Marr's Field Journal Vol 35

Letters from Editors

the

I am grateful to have been editor

of Volume 35 of Marr’s Field Journal.

On this important anniversary of the

publication, we wanted to reinforce

for our contributors and our readers

that MFJ is a place for students to

share their different experiences and

eclectic modes of creativity. This

mission inspired us to represent

Volume 35 through a collage of

tchotchkes. The cover collage—and

plethora of thumbnails throughout

the Journal—are items found

around staff members’ apartments,

carried with us since childhood,

borrowed from our roommates, or

simply picked up off the sidewalk.

These items move us, humor us, and

remind us of compelling moments in

our lives.

Thank you, contributors, for

sharing your work. Your voice and

art make a difference.

Thank you, readers, for

participating in the art of our

community by enjoying work that

your peers poured their hearts into.

I am incredibly thankful for the

MFJ staff. It means so much to me

that we are not only teammates

but friends are well. You all make

me laugh and use your wit and

creativity to bring joy to those

around you. I adore you all.

Sincerely,

Sarah Scarcliff, Editor-in-chief

Reader,

Another year, another fantastic

journal. Team, I loved spending

time with you all for hours every

week reviewing pieces, voting, and

working on layouts. Your hard work

made Volume 35 possible, and I

will always be grateful that you put

trust in Sarah and me to pull two

semesters’ worth of work together

into this book. It’s been a pleasure to

get to know all of you better, and an

honor to have each of you as a dear

friend. I cannot wait to work with

you all again next year.

To our submitters, I adored

seeing certain topics—like love,

family, and even fish—pop up again

and again with your work, and as

always, it was creative and worthy

of deep discussion at every turn.

Thank you for allowing us to review

your art and make it a part of this

year’s Journal.

Finally, to our readers, thank

you for loving and supporting the

Journal and making this process

possible. I am so grateful to have

the chance to work as an editor for

Marr’s Field Journal, and I hope that

you enjoy reading this edition. We

couldn’t have done it without you.

Yours,

Maya Mungo, Managing Editor

Staff

Editors

Sarah Scarcliff,

Editor-in-chief

Maya Mungo,

Managing Editor

Designers

Emma Day

Jordan Earnest

Tanner Jones

Walter Mink

Lex Mroczko

Maddie Robinson

Ava Rudd

Ansel Smith

Brandon Smith

Cole Wright

Other Contributing Staff

Mo Alnaham

Lauren Chumbley

Elle Sims

Abby Slonaker

Zach Vinnola

The Magic

of the

Mundane

by Adeline Dobereiner

black and white conté

on brown paper

Table of Contents

creative nonfiction

46

63

fiction

23

42

58

61

poetry

6

7

8

10

Tanner Jones Prose

Pt 12 - Night Fried

Tanner Jones Prose

Pt 19 - Party Fright

Kristie Meyer

Corporate Casualty

Jordan Earnest

Soft, Gentle Tears

Emma Day

Sanguine

Avery Gronowski

Godless

Rowan Aldridge

Unsteady Hands

Emma Day

bitter

Ben Iboshi

College Fishball

Jack Parker

apology to my cat

volume 35

Table of Contents

12

16

25

26

28

29

30

32

33

34

Marr’s Field Journal

poetry, cont.

Avery Huffman

Radio Free Me

Eden S. Ridout

Seltzer Water Woman

19

20

24

Bee Hydrick

Sleep is a Lover

Bianca McCarty

Senior Year

Isabela Malo

Wax Ticker

Sidney O’Donnell

Waning

Emma Day

Marsha

Sidney O’Donnell

Seedless

Sakengali Kazhiyev

Dare

Sidney O’Donnell

To Be

Azalea Laine

Parchment Thoughts

Sidney O’Donnell

Interlude

Eden S. Ridout

Invincible, Maybe

38

40

44

45

49

50

52

53

54

62

65

67

69

Rowan Aldridge

Streetlights

Lea Jones

Bus Ride Buddy

Emma Day

sweet and sour grapes

Thomas Mayhall

Telephone

Ben Iboshi

Double Helix

Olivia Marie Womack

ABCs of Poetry

Bianca McCarty

Fist Fighting Abuela

Elijah Naugher

Emerald Tree Boa

Olivia Marie Womack

Gotha c. 1957:

A Reconstruction

Avery Huffman

Hungover Musings

Emma Day

hands on bronze

Thomas Derriso

The Canopy

Bianca Becchinelli, Rylan

Corley, Chasity Drayton,

Lexi Kniffin, Olivia Lee,

Tyler McMahan, Bobby

Meyers, Chloe Register,

70

71

72

74

76

78

9

11

14

15

21

22

27

Isabella Torres,

Ellington Wesson, and Dr.

Sara Pirkle

Linger Awhile

Azalea Laine

Little Flower

Johnnie Trainer Reed

Hibiscus in Bloom

DJ Grygo

#1, #2, #3

Sidney O’Donnell

Gills

Isabela Malo

Hindsight

Sidney O’Donnell

Intertwined

visual art

Adeline Dobereiner

Fishbowl

Brandon Smith

Venerated Spirits

Jackson Davidson

Parasocial

Isabela Malo

Influencer

Brianna Skelton

Gas Pump at Sunset

Brianna Skelton

Systems

Allison Carlson

Landscape from Pride &

Prejudice (2005)

41

47

48

31

36

39

Brandon Smith

Past and Present

Allison Carlson

Brutalism Magazine

Tanner Jones

In-In-Ininininininin O-Ouo-ou-OUT

Brianna Skelton

Traffic Light

Allison Carlson

Blue Panther Stencil

Brianna Skelton

Family Chain

51

60

64

66

68

73

75

79

Allison Carlson

Anatomical Skeleton

Adeline Dobereiner

Morning Song

Allison Carlson

Self Portrait

Musharaf Alnaham

Cradled

Brandon Smith

My Offering of Memories

Adeline Dobereiner

checkmate.

Adeline Dobereiner

Go Fish!

Luke McArthur

Wings

volume 35

Unsteady Hands

by Rowan Aldridge

In the waking-time of misfits and

miscreants, above the closed-watchful

eyes of our god,

there lies in wait a lady of paint

with no time for her work settle on walls,

Instead she paints fast, messy

letting the colors drip, and drip

down the wall and blend with another;

forming hues for which we have names

but have no words to properly describe.

We call them mixes,

half-breeds, queer and chartreuse,

and consider them the work of a sloppy hand

an unsteady artist with no patience

no virtue, no place on our stands,

But her works are featured anyways

on government building alley-walls,

on faces and names and streets,

in blood spatters and brick patterns,

on statues of godly deeds,

On 6 o’clock news and old wooden pews

and behind pulpits where old men spit

and sputter, there are drips of art and mixes

of color and nothing short

of the very act

of divine creation at hand.

Marr’s Field Journal 6

bitter

by Emma Day

Girl, when we met, all underground,

fluorescent lights shining in your slinky black dress,

Sleek ginger skinny cat swinging down the stairwell

steps on my foot with her strappy kitten heel

and hooks my waist for balance—

Cave-dark bar in the middle of the night,

Both brazen on tequila and foreign language,

you bruised down my collarbones, crawled up my back,

welded your touch to my porcelain hips

Melted like mercury in my hot hands—

We rolled down the anthill metro tunnel

Missed the train by a fine red spider’s thread,

and for a moment it kept pace with our stumbling,

and neither seemed to move at all

when I turned your knife-edged face to downy mine—

Now here I lie on the brittle brown crabgrass,

scrape through the thick summer Vaseline air,

and the sky sways and tumbles on its moody August

way,

where it thunders and blusters and doesn’t rain,

and I drive too fast

toward the shimmering oasis the sun makes of the road.

7 volume 35

College Fishball

by Ben Iboshi

A blue runner, 2 foot 2

6 pounder, not the biggest in the pool

but built for speed, Last year

played at Tennessee but transferred

through the river portal now he’s Bama’s

number 1 aquatic weapon

Last year, a true freshman, fresh water, man

swam for over one thousand yards in the regular season, that

season being autumn, those

anglers never caught ‘em

Snapper starts the play and then he’s off

look at him, that blue runner weave

juke, break lines, seeing

through the fisher’s scheme

and evades the bait inside

the enemy tackle box

a solid gain, keeps

the drive alive, the streak

remains for another gamefish,

the blue runner, or so it seems before

a pivotal play

catch of the day


8

Fishbowl


drawing

9 volume 35

Venerated

Spirits

Brandon Smith

Digital Art

Apology to

My Cat

by Jack Parker

it’s getting late; I ought to go to sleep—

my cat is lying curled up on my bed.

i scoop him up and place him on the floor,

he answers with a disappointed meow

that breaks my heart. i’m sorry, i reply

(although of course he doesn’t understand).

it’s true. i really wish that he could stay

with me, but leg room i must have

or else i’ll lie awake the whole night long.

another little tragedy of life:

our interests, oftentimes, do not align

with those of whom we love the most of all.


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volume 35

Radio Free

Me

by Avery Huffman

Skull-shaped shotglass spits whiskey’s grinning flame

“Another” and “another” I’m told

As serpent’s venom wends its way

Drowning mind and body into absolute delirium.

I too have tasted Eve’s curse

By kissing and sucking forbidden fruit

Letting the serpent have its way with me

Atonement never saved me from the Fall.

Tick tock tick tock tick tock tick…

Delusions of grandeur promise love and life

What have they got that I can’t find?

Watchmaker, something has gone terribly wrong

Am I doomed to watch the world rust and leave everyone,

Even Time,

So desperately behind?

If anything, just give me a wind or two so I can go on a bit longer.

Give me this day my daily bread—I have none;

Please forgive me, I’m doing my best;

How can I ever forgive the one who’s so shamelessly used me?

I embody temptation and evil for things I have not chosen;

For you, I’ve relinquished my power and glory;

Just to starve and watch others die, for ever and ever.

Amen.

Thus I am left alone to cater to my endless selves,

Each steward awaiting the return of the king;

Yet I am no man,

The dreadful Witch-King, the ultimate foe, lies before me.


I’ve seen the TV glow,

I’ve begun scratching my way out of an untimely burial;

Pink Opaque burns passion and love into the back of my neck,

Yet the Twins’ hypnotic, synthetic drums

Bounce gibberish between my ears

And lull me to sleep;

Mr. Melancholy clouds and distorts my way.

“There is still time,” but for what?

We who were living are now dying

With a little patience

You’ve got your fish, and your lands are in order

But where has our humanity gone?

I pray for hope and peace and love

I’ve known total bliss before

Yet my drink’s worn off

I’ve awoken to creaking springs

Bruised body

Broken spirit

Stolen flower

I am forever Lost.

While the serpent slithers away

Basking in a plentiful and everlasting sun,

My sorrow multiplied despite my lack of conception

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volume 35


Parasocial

by Jackson Davidson

photography

Influencer

by Isabela Malo

digital art

15

volume 35

Seltzer Water Woman

by Eden S. Ridout

i am a Woman in the way seltzer water is a soda—

something that fizzes, bottled and labelled,

trying to pass, trying to quench,

but It’s not what You expected, is It?

You crack me open with a hiss, the sharp burst of carbonation

fleeing faster than i can stop.

You wanted sweetness, sugar, that syrupy stick on Your lips,

but i’m just bubbles and bitter air—

no easy flavour to pinpoint.

when They handed me Woman like a mislabelled bottle,

i held It because there was nothing else to drink.

Did i not tilt It, try to pour slow,

coax the bubbles to behave,

and smooth myself out,

like maybe if i stayed still long enough,

the fizz would settle into something i could swallow?

They taught me to dress the bottle

with pink florals and cursive,

taught me Femininity should taste

like lavender, vanilla, or strawberry kisses.

but every time i tried on a flavour,

It clanged against my teeth,

sour and bright.

but still—oh, how i love the shimmer of glass in the sun,

the glint of bubbles rising, the way They catch the light.

how i love the feeling of fizz on my tongue,

just for a second, before It stings.

Femininity is a sparkle i can’t consume whole

but like to sip from time to time—

something bold held briefly on my lips

before the bitterness sets in.


but that’s not being a Woman, is It?

not the syrup-thick satisfaction that fills a glass just right.

It’s not the hum of carbonation that everyone else feels,

that instinct my Mother calls a Daughter’s duty

or what my Friends call pride.

They cradle their Girlhoods like champagne flutes—

balanced, delicate, knowing just how to sip.

i hold It like a shaken can,

ready to burst the moment It’s touched,

Gender slipping through my fingers,

too wild to stay contained.

if i say i am a Woman,

They’ll nod—of course you are.

but if i say i’m not—

the air fizzes awkward, like

a soda machine that only

dispenses out LaCroix.

and then, there’s the rest—

the way wanting Girls feels like drinking something off-brand,

possessing the wrong ingredients to be true cola.

sometimes, i wish—no, pray—

for the ease of being something traditional:

a husband, a Sunday barbecue,

something my grandparents could pour into a glass

without wincing at the name.

instead, i’m stuck in the in-between—

like a bottle half-twisted open, fizzing but not free.

most days, i keep my Queerness capped tight,

tucked away, an unopened bottle.

sometimes, i adjust the pressure based on who’s watching,

cracking the seal just enough in some rooms:

whispering “thanks, but i’m a Lesbian” to the Guy in class

when “no” isn’t sweet enough.

but i tighten the cap around Family,

practising the lies i’ll pour for my Grandparents

17

volume 35

if i ever marry:

“no, She’s just a Roommate.”

“yes, It’s just easier for taxes.”

lies slide smoother—They already know the flavour.

and i resent that i’ve had to master two pours—

one for the world i live in, and one for the world i crave.

i hate how i twist myself shut,

keeping the bubbles light, the taste mild:

not too bold, too bitter, too proud.

i resent how much effort It takes

to love quietly without spilling over—

to be palatable.

so Here i am:

a seltzer water Woman, fizzing and bitter, bottled and capped.

flat in places where i shouldn’t be, sharp in places where i should be

sweet.

i exist between the labels people expect

and the self i can’t quite name.

and i hate It—

hate how i have to apologise for my flavour

even when i refuse to dilute or concentrate It.

hate how saying, “no, i’m a Lesbian” comes with the second thought:

but what if this gets me hurt?

i hate living where every Truth feels ready to explode,

where love feels more like a label to peel off than something to pour

out.

hate how i still crave sweetness, crave simplicity,

even though It will never be mine to drink.

because the Truth is:

even when the bubbles rise, even when i sparkle,

i’m still not soda.

and at the end of the day, i just sit here—

open, flat,

and going stale.


Sleep is a Lover

by Bee Hydrick

A most fair maiden beckons me to bed;

I fall into a trance and acquiesce

Onto her pillowed breast I rest my head

So that away I may drift hence from stress.

For her, I would go any distance just

To taste the honeyed sweetness of her breath

So I can blip out of existence, thrust

Into the daze of nights, a little death.

She’s not a drug, she’s candied oxygen.

Worse than withdrawal, I will cease to be

Without her, damned by unproductive sin;

Yet made a virtue in her company.

Come dawn I mourn, for she’s not mine to keep

Although I covet everlasting Sleep.

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volume 35

Senior Year

by Bianca McCarty

The gas station duck has me in its sights.

Feathers worn, eyes dull,

I’m wondering

How that pizza crust tastes

Salted by the concrete

In a town called Loose.

As for Kansas City,

I’ve never been there,

But they say—wait,

is that duck drinking gasoline?

Christ, he reminds me of you,

Every animal does

When things are hot like this

And colored pencils are too dull

for drawing and poking holes in condoms.

God, what a nightmare that would be,

Some kid like my sister, the braggart,

Fresh blood in Loose Town,

They have to get through me

and my gang of freaks, either goons or lovers,

tense like cicadas posed for attack,

deafening as lemonade-flavored liquor.

Wrists are broken,

And the duck keeps inching

Its webbed feet closer,

Ready to breathe fire,

Ready to bring all to end.


Gas Pump at Sunset

by Brianna Skelton

photography

21

volume 35


Systems

by Brianna Skelton

photography

Corporate Casualty

by Kristie Meyer

An email from the home office states that someone on my team accepted

a blank check as payment for a car. I stare at the scanned image, which is

indeed a blank check from Navy Federal Credit Union. It should have the loan

amount written on it. It should have the approval code we received from

their representative when we called.

It is blank.

I will need to call Navy Federal now, all my fingers and toes crossed that

they approve this loan and we do not have to beg the customer to return a

car we never should have sold them.

I will need to have a conversation with my team member, an outside hire

who is supposed to be a supervisor just like me.

I will need to remember to email the home office with an update once I

have fixed Lily’s mistake.

A laugh draws my attention to the corner of the office. We don’t have

cubicles in here, just a bunch of connected desks with computers on top of

them and filing cabinets below them. A big rectangular window connects us

to the rest of the building, to the customers and sales consultants we serve.

We are a fishbowl, on display for everyone to claim we never do any work

because we just sit on computers all day. Our every word echoes out to the

people in the waiting area, a fact my team often forgets when they choose to

say inappropriate things.

There Lily sits, showing Tiffany a video of her cat. She always looks so

put-together, with her straightened hair and makeup. She told me once she

never leaves the house without it. I wish she would put the same effort into

her job.

I could have the conversation now. Make her fix this herself. But a

customer is approaching, and I would rather let her answer whatever

question they may have. I reach for the phone.

Find the

rest of this

story on our

website!

23

volume 35

Wax Ticker

by Isabela Malo

WARNING.

Keep away from flammable objects. Keep away from lies. Burn within

sight.

BURNING INSTRUCTIONS.

Trim the wick to ¼’’ before lighting. Keep the heart free of foreign

materials including infidelity and cruelty. Only burn the heart on a

safe, solid and steady surface. Do not burn the heart for more than

four months at a time, lest it become perpetually enamored. Stop

use when only ½’’ of wax remains. Renew the heart or ensure proper

disposal and handling.

9.8 Net Wt. (oz)


Waning

by Sidney O’Donnell

The inanimate curse

of a candlestick lies

deep in flammability,

yearning for control.

How can something

so lifeless be mortal?

Wavering when that

moth flies near, afraid

the wings will extinguish

its vitality, unable

to rekindle its

soul. Beware, for

the imperceptible rush,

conjured from flutters,

attempted to hold the

fragile flame, but

cold hands were

never meant to hold

warmth. The wax now

sits lifeless, tranquil,

allotted centuries of

epiphany, yet, it remained

molded as it was the

day its light went out,

now standing for a

stagnant existence, rather

than a burning survival.

Like a moth to a flame,

they said. Just be

careful not to

blow it out.

Relight the fire

once more, and

hope the wax melts,

before the matches are used up.

volume 35

Marsha

by Emma Day

There are these two huge honeysuckle bushes

in my backyard, and

honeysuckle’s invasive.

You can tell by the way it grows—

it spreads out in pointy splintering

skinny branches with tiny leaves and

afterthought flowers, and

small red berries that crush

like tomatoes in your fingers. They’re

taking over the edges of the grass like a

fence, a dry crackling Sleeping-Beauty bramble

and I can’t see through

to my neighbors anymore.

The last time I talked to my neighbor, yesterday,

we stood on the short strip of grass

between our houses and

she told me about how her husband is taking her

to India.

I can’t hide my fear on my

lined and too-expressive face and

I tell her about my fear. I can’t fly,

I can’t imagine stepping out

of my sweet little house-boat of

familiar streets and orthotic shoes into a

new one, a violent brand-new

ocean full of swirling people like

sea monsters from the corners of

old-world maps. I like

the corners of my backyard, I like my old world

where the bushes stand and I can watch them,

and I can cut them back with

long-handled shears,

when they start getting too adventurous.


Landscape from

Pride & Prejudice (2005)

by Allison Carlson

drawing

27 volume 35

Seedless


Scolded by the soil for ripping up roots of its bloom,

knots of lace choke the stems,

suffocating the petals,

forcing strangers to soak up the last of their life together.

Malice formed in the eyes of the garden,

unknowing these hands were harvesting affection.

But dear,

the seeds only see what’s in front of them.


Dare

by Sakengali Kazhiyev

I’ve a person to forget

how hard can it be

how hard can it get

when a branch of a tree

or a word out of blue

hurries to retrieve

old memories of you

or when having a thought

you’d love me to share

when out of nothing

you appear out of air

and then i remember

that i still slightly care

and realize that forget i won’t

that i wouldn’t dare

29

volume 35

To Be

by Sidney O'Donnell

Held in time by the jagged hands of reflection,

each shard digging deeper into your mind.

Your gaze is bound to the stars, not the future.

You try to abstain from the broken pieces scattered on the ground.

They lie dormant,

it is you

who moves.

Pick them up, as unsalvageable as they are, they’ll remember your face.

Each minute is

slightly quicker

than

the

last.

Time is gaining on you.

It is not a bad thing.

The way you flourish cannot be entrusted to anyone but the moon,

for it sculpted your conscience with the cosmic force of desire.

Not to mention the man on the moon

has fished for that star you insistently wish upon,

reeling it in, then tossing it back into the mouth of the midnight sea,

allowing it to burrow in the soil,

protecting it from any steps that don’t follow the rhythm of your heart.

Your ribs encage ambition,

every breath uproots the fragments that hinder your memory.

Somewhere, that star lies in wait,

for it will only glow at a certain strike.

Don’t fret,

you will be there.


30

Past and Present

by Brandon Smith

photography

31

volume 35

Parchment Thoughts

by Azalea Laine

catch her voice in

low rustles

gentle chatters

tiny scratches

canyons

curved rivers

silk generosity

allows agitated ideas

room for breath

and diction to

form like the

gentle blowing of God

in the public square

she cries

sings even

to crumple

to tear

to blow away

towards

one hit symphonies and

beige unresung garbage

please

fold her up

and place her in

your pocket

to see

the world


Interlude


Heart entrapped by calcium cage

ticks for how long?

Indistinguishable to Orpheus,

hindered by change.

The wind turns back your neck,

“Are you aware that the leaves shift?”

The time is now.

The force of journey lays on your shoulders

forever. What

a short time we have.

Inclination caused interlude.

Now you see how

pages were left blank. Your ink ran out,

but not your mind,

fragments of words remain.

The difference between you and

that owl, lies with

its gift of full rotation, strict of sight.

You carry your

skin either way you face.

Allow for the tree roots to hold

you down. Listen

to the warning of the waves through the conch.

The time is now,

only walk with the wind.

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volume 35

Invincible, Maybe

by Eden S. Ridout

I’m a fuse spitting sparks–

could light up this whole place just for fun.

Would they notice if I stood on the desk

and announced myself queen of all things?

Probably not. Probably yes.

Who cares? It’s all paper walls.

I could scream in the middle of class,

throat-torn howl, banshee-shriek–

and everyone would just keep typing, keep chewing

their granola bars and scribbling their notes,

like static on a broken TV.

Couldn’t they see me walk in front of that bus?

Feel it in the soles of their shoes,

the shiver in the asphalt as metal missed my skin

by a thought–

or hit me,

and I’d pop right back up like a damn cartoon,

laugh it off, maybe.

Knives are jokes. Rubber blades.

I cut into onions and they cut back–

I could drive the point straight into my hand,

just to see the dull surprise of it

skipping off bone,

slinking away like it owes me rent.


Time loops like cheap ribbon around my ankles.

If I untie it, I might float. Might burst. Might fly.

Might not.

Do you think gravity has anything on me?

I could walk into a lake with pockets full of rocks–

not drown,

just stand there like a statue until the water evaporates.

I could jump off a roof.

No, really, it’s all foam down there,

everything bounces when you stop believing it’s real.

What’s real? Who knows?

Not me. Not today.

The walls blur when I move too fast–

or maybe it’s my brain lagging behind,

tethered like a stray balloon. But you know what?

It’s kind of freeing, this glitch in the system.

I could be anyone.

I could be no one.

And if no one can stop me–

then maybe I was never here at all.

35

volume 35

Brutalism Magazine

by Allison Carlson

graphic design


37

volume 35

Streetlights

by Rowan Aldridge

What is heat if not the warm hand

of something cosmically

indefinable, blissfully unknowable

and entirely essential?

it takes nothing from me

to consider the heat of streetlights

of each beat of a moth wing

driven to joy pseudolasting

and eminent and real

and wholly, entirely unnecessary—

a meaningless individual,

when considered individually.

I am meaningless too, i fear

when seen from the perspective of meaning

and heat, i hardly give more

than the lamp over my desk,

it is lit more to entertain flies than me

but the flies cannot handle its heat, poor

Icari, and drop to form piles arranged

by that same godly indifference

held back by streetlights.


In-In-Ininininininin

O - O u - o - o u - O U T

by Tanner Jones

graphic design

39

volume 35

Bus

RideBuddy

by Lea Jones

Do you remember how we first met?

On the bus 4, I believe

Now I may not remember what we first said to each other

But from then on. I knew you were my bus ride buddy

From 5th grade till Junior year of high school

We always saved a seat for each other

Made up stories on the ride home, characters created from street names

Do you recall, Golly?

We were weird and strange but at least

We were weird and strange

Together

Middle school days haunt us

As we’ve seen every phase of each other

Good and Bad

From Bus 164 to Bus 28

We transferred secrets as we transferred buses

Our senior year you had Major, and I ended up with Sonic

You failed your first test, and I waited till January

We both got our license later than we expected

I remember Homecoming

After the Pep-Rally

We walked from school to your neighborhood

Still, you walked me to the Church before we fully parted ways

But if you remember that wasn’t the first time

Our freshman year we had a sub; she called your stop to be the last

I had no clue what to do and you offered to walk home with me

So, there we were walking and talking on the side of the road

We stopped at the church and waved goodbye

Giggling like we were doing something truly

Scandalous

Our bus riding days together were over by second semester of senior year

But our friendship is still thriving

Every year


Traffic Light

by Brianna Skelton

photography

41

volume 35

Soft,

GentleTears

by Jordan Earnest

I met dad at Patrick’s. Patrick was a family friend that owned a

veterinarian practice. He had some pipes burst, and a slurry of mud and

dog shit filled the yard. It was meant to be a reservoir for draining the dog

kennels. Dad was supposed to fix it. I don’t know how much faith Patrick had

in Dad but it was certainly more than I did.

Dad opened the sliding door on the van. He brought some boots I needed

for this. “Slide these over your Dickies” he said. I was at Patrick’s for an hour

or two before dad. He asked to meet me and showed up a few hours later than

he said. He became elusive after he and mom split.

“Nice to have you out here, Sport” he said and opened the fence to the

yard. “You pushing through college, like I told you?”

“Something Like that,” I said. “I really needed this break.”

“Don’t we all? You’re still spending Thanksgiving with your mom and

What’s-his-name?” he asked, wiping massive pools of sweat from his

forehead. He was covered in sweat, but it was abysmally cold. The coldest

I’ve felt it around Thanksgiving. I nodded my head and put the boots on. They

didn’t fit and one was laceless. Still, they would be better than my tennis

shoes. I walked into the yard and soaked it all in. The yard smelled atrocious,

and looked like it was covered in wet sand. A backhoe Dad had rented sat on

top of a small mound. It was surrounded by the ruts and trenches that Dad

made.

I started walking into the mess. It was thick and moved like cement. The

boots were tall and stopped at my knees. I made the mistake of getting both

feet lodged in a clot at the same time. I was stuck, or at least my boots were.

I tried to just pull strongly. That would get me nowhere. I took my shovel and

tried to dig myself out. It worked a little and it was satisfying to feel the thick

slurry break and the air surround my boots. Right as I was about to be free,

I fell out of the boots. I fell on my back and the slurry molded to my body and

stuck there.

I walked to the part of the yard that was normal. A woman was there

walking a pitbull. She had on her blue scrubs. I knew her.

“Well, lookie here at George,” she said. “When are you working with us

again?”

“I don’t know that I will,” I said and started the hose next to the freezer

building.

“My boy here is at college. Not that he’s interested in working down there

anyways,” Dad said as he crossed into the yard with me and the woman. The

two looked at each other. They knew each other too, and I got to wondering

if this was the woman that Mom always mentioned. They took their

conversation elsewhere. I cleaned the clots of slurry off my clothes and boots.

The hose water was biting cold.

We got back to work and I was reminded of how redundant my help was. I

spent hours raking slurry off of PVC pipes and occasionally holding them while

Dad attempted to fix them with zip ties. The day turned to eventually sitting

and watching Dad move slurry on the backhoe.

“Where’d you get the machine?” I asked him.

“I’m renting it. That’s why I need to get this done fast,” he said. He had been

working on this for almost a month with no end in sight. He rarely broke even

on these jobs. They always managed to stretch into oblivion. He would be hard

to find or visit because he was bouncing from one money pit to another. The

backhoe was almost certainly paid for by Mom, and she paid for it by how she

spends her weekends. While sitting, I watched him move the slurry around. It

was a couple hours of just waiting.

“Son, can you run by Nana’s and grab a bag of mine? It’s in my dresser” he

said, turning off the backhoe. I wanted to leave the slurry pit, so I jumped on

the chance. “Yes, I can.”

“Get it, take a shower, and go home. I don’t need you to be here.”

I drove to my grandparents’. That’s where Dad was sleeping since the split.

When he wasn’t sleeping, he was almost never there. I can’t say I blame him. I

took off my work clothes and took a shower in the elderly bathroom.

Dad’s room was presumably the same as when he was in high school.

Sickly yellow wallpaper was stamped with the occasional Nirvana poster, or

maybe a Widespread Panic one. I figured the holes in the walls were left by

that teenage boy and hadn’t changed since. The only difference now was that

a large and graying man, rather than a varsity wide receiver for the local

high school, slept on the sweaty futon. I sat down on the “bed” and eventually

dozed off.

I woke up, realizing it was now dark. Dad hadn’t called. I walked to

the dresser and opened the tall door. Leaning on a stack of vintage porn

magazines was the bag. It was an old JanSport backpack. It reeked of pot, and

I wanted to look in it. I thought maybe I didn’t want to know exactly what Dad

needed so bad. What he wanted when I was to leave him alone.

When I got to Patrick’s it was quiet. There were no digging noises or hints

of humanity. I opened the gate to the slurry pit. I saw the backhoe sitting on

the mound of dogshit. It was stoic and taller than the fence that surrounded

the pit. It was flanked by the dig marks and endless circles of trenches.

Trenches that served no purpose. Dad was sitting on the backhoe chair. His

throne was cast with orange light by the street lamp. I saw his face in the

light. It was lined with soft, gentle tears that shined and sat on his cheek.

I opened the bag and saw his weed and baggie of pills. I left it there in the

slurry, and went home.

43

volume 35

sweet

and

sourgrapes

by Emma Day

Listen Sarah, I normally wouldn’t

tell you all this, but

when we were sitting at that

rickety metal table

face to face, but not looking at each

other, and

I had ordered an iced London fog

that the barista didn’t know how to

make, and

you kept hitting the table with

your knee when you uncrossed your

legs, making it

rattle and spill all my pens onto

the floor, and

I was reading because I didn’t

know what else to do, you

told me about how you missed your

boyfriend and I told you

I understood.

I don’t know how to put this, but

I felt your purple loneliness

tumble up next to my red,

like fat cumulonimbus clouds when the sun is

going down, and

your words would have tasted

like vegetables,

if they had to have a taste.


Telephone

by Thomas Mayhall

Do you remember?

That day your mother made us a telephone

Out of two tin cans and a string

I was in the bathroom down the hall

Hearing you faintly

From the kitchen pantry

You said those were the two most secret rooms in your entire house

And the telephone was for secrets only

You told me that you were afraid of the dark

But not like night dark

Like dark when it was day, but the clouds made it gray

That dark wasn’t supposed to happen

The day needs to be bright

The day needs to be yellow

Then I told you that I loved you

And you told me the telephone was “only for secrets silly”

But you said it back later that night

Through the telephone

As we got older, you carried that telephone around

Wherever you went

In case you needed to tell me you loved me

I know its been a while

But I walked past your house the other day

And I saw those tin cans in your window

And you had used them to plant basil

And I’m sorry, but curiosity got the better of me

And I walked up to your window

And I saw the cans still had a string

But it wasn’t ours

45 volume 35

Pt 12-

Night Fried

by Tanner Jones

It’s every witching hour, and I’m asleep, and I have never felt more alive

than when I dream demented things. As soothing as a singing voice can

speak and as calm as I learn my mind to be, so I sleep, what lies beneath a

truth unfolds in the dimness of my mind so cold. Mares that walk about,

and in the night step to beats sown to dread, are drawn to me in the dead

of light. Steps on my chest beat my heart to the sound of sights I have

yet to know so bright with fright. Each dawn I recall the night, it stings,

when dreams try to make the bad days seem better and the okay days be

great, subjecting me to what life has yet to carve away. One, I’m locked

in dog kennels in the bed of the truck, through an opening behind metal

bars, and my dad laughs as I cry, all at the request of an officer of the law

outside my daycare, a church. Two, I sit up on my bed, in our trailer, and

see our Rottweiler ruby-eyed and frothing a rabid snarl, growling in the

doorway across my small room and I ask her if she’s okay as she lunges,

pinned under the covers as I squirm and cry, she mauls me before I wake.

Three, we take a sharp corner while I’m in the back seat by the right

door of our suburban, as it swings loose, I’m shot out and off the road,

down a hill, I’m left to watch as they just close the door and keep going,

left to broken bones. Four, the world is dead, and my friends and I help

a man whom we follow to a room in a sunken mall maze, and then he

shuts himself in. As I crack the door, he’s in the middle of a stark-white

space staring at the floor, frozen in place as I see a human-like-thing,

pale like chalk, standing right behind his shoulder with irises as rich

as blood, subjecting me, between our eyes, to despair in the face of true

terror so real I wake myself screaming. Dehumanization, molestation,

humiliation, suicide, gore, murder, each spill from my slumbering mind

such that I would be unable to sleep each week. To sleep at all is to walk

a line in my mind so finely quiet, I cannot think a wink.


Blue Panther

Stencil

by Allison Carlson

painting

47 volume 35


Family Chain

by Brianna Skelton

sculpture

Double Helix

by Ben Iboshi

My hands lay numb against mossy roof tiles. My parents will know

something’s up, I don’t know. She just stares, her hair outlined in

moonlight, she holds out the laptop. Until my hands reach, Ok fine. The

screen floods white light. My eyes adjust. Double helix. Click. Drag. Click,

click.

—

Here’s the news: It’s like Jurassic Park where they clone stuff now and it’s

real. Like sheep all the time but nobody mentions it. DNA RNA editing, in

the mainstream. It’s on TikTok and in labs in our homes and our schools.

Do your kids use CRISPR? Check their backpacks.

—

You like pugs? Think they’re cute even though they can’t breathe with that

nose? That’s the least of their problems because now they have crab legs!

See them crab walk! Stylish! Sometimes the legs break (we’re still working

out kinks). But wait, the meat is delicious! Buy your crab-pug today!

—

We’re Moms Against DNA editing. We’re MAD. No mutations without

regulations. Our homes are no place for your genomes. Our schools are

no place to model molecules. I don’t want my children playing God. Leave

RNA editing to the PROfessionals. The licensed dog breeders. The good

people at Tyson Foods.

—

My golf buddy, Jim—his son gives Parkinson’s Disease to earthworms.

Somebody think of the earthworms! They’re just made of nerves, those go

and there’s nothing else left. I told him, I hope reincarnation and karma

isn’t real. I’d hate for his son to come back as a Parkinson’s worm.

—

BAAAAA I am alive I am Dolly Am BAAAAA I the echo of the one before me

whose flesh I BAAAAA mirror yet whose life I do not BAAAAA remember

Am I she or am I something BAAAAA entirely new— a second thread spun

BAAAAA in the loom of creation?

49

volume 35

ABCs of Poetry

by Olivia Marie Womack

A - Alliteration.

Always.

B - Breathe. Every

bit of punctuation is

important.

C - Commas, they help

to accentuate, your,

breathing.

D - Density. All the

poets of yore fixed upon

a grandiose theme.

Love. Pain. Death.

Death is good. Make it

about death.

E - Enjambment.

Creating a sense of

urgency can help

invest readers in your

story. Consider adding

ellipses. It will have

them reading to see

what happens next…

F - Femininity. This

does not apply if you

identify as a man. No,

the real reason we

“don’t have pockets

in our pants” is not

because “we fit our

purses in our vaginas.”

Yes, someone actually

wrote that.

G - God. The big G. This

is important. Either

believe in him or don’t.

But you have to have an

opinion.

H - Hedonism. The

mark of a good poet is

the lengths to which

they self-indulge.

I - Isolation. Distance

yourself from everyone

until the walls start

talking to you. This

will be excellent source

material.

J - Job. Get one. You

won’t be able to provide

for yourself without

that minimum wage

customer service

salary. It’s laughable

that you even thought

otherwise.

K - Keats, John. Dying

young is a good rule of

thumb for being a great

poet.

L - Languidity. Your

language should be of

the utmost eloquence.

Amalgamation.

Magnanimous. Fill up

the page with your

intelligence.

M - Meta. Is your poem

really about driving or


about writing a poem

about driving?

N - Nuance. You must

have a strong opinion

and yet handle it with

every other possible

argument in mind.

O - Onomatopoeia.

Bam! Splat! Crunch! (All

the cool poets are doing

it).

P - Poetic. A bit on

the nose but it merits

acknowledgment. Don’t

bother trying if you

can’t rhyme.

Q - Questions.

Preferably the

rhetorical sort. What

happens to a dream

deferred and all that.

R - Revolution. If you’re

not writing to incite

something, what are

you even doing with a

pen?

S - Shakespeare. It’s

okay to rely upon

convention every once

and a while. Draw

inspiration from the

Bard himself. Your

work won’t be nearly as

good.

T - Transcendence.

Your poem needs to be

both applicable to your

century and every other

century imaginable after

that.

U - Unconventional.

Write in morse code.

Crack Linear A.

Something to prove

you’re not basic.

V - Vernacular.

Hometown memories.

Learning new sayings

never gets old. Unless

they’re boring. Then

scrap that idea.

W - Winter. Stuck on

picking a theme? Go

with winter. Write about

how unravelling it feels

to have the wind chafing

your face and to have to

drink your iced latte in

the freezing cold.

X - X-istentialism. If

you’re not having a

crisis, you’re doing it

wrong.

Y - You. See letter Z.

Z - Ignore letters A-X.

Make it yours. Imbue it

with all that you are. Or

don’t. It’s up to you.

Anatomical

Skeleton

by Allison Carlson

drawing

51

volume 35

Fist Fighting Abuela

by Bianca McCarty

My grandmother trained to fistfight

when she was a child in El Salvador.

She lived on a plantation

which grew coffee,

and I try not to ask how they got it

though Hector Gustavo Lopez

was an educator, college degree and all,

still he died young of cancer,

and his daughter would go on

to sew jeans in California

like the peasants

the Ibarra’s may have exploited,

though I’m not really sure,

my fist fighting grandma is a master

of revisionist history.

There’s far more Jesus

in her version of events,

bitter orange peels swallowed

along with the sweet fruit,

and parrots who curse like sailors

choking on tropical humidity

which curls the pages of books

I cannot bear to read.

These maps, they wind

from Iberia to ancient Maya,

with its temples and its palaces

to gods we’ve long forgotten,

adorned in gold lost across the sea.

Pray that Santa Maria, she gave us this,

not the devil, or men who look like me.


Emerald Tree Boa

by Elijah Naugher

We all return to war.

And for we who do not, war returns to us.

I write with crossed hairs on my thumb

Pushing bleeding nails forward

Like the terribly slow and then shockingly quick march

Of dull lead knives into someone’s

Lover

My father might speak of his if you asked him

But I know better than to ask

He has seen too much of war for being so far from it

Instead, we will speak of the thinly coiled green ropes of cold blood tied to

branches in my old bedroom

Of how such a snake used to never exist in captivity but can now be

ordered in the mail from a man in Florida.

They too must be survivors of some foreign war

Had they not been beautiful,

Maybe we would have left them in the rain and found a different emerald

to steal

53

volume 35

Gotha c. 1957:

A Reconstruction

by Olivia Marie Womack

Helga Grauel Watson is my maternal grandmother. She lived with

my parents and me for 11 years before she died. My formative years are

peppered with anecdotes of her childhood in Nazi Germany, her adolescence

in East Germany, and her young adulthood in West Germany. Though she

shared lots of personal memories with us, the one thing she would never

speak of was her escape to the West. Whenever it was mentioned, her

throat would tighten and tears would spring to her eyes. My family and I

have often wondered what occurred on that day that was so unspeakable.

Was it simply the anguish of leaving home or something more? I hope to, in

this reconstruction, if not discover answers, then to honor her memory. The

italics in the parantheses are my questions about this family story.

A few years after World War II ended, Germany was divided into two

nations in October 1949. West Germany was controlled by the Americans

while the Soviets maintained order over East Germany. Border security

increased all over East Germany with the construction of the Berlin Wall

beginning in 1961. Before that, between 1945 and 1961, 3.5 million people fled

East Germany and the cruel reign of the Soviets.

I: Schwester

Or Sister

Helga packs her clothes as her little sister, Waltraut, comes to the door.

“Where are you going?” she says. “Away,” Helga responds.

(“Somewhere safer,” “You can come too,” “Don’t tell Papa.”)

Waltraut, in earnest: “Your secret is safe with me.”

(“I don’t understand,” “What’s wrong?” “Why are you leaving me?”)

Helga smiles, bittersweet, ruffling Waltraut’s blonde hair: “Danke, Liebchen.”


54

II:Abfahrt

Or Departure

Helga meets her friends at the local bus stop.

Johann. Frank. Lotte. Sylvia.

(Annika? Bruno? Heidi? Egbert?)

They are excited for the promise of a new life in the West.

They are nervous about a potential new life in the West.

(What will they do? How will they survive? Will they miss home?)

One by one, they board the bus.

III: Erinnerungen

Or Memories

As Helga sits on the bus, she reflects on the first 17 years of her life.

(Sixteen? Eighteen? Nineteen?)

First she remembers life during the war:

Hiding in ditches from bombs.

Stealing rotten cabbages from neighbor’s farms.

Papa being a Prisoner of War for the Allies for five years.

Her thoughts then transition to Soviet Rule:

Standing in line for bread rations.

Learning Russian in school.

Mama hiding her wedding ring under her tongue when soldiers searched for

valuables.

If it was night, she would wish on a shooting star for the future before her.

(Was it night? Were the stars out?)

55

volume 35

IV: Ein Problem

Johann?

Soldiers search the bus.

Helga holds her breath as they check identification papers.

When they open her friend, Johann’s papers, they sneer.

He is roughly taken off the bus.

He dejectedly waves a hand at Helga and the rest of their friends as it pulls

away.

Guard?



As she reaches into her purse, the soldier brushes his hand against her breast.

Helga freezes. He squeezes. Hard.

Once her papers have been cleared, he leaves the bus.

Helga shifts in her seat, already feeling a bruise start to form.

Papa?



A familiar disapproving smile glints off the window.

Papa is standing outside the bus, arms crossed over his chest.

Meeting his stare, Helga is a little girl again, anxious of her father’s

disapproval.

She almost yells for the bus to stop as it pulls away.

Waltraut?



Her and her friend’s papers are approved.

The soldiers step off the bus.

As the bus begins to pull away, Helga glances out the window.

A shock of blonde hair. Her little sister, Waltraut, running.

Wanting to say goodbye.


56

V: Amerika

Helga arrives in West Germany. Papa sent the Stazi after her.

They could not do anything as she had already crossed over into the West.

Helga was considered a refugee from the East.

She became a typist for several years.

When she is 20 years old, she meets George Watson, an American soldier.

George returns home a year and a half after deployment with a wife and a

child.

She will see her sister, Waltraut, for the first time in over 30 years in 1993.

Four years after the Berlin Wall comes down and Germany is reunited.

Helga will pass on October 22, 2016, survived by three children and the one

grandchild who wrote this piece.

57 volume 35

Sanguine

by Emma Day

My grandfather says he remembers being in the womb. He says he could

hear muffled speech and his mother’s thunderous heartbeat through the

red walls of her body. He remembers being born, too —he says the nurse’s

hands were cold as she caught him. The lights were bright and the world

was loud and he cried. We don’t believe him, but it’s a nice story anyway.

My mother is pregnant again. Danny and I don’t mind. Everything is

progressing properly, the same as last time, but she’s developed a window

in her stomach where her navel should be. Its perfectly round and smooth,

like a ship’s porthole. We can see my baby sister’s newly forming hands

and feet, drifting and kicking at nothing. She looks like an alien, with her

big black eyes and oversized head. My mother says we shouldn’t call her an

alien, because she might hear and become upset, and nobody should start

out upset like that. We understand. We hear things through windows all the

time.

We went to the store with my mother, Danny and I, to buy maternity

clothes. She wasn’t expecting the window when she first bought clothes,

she says, no more showing off this bump, people will stare. She buys loose

dresses and blouses with empire waists while we hide in the center of the

round clothing racks. It’s soft and quiet behind the clothes. I wonder if this is

what my grandfather remembers. I wonder if God wears clothes. I press my

face hard against a red gingham summer skirt. My mother tells me to stop.

On the drive home Danny and I sit together in the back seat. He has found

a discarded straw wrapper and is worrying the paper with his fingers. He

twists it into a flower shape and hands it to me, proud of himself. I take it

and put it behind my ear and he laughs. It’s dark outside, and the road is

winding, and Danny soon falls asleep in his carseat. I can’t ever sleep in the

car—the shadows flashing through the windows never let me. We round

a bend and are faced with a digital sign, bright as the sun to our night


adjusted eyes. It flashes words and pictures, advertising the Baptist church

behind it, but I can’t make out what it says. My mother shakes her head.

You’d think they’re trying to blind you, she says, it’s like those church signs

are so bright you can’t see God.

My grandfather says the window is a blessing. He likes to sit next to my

mother on the couch when she falls asleep to late-night tv shows and watch

the baby swim about. She likes commercial jingles and courtroom scenes of

Law and Order, he tells us. My grandfather is sure the baby can hear him

when he whispers to her, and he can’t wait to talk to her about it when she’s

born. I can see my mother’s expression when he says things like that. She

casts her eyes down and strokes down her stomach, covering the window

with both hands.

59

volume 35


Morning

Song


painting

Godless

by Avery Gronowski

The shuffling and clanking of armor sounded out like a church bell as

soldiers descended from the mountains, a rolling avalanche of fury and

desperation. The mountains, which grasped at the sky like sinners desperate

for an escape from the Hells, rumbled beneath the footsteps of a thousand

unified Kunori warriors, each armed to the tooth and each willing to

die. Pebbles tumbling down turned to boulders cascading as the mountains

shook and split open, unleashing the dragons held within. Their roars were

a symphony among the church-bell clanks, and the beating of their wings

kept a tempo to the Kunori march. A horned woman clad in armor, black

as a flock of ravens, led the horde, her call a cry of war that bounded down

to the lands below and struck against the waiting humans, like waves on a

shore.

Aeliana Varysha, born of the blood of dragons and devils, was not the

woman to allow humans to simply encroach upon the lands of her people.

Not after she had toiled for months to unify them all. Thus, she led the unified

Kunori down the mountains to meet their enemy. Corvians, the humans

were calling themselves, as if they had any place among the peoples of these

lands. Magicless, powerless, and armed with nothing but obnoxious persistence.

That’s all humans were.

At the bottom of the mountain, Aeliana only came to a stop once she

was face to face with the Corvian leader. He was a younger man, not much

younger than her, with ash blond hair and a cruel scar over his hooked nose.

He stared at her silently, breath ragged.

She would not speak the first word. She was born of this land. She would

not bow to an intruder and grace him with her voice.

This must’ve frustrated him, as he opened his vile mouth and spoke with

bitter regard.

“You are a very poor people. You let the other races of this land walk

your lands as if it’s nothing, but us? We are slain on the spot. We did not ask

to be sent here. But we expect to stay.”

Find the rest

of this story

on our

website!

61

volume 35

Hungover Musings by Avery Huffman

Red leaves, broken dreams

Autumn’s quiet gaze

Blows the soul into a starved solitude

Final dollars spent on unassuming plaid skirt

Twinge of hunger ignored

Quickened pace and lost mind

Tapping to D-D-Duran

S-S-Sucking on pineapple t-t-terps

Knock-knock-knocking the unanswered door.

Drunken masquerade ensues

One night a year, blood-sipping turns no heads

Fiction creeps into reality

No-one’s really sure who’s who

We finally haunt back the damned

Our disbelief suspended

Gender whispered away on a solemn breeze

Quiet stupor shifts towards grinning vulnerability

Bloodshot eyes twist deniability into truth

My legs left naked to their silent judgement

Reservation hushed by drink.

Everyone knows about you.

I’m pierced by a simple stare

Past the costume

Into depths of unkempt and abandoned desire.

Is that so bad?

One night I embraced myself,

Met by the embrace of others.

Perhaps the light is not so far off after all…


Pt 19 - Party Fright by Tanner Jones

He was laughing but I didn’t know what I was saying, and he was moving but

I didn’t know what song was playing. We met online but he was paying, and

he liked me, so I was staying. Too many similar times to pay mind, all coming

in and out of timelines that weren’t mine. A party flop didn’t happen a lot, but

the nights they did clocked heavy on my chin. A life living between faces in

different clothes, places, ages, phases, and cages. I pass by people I know even

though I’m someone who’s never been born. Friendly faces made a common

mistake and took my gaze as the same portrait from yesterday. I don’t act a

certain way and my emotions have never directed how I behave. Ambassadors

of the mind hide out behind my eyes and reveal surreal conclusions in their

seclusion. I’m co-conscious with some unnumbered alters. The sounds can’t

be discerned but they can be heard and often echo like a cacophony of birds. To

silence my fowl murder, I often uncovered a substance used to quell whatever

was unwell. Topsy-turvy birdies fly in my head, sit on my nerves, and handle

certain secrets when it’s their turn. Some birds like to see themselves and

some like to be seen by someone else, while others struggle to find their

features through ripples in a well and a couple could etch themselves in the

shell of a snail. A certain kind of bird doesn’t handle all the choices too well

and its other could run two startups without help, a third sits alone and lets

the world go to hell while another lives in a tint of red that leads to clenched

fists, quick quips, and no word left unsaid. I can’t tell what they sell before I’m

paying the price for a candle I can’t stand to smell. I came in with my clothes

looking and feeling just right but by the end of an hour my mind flips, and the

material pulls, hugs, and chokes, so I leave because parties were his thing,

and I’d rather go to sleep.

63

volume 35


Self-Portrait

by Allison Carlson

drawing

hands on bronze

by Emma Day

She’s walking tightrope down the seawall,

Arms out straight like our Lord at his death.

The lake glitters in the late sun,

“Lightwater,” my father named this place.

She walks, and that sun circles her soft brown head,

and I remember a statue I saw in Prague.

Bronze weathers the rain, bronze is soft and smooth,

Bronze shows detail and gently melts in the forge.

Bronze fills its mold

and stoic stands up, laurels in hand, horse astride,

blindfolded.

But at the touch of many, bronze is weak.

My statue daughter steps on a rock,

and her knee buckles with the pain.

She balances before the water

as I hold my breath, hold myself back

before the covenant oils of my hands seep

into her burnished skin

and smooth her into gold.

65

volume 35


Cradled

by Musharaf Alnaham

photography

A tree provides shade for those who stand beneath it.

Those who laugh, those who cry, and

Those who mourn.

Between light and dark is such a fine line

I often wonder if there is one at all.

There was but one thing between us

Now there is none at all.

Love grows strong as love grows old as the roots of the old Oak feed

The Canopy

by Thomas Derriso

67

volume 35

My Offering of Memories

by Brandon Smith

illustration


Linger

Awhile

by Bianca Becchinelli, Rylan Corley,

Chasity Drayton, Lexi Kniffin, Olivia Lee,

Tyler McMahan, Bobby Meyers, Chloe Register, Isabella

Torres, Ellington Wesson, and Dr. Sara Pirkle

Last night I dreamed I saw you in a lake.

You kept your distance, leaving me behind.

The beaten path my heart forsook to take

lined a brick wall which continued to wind

along the banks, dividing me from you.

Such distance I have never felt, so keen

to see that water reflect something new.

Missing you here now seems too much, too mean.

Near that December bank I cannot go.

Our lives don’t walk hand in hand, they wander

the depth within. My soul—too long, too low—

can’t bear the distance which makes hearts fonder.

Yet winter hears rumors of summer’s smile.

My wanting to love can linger awhile.

69 volume 35

Flower

Little

by Azalea Laine

I consider my home written in the vidalia’s song

nestled in between the peaches and pecans,

freshly plucked from a place long gone,

for me. Never sure how to miss regions,

miss memories long forgotten in legions.

Tell me, I know there’s a reason.

Attention often I’m not paying

my eyes turn blue betraying

my reflection truly displaying

An ocean. A curtain full of thick, dark black

leaving thin, long breadcrumbs wherever I sat.

Eyes so dark and stacked

I carry stars that are yellow and white,

the many shades of red put in quite a trite.

Never sure if I’ll ever get it right.

Whatever. In my suburban house I comfortably lay,

nothing urging me to stray.

No one’s looking for me is all I’ll say.


bloom

hibiscus in

by Johnnie Trainer Reed

I bloom wherever I am planted.

My petals pale yellow,

Gathering light from each new sun,

Embracing change,

Unfurling with every move.

The basket I carry is ever-expanding,

Filled with fragments

Of the places I’ve called home.

Te Kete Tuauri, Te Kete Aronui, Te Kete Tuatea—

These baskets are ancient, yet ever-growing,

Holding the stories passed down,

Woven with knowledge shared, never kept.

From Aotearoa’s deep roots, to Hawai’i’s lo’i fields,

To the hands of strangers

Who became friends.

In North Carolina, I walked through fields of whispers—

The wind carrying secrets from the soil—

In Texas, I found my voice,

Lifting up what each place has taught me,

A lesson in belonging wherever I stand.

Change is the constant,

A gift wrapped in every new sunrise,

It pulls me forward, toward shared understanding,

Toward people whose hands

Help fill my basket.

He tangata, he tangata, he tangata.

Their stories, their lessons,

Their hands, like roots, interweaving with mine,

Filling my basket, always full, always open.

The flower grows in open spaces,

In the light of endless lessons,

Always blooming, always learning,

Forever reaching for the sun.

71

volume 35

#1

by DJ Grygo

Purple glimmering pentagons float microscopic on my fingertips. Prisms, delicate as

stardust, shine like rare ores in the sultan’s chamber; cytoplasmic bubbles, protein

pockets of geometry, twirl and pirouette for the softest breath. Your smallest sigh a storm at

sea on my infinitesimal ship. Morose fluttering sea jellies, living lilac illuminating blotches,

ride the softening neaps with my starstruck boat towards a distant particle shore

#2

#3

bloodletting helminth

Mother of Daydreams

coiled in my palm

tracing my veins

grant us green seizures

and sunken tar highways

pen me your secrets

with alms and bright days

observe the quant

who spots the zero

carries the power

and finds the one

they smile brightly

at empty tables

they ask their boss for

another problem


checkmate.


linoleum block print on paper

73

volume 35

Gills


Foreign to a constant climb,

the slightest move could cause catastrophe,

or perhaps, progress.

Down below,

a child lies upon a flowered field, throwing pebbles.

A rose never shied away from the sun.

Don’t look down.

Only the best climbers make it halfway by seventeen.

Pick up the pace, don’t lose footing.

Rocks that skip across a lake still end up

s

i

n

k

i

n

g

.


75

Go Fish!


etching printed on paper

volume 35

I should always read the label,

because you can never be too careful

and I don’t like making mistakes

in front of you

especially when it’s hunting season,

and I’m your only girl.

I can’t make any mistakes

or Bubba’s gonna say

I should stay home and cook instead

Makes me wanna swat him.

WARNING.

There’s usually a little yellow square

or sometimes, it’s red,

but it’s attention grabbing, all the

same.

I didn’t read the words, though

I was focused on the foliage

and how cold it was,

for October

WARNING.

There’s a stifling

sort of stillness in foggy memories

and a quietness,

even though I know my heart was

racing

I never noticed that before

ACCESS TO A WEAPON OR

FIREARM IN THE HOME

I was aiming the rifle earlier,

nice and steady,

like you showed me, Dad

but I didn’t get a single buck

Damn it!

A WEAPON OR FIREARM IN THE

HOME SIGNIFICANTLY INCREASES

THE RISK OF SUICIDE, HOMICIDE,

DEATH

Should I have worn orange today?

I don’t think it would have mattered

because I was the one

who forgot to put the safety back on

DEATH DURING DOMESTIC

DISPUTES AND UNINTENTIONAL

DEATH

I didn’t actually think

I would get something today

but I was pissed

that I missed

so many good shots

in front of you


UNINTENTIONAL DEATH TO

CHILDREN, HOUSEHOLD MEMBERS

AND OTHERS

While you were using the restroom

I went to check on that doe I’d grazed

that left a trail of blood

even though you told me not to,

just to see if I had

by some miracle,

actually taken her down

and I saw a rustle in the bush

and oh, I figure you did too

and

IF YOU OR A LOVED ONE HAS

EXPERIENCED DISTRESS AND/OR

DEPRESSION CALL

then

I heard you calling my name

and I felt you holding me

but I couldn’t move.

Then you were screaming

and talking

and cursing

and waiting

before I felt something wet and

gentle

drop onto my face

was it you?

Dad?

CALL THE CRISIS PREVENTION

AND RESPONSE TEAM AT

(914) 925-5959 OR THE NATIONAL

SUICIDE HOTLINE AT 988.

Hindsight

by Isabela Malo

77

volume 35

Intertwined


then

now

these hands

the street

of the sun

as they

bones

the winds whisper to me

they blow the secret of youth

into my grasp never wavering from

allowing me to hold the sounds of

the songs of the birds and the touch

while the notes remain stored

lull my eyes to sleep rattle my

one last time before the music halts


78

Wings

by Luke McArthur

painting

79

volume 35


Sitting Body

by Elizabeth Golembiewski

monotype print with oil sticks

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 Volume 35, as well as an archive of

past editions, can be found at mfj.ua.edu.

This publication was produced using a MacBook Air

computer. The software used were Adobe InDesign 20.2

and Adobe PhotoShop 26.3.

Headline fonts are Vincente Bold by Ryoichi Tsunekawa and

Silva Text Black by Daniel Sabino. Byline fonts are Vincente

Regular and Silva Text Medium Italic. Body copy is Silva

Text Book.

Cover collage was created by the Marr’s Field Journal

staff.

81

volume 35

Thank you for

visiting Marr’s

Field Journal.

WE’LL SPY YOU

NEXT YEAR!

Visit us online at

mfj.ua.edu

or use

the QR code

below...

Marr's Field Journal Vol 35

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