
From roots to tips
Intricate patterns in shades of red and black.
A symbol of strength, a beacon of pride,
With every twist, they can’t hide.
Locs, a symbol of patience, unity and art,
Binding us close, from heart to heart.
In every coil, a journey unfolds,
A tapestry of stories, as life’s story is told.
69

Watched
Poem by Carson Silas
At nightfall I will see her,
divine’s woeful eyes —
Mold sprouts in the corner of my bedroom door
and her wails echo when I’m alone —
Our fiberglass tub is stained with her mascara tears
and I am eight and scared of the dark.
At midnight I will drink her,
summer’s swarming thunderstorm —
Roaches have bred generations beneath the floorboard of our
house
and her bloody saliva has mixed with the wellwater —
Our food is metallic
and I am seventeen and in love with a boy.
At daybreak I will touch her,
jewel of shame —
Lotsuses root in the box spring of my mattress
and a bouquet sprouts from her wilted irises as she lies still in
the sticky sheets —
When I caress her arm to stop her cries
her skin is thin and full of maggots
and I am twenty and burned by the sun.
70

Front Porch
Painting by Annie Jicka
71

About the Markett
Hybrid Writing by Olivia Womack
Alice Bennett and Geoffrey Empsons sit in the tumbrell, waiting to be
driven around Norwich. Flies swarm around them and the smell in the
air is vile. Suddenly, the cart starts to roll, and they begin their rounds.
Alice keeps her head down, spine as stiff as the Good Book itself as she
waits until this humiliation is over. Geoffrey, on the other hand, grovels
in the cart, refusing to be seen. Alice rolls her eyes.
[5]
The same daie Geoffrey Empsons and Alice
Bennett for abusing themselves in evill
rule are ______ to bee carted about the markett in
A Tumbrell which a bason tynked before them
Paleography is defined as the study of ancient writing systems and the
deciphering and dating of historical manuscripts. I have worked under
Dr. Kaufman in the History department for the past year working on
transcribing a Norwich court book from the sixteenth century. Alice
Bennett and Geoffrey Empsons were citizens of Norwich in 1580s Elizabethan
England, caught having sex in public or, as the Elizabethans
would have called it “carnall copulaccion”. Wanting to embarrass
them, the court declared that they would ride in a tumbrell. A tumbrell
is a two-wheeled cart in which manure is transported. In other
words, it is a shit wagon.
Time spent hiding will result in him having to ride in the cart again but
with an additional punishment. She motions to Geoffrey to sit up but
to no avail. Alice sits, eyes straight ahead yet unseeing, and counts
each squeak of the wheels; with each one, this torment is closer to
being over.
[5]
And because the said Empsons in contempt of the court
Did bye grovelying in the cart so as he could not have
His fare sene therfor by consent of the court he is _____
To ryde ageyn about the markett in a cart with a paper on his
hed for ill rule.
72

By hiding himself in the tumbrell, the court believed that Geoffrey
had not learned his lesson. Therefore, he must ride in the shit wagon
again, this time wearing a dunce cap that bares the words, “ill rule.”
Elizabethan England was incredibly focused on embarrassing their
troublemakers.
In studying paleography, you inhabit the lives of those you are transcribing.
Moreover, in analyzing court books, you see these citizens on
what could very likely be the worst day of their lives. It is important to
humanize these people, especially since you are one of only a handful
of people reading these documents from centuries ago. I find the best
way to do this is to truly reflect on those whom I’m studying, to listen
to them. Were George and Alice scared? Indignant? Indifferent? There
are a kaleidoscope of possibilities. Though I will never truly know the
answers to these questions, picturing these scenes in my mind, instead
of merely moving on to the next paragraph, allows for better
understanding of what I’ve read and, if I’m doing it correctly, more
questions about these people and the society in which they lived. This
necromancy on paper allows the lines between academic and creative
writing to blur, for there to be an integration between the two.
So, I sitt and waite for the deade to speake, for them to crosse the
breach betwyn this lyfe and the next.
Tumbrell, Take Two. Geoffrey, head low, trudges back onto the cart,
this time alone. His hands shake as he climbs up. The manure smeared
over the wood is slick and causes him to trip. Red faced with a chorus
of laughter behind him, he picks himself back up and plants himself
in the tumbrell. The cart begins to roll, and it takes all of Geoffrey’s
might not to cower at the sight of every townsperson they pass. At
one particularly jostling turn, he sees a shock of red hair and startling
green eyes. Alice. Geoffrey sits up straighter in the tumbrell.
Image courtesy of Norfolk Record Office NCR 16a/11, f.2v
73

The Finest Things to Choose
Poem by Rowan Aldridge
I think, if I were forced to choose
‘tween Cicero and modern blues
The choice would be to tie my shoes and
Walk on streets once paved with roses.
Then if I were to pick a land or
Some forgotten calloused hand
The colored leaves would be so grand I’d
Climb a tree and sit in it.
So if I had to favor light
Dusk, or Dawn, or star-specked night
I’d make that yet my finest fight –
I’ve naught but dust to lose.
TAR/PIT
Song by Spencer Hadley
Listen to “TAR/
PIT” on the
homepage of
Volume 34
74

The Wheelers
Photography by Emily Will

Swan Song
Poem by David Washington Moore
Odette knows
what it means to be cursed.
This isn’t her first rodeo.
I’ve heard this story before,
she sighs. I don’t want to die
for a man’s love. I shiver
as her beak grazes my palm.
I remember reading once
that swans can be deadly
if they feel threatened.
Her slender neck arches
like a crossbow of birdbone
as she faces her own reflection.
The rippling image of a woman
meets my eye through waterlogged
tresses of blonde and says,
Does your father know you’re
here,
Odile?
Odette doesn’t look threatened.
She looks drowned — a dead
thing
still swelling with unwanted
breath.
Swans that were once girls
are still just swans, she tells me.
Cursed girls are no different
than any other girl.
I pluck a pearl-white feather
from her body in response.
She doesn’t flinch. Odette knows
that unlike her, I’m more beast
than girl.
76

Tinted Pane
It’s no coincidence he couldn’t
read the lyrics I wrote,
when I wrote them,
they were death knells
Looking at it now
I would’ve regretted if he did
because those aren’t really me
They were what I was feeling but not the end
of the story. Just a dark, dark window
Into a much larger picture.
...
Poem by Rowan Aldridge
I’m still proud of them.
I think they’re good, but I’m going to just leave them be,
They were necessary at the time
an expression of a lot of the things I was feeling,
But not what I want other people to take away from my story.
77

Little Things
Digital Art by Julia Sarrel
78

to show me love
Poem by Caleb Buell
the bag was packed.
toothpaste, trust.
mugs, memories.
a bottle of wine
and
corked yearning
clinking
on the zipper.
it was a tight seal,
dammed,
drug through the doorway
and into
the duskfallen rain,
no trace trailed.
| but for once
the water weakened, |
| seeping in.
and with your touch, |
| tearing
from the |
| ducts and the cloth,
spilling onto the |
| porchlit sepia stain:
“what if i hurt you?”
i was expecting fear.
to watch you drown
in the doubt
of my river released.
rather your hand
softened the stream.
“oh, you will.
all of us cause harm
whether we like it
or not.
it’s just a matter of if
you decide
to twist the knife.”
an ocean in my eyes,
clarity in yours.
“and until then,
i’ll wash
the wounded scarlet
and think about
how your lips
are a much prettier shade.”
79

Crazy Shark Poem
Poem by Drew Aultman
Shaka, shaka
Boom splat
We go fast
We sea rat
Shaka, shaka
Low down
Round the mouth
We wear Crown
Shaka, shaka
Skin so strange
“Come here, babe”
We deranged
Shaka, shaka
One day soon
You will know
We fix wound
A love too big
We show with our teeth
80

Arcade Carpet
Painting by Chrissy Gronke
81

Staff
Designers
Kevin Aharrah
Lauren Chumbley
Tanner Jones
Cassie Montgomery
Cole Pittman
Carson Silas
Brandon Smith
Cole Wright
Copy Editors
Lauren Chumbley
Cassie Montgomery
Carson Silas
Social Media Coordinators
Tanner Jones
Brandon Smith
Other Contributing Staff
Mo Alnaham
Emma Odom
JeVaughn Patterson
Ansel Smith
82

Colophon
Marr’s Field Journal is a student-run literary arts journal. We publish
annually under the Office of Student Media at The University of Alabama.
Our advisor is Jessie Jones.
The digital edition of this journal, as well as past editions, can be found
at mfj.ua.edu.
This publication was produced using a MacBook Air computer. The
software used were Adobe InDesign 19.3 and Adobe PhotoShop 25.6.
Header fonts are Bilo ExtraBold by Pieter van Rosmalen and Earwig
Factory by Raymond Larabie. Byline font is Bilo Italic. Body font is Bilo
Regular.
This is an 84 page production.
Cover collage was created by the Marr’s Field Journal staff with original
artwork by Lauren Chumbley, Tanner Jones, Carson Silas, Brandon
Smith, and Maya Mungo.
83

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follow us at https://www.instagram.com/mfjua/, or scan
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