SHR Spring 2025

1 | Editors

Editor-in-Chief

Advisor

Managing Editor

Layout Editor

Web Designer/Publicity

Jennifer Poull

Dr. Rebecca Meacham

Heba Obaideen

Calvin Hutchcraft

Payton Jens

Chief Copyeditor

Assistant Copyeditor



Kephren Pritchett

Shia Chang

Jeremy Thompson

Brooke Schoening

Genre Staff | 2

Poetry Editor

Assistant Poetry Editor

Brooke Schoening

Danielle Ludke

Camilla Doherty

Chloe Smith

Emily Verrier

fiction Editor

Assistant fiction Editor

Jeremy Thompson

Jasmine Emmons

Natalie Johnson

Emily Luedke

Jordan Nelson

Noah Spellich

Nonfiction Editor

Shia Chang

Assistant Nonfiction Editor Chaz Rowell

Kephren Pritchett

Katherine Ramirez Verdin

Abby Wall

Visual Arts Editor

Lara Gates

Assistant Visual Arts Editor Payton Jens

John Burnard

Jason Hill

Calvin Hutchcraft

Josh Reiter

Anita Wettberg

3 | Letter From the Editor

Letter From the Editor

You sit on a grassy hill looking out at the lake. A

boat lazily drifts past. You think you see a sea monster,

but that’s obviously just a log, right? A breeze rustles your

hair and you shiver from the cold. The sun is setting and

you just start to see stars peeking out. A soft smile plays on

your face. That smile slowly shifts to confusion as you feel

something, or someone, staring at you. You shiver again,

though not from the cold. Taking a deep breath, you work

up the courage to turn around and see what, or who, it is.

You turn, and a giant eyeball in a tree stares back.

It’s okay, don’t be alarmed! You did see an eyeball

staring back at you, and the log you saw wasn’t just a log.

Welcome to the Spring 2025 issue of Sheepshead Review!

In our design for this issue, we decided to take a turn for the

weird while still highlighting the landscape of Wisconsin,

our home state. While our pieces might not all have come

from Wisconsin, nor do they stay in Wisconsin, they all carry

a sense of wonderment throughout the issue. We welcome

you to join our adventure.

First up: our annual Rising Phoenix contest. Our

fabulous winners are outstanding UW-Green Bay students

with stories to share, and thank you to Nicholas Gulig,

Nickolas Butler, Theresa Okokon, and Tania Nelson for

judging and choosing such incredible pieces. Next, are we

ready to take a closer look at the sea monster as we sail

into Poetry’s waters? While sailing, be prepared to take a

rare reflection of your identity and feel empowered by it.

Once you have completed your sailing adventure, you’ll get

a chance to take a nice, calm walk in the woods…just ignore

the eyeballs popping up in the bushes. They also want the

opportunity to read the phenomenal stories found in our

Fiction genre. Though there are few stories, they carry deep

conversations and tragic betrayals.

Letter From the Editor | 4

Phew! That is a lot of adventuring in nature. Let’s

head over to the city and eavesdrop on Nonfiction stories

of loss, personal reflections, and the general craziness of

life. But we wouldn’t be in Wisconsin if we didn’t visit at least

one farm, so make sure you take a stroll through Visual Arts

and enjoy a range of abstract and representational pieces

featuring a tiger, a knightly dream, and sad trees with

memories. This may be due to the alien abductions, but last

we checked, the aliens were only stealing our sheep.

Thank you to everyone who has joined us, especially

our readers and contributors for trusting us to get you

safely through this wacky world. Thank you to all staff

members for this year’s entire volume of issues—I couldn’t

have asked for better friends to help make incredible

issues. Thank you, Heba, for being a terrific managing

editor. I do believe I would have gotten lost in the city if I

didn’t have you. Finally, I would like to thank our advisor,

Dr. Rebecca Meacham, for being such a wonderful guide,

leader, and mentor. Without you, I’m pretty sure at least

one of us would have been swallowed by a sea monster

or abducted by aliens. I couldn’t have asked for a better

teacher to get me through my Sheepshead Review

adventure.

What a ride! Not only did you get to experience

Wisconsin’s landscapes, but you also got to see new and

innovative art and writing. Despite all the fun we’ve had, we

understand if you wish to return to your reality. People can

only take so many eyeballs. We only hope you’ll come back

and join us again to enjoy the wonderful, wild, weird world

we call home.

5 | Table of Contents

Rising Phoenix Winners

a few of my favorite things by Madeline Perry.........................10

Grandpa’s Dragon by Noah Spellich..........................................12

Papa and Mr. Paine by Vladislav Angere.................................. 20

If You Give a Chicken a Job… by Raina Klawitter...................... 28

Poetry

The First Time I Watched Something Die by A.D. Powers....... 34

A Letter to Persia by Lynn Gilbert................................................ 35

Undoing What’s Done by Cecil Morris........................................36

viscera by Mae Fraser...................................................................37

Wasps my beloved by Basil Payne............................................. 38

from my inner child to my older self by Eileen Porzuczek........39

We don’t have sex, but by Electra McNeil................................. 40

To Those Who Fear Death by Mickey Schommer......................41

Salt by David Jibson...................................................................... 42

Pink tax and cosmopolitans by Susanna Skelton..................... 43

What’s Left by Susanna Skelton.................................................. 44

Independent Living by Susanna Skelton.................................... 45

The Tower of Cronus by Jeremy Thompson............................... 46

Dead Girl P.I. by Elle Snyder.........................................................47

Carry Me Down by Jessie Raymundo........................................ 48

Another Inheritance by Noel Sloboda........................................ 49

January by Lynette Esposito......................................................... 50

Fiction

Fish and Cigarette Diaries by Charles Sternberg.................... 55

The Disguise by T.S. Parnell......................................................... 64

Long Distant Lover by Rachel Racette Metis ............................ 68

The Story of the Bear by Suevean (Evelyn) Chin....................... 69

UW-Green Bay Submission

High School Submission

Table of Contents | 6

Nonfiction

80.................................................................Give Me a Break by Kate Maxwell

83...........................................Introduction to Active Ideation by Peyton Clark

86.............................Life Isn’t All Archetypes, Just Most of It by Zoé Mahfouz

88.................................................................... A Mother’s Mom by Bruce Kong

90................................... My Blue 100% Polyester Leisure Suit by David Sapp

93........................................................Where’s the Beef? by Paul Grussendorf

102......................................................................Chowder by Stellana Erickson

Visual Arts

107...........................My Imaginary Friend, the Tiger by Melanie Van Handel

108....................... Sheep Princess’s Knightly Dream by Melanie Van Handel

109..................................................................Tree Memories by Grace Musial

110........................................................... Submerged in Flow by Grace Musial

111.............................................................................PotPourri by Kevin Bodniza

112...............................................................Formation of Life by Lindsay Liang

113............................................................... Still City in Blues by Nuala McEvoy

114..............................................................................Visual Art by Mirka Walter

115.................................................................................. Danger by Rollin Jewett

116................................................The Color of Memories by Claire Lawrence

117..........................Masked Masks Confronting COVID-19 by Donald Patten

118.................................................... The COVID Nightmare by Donald Patten

119...............................................................................Peonies by Rachel Coyne

120...................................................................... Red Peonies by Rachel Coyne

121.............................................................................The Harp by Gloria Keeley

122.............................. The Ambiance of a Changing Matrix by Kira Ashbeck

123..............................................................Line to Perfection by Gabby Feucht

124................................................................... Buone Feste by Ignatius Sridhar

125............................................................................Sad Tree by Elizabeth Agre

126................................................................................... 3106 by Richard Hanus

Digital and Interactive Media

129....................................................The King of Capitalism by Donald Patten

Every Spring since 2004, Sheepshead Review has held the

Rising Phoenix Contest to honor the best UW-Green Bay

submissions in both writing and visual arts as judged by

esteemed local and nationally-recognized artists.

For this issue, our judges awarded honors in four traditional

categories: Poetry, Fiction, Nonfiction, and Visual Arts. The

winning pieces are displayed in the following pages, along

with comments from the judges who selected their work.

Poetry

A Few of My

Favorite Things

fiction

Grandpa’s

Dragon

nonfiction

Papa and

Mr. Paine

vis arts

If You Give a

Chicken a Job…

Madeline Perry

Noah Spellich

Vladislav Angere

Raina Klawitter

Judged by

Nicholas Gulig

Judged by

Nickolas Butler

Judged by

Theresa Okokon

Judged by

Tania Nelson

9 | Rising Phoenix Contest

Poetry Winner

Judged by: Nicholas Gulig

The Sound of Music was adapted

to film in 1965 and famously features

the song “My Favorite Things.” For

me, the song’s great insight is that

an artwork composed of a person’s

favorite objects might get them

through the night, even when—and,

perhaps, especially when—a darker,

much more violent night awaits.

Less than three years later, the

poet George Oppen, a WWII veteran

returning from exile, will publish his

seminal work, Of Being Numerous, in

the center of the Vietnam War, arguing,

at the collection’s onset, that “There

are things/We live among and to see

them/Is to see ourselves.” In both

cases, Andrews and Oppen look to

“things” in a concerted effort to define

the self amid a world determined to

turn people into objects.

By my lights, “A Few of My Favorite

Things” advances the argument of

our relation to the world in a variety

of moving ways, none the least of

which is music. The objects listed

in this poem approach each other

first and foremost at the level of

their noises. “Mist” and “moors” and

“morose” belong together not simply

because the speaker loves these

words, but also because the sound that

language insists on their contingency.

The speaker of this poem takes

this contingency very seriously and

weaves their admiration of particular

words—and the world of things to

which they point—with the music that

these objects make when understood

primarily as sound. It is from this rich

tapestry that the self of poem emerges,

a believer in and seer of things, a poet

whose job it is to sing.

Nicholas Gulig is a Thai-American

poet from Wisconsin. A 2011 Fulbright

Fellow, Gulig has received numerous

other accolades for his work including

the Rushkin Art Club Poetry Award, the

Black Warrior Review Poetry Prize, the

Grist ProForma Award, and the CSU

Open Book Poetry Prize. Currently, he

works as Associate Professor at

UW-Whitewater and lives with his wife

and two daughters in Fort Atkinson.


a few of my favorite things

Madeline Perry

Words like mist and moors and morose

And jewel-encrusted and sparkling.

Faerie and flying and fluttering,

Swirling and bleeding and bloodstained.

Cobbled streets and silken sheets

Alighted by a lantern’s glow.

Print and pressing and inkbottle,

A scroll of parchment writ in flowing script.

Witchling things, with soot-black wings,

Fangs and claws, snarling and snapping.

Dreams and sings and deadly things,

With their pretty knife-blade tongues.

Enchantment and mushroom and spellbound,

Tangled roots, dead forests, leather boots,

Wet leaves and crystals and thunderstorms,

Walls of black cloud, ominous and proud.

Curls and corsets and chemises,

Bunched-up skirts, running away.

Evening’s shadows, candlestick and flame,

Peeking through creaking old houses at night.

Ships and seas and dripping on the deck,

Knives slashing at dashing young captains.

Cliffsides and crashing waves,

The ocean’s cunning imitation of invitation.

Snowfall and wintery midnight and solstice,

Starlight silver in a tattered velvet sky.

Stinging cold and icy breeze and chilled.

Moonlight rests quiet and blue on soft snow.


Fiction Winner

Judged by: Nickolas Butler

On its surface, “Grandpa’s

Dragon” is a sweet, but never quite

saccharine story about a boy and his

grandfather and the transference

of love and knowledge. But the

story operates on a darker level,

too. “Grandpa’s Dragon” is also a

story about mortality and magic

and storytelling. It is a story (nearly

a fable) that works in the way many

of our oldest stories do: to explain

the unexplainable and to partially

inoculate the listener/reader from

the horrors and sadness of life. The

story is intimate and timeless, told in

a straightforward, confident prose

that adds to the magical realism of

the tone.

Nickolas Butler is the author of six

books, including the internationally

best-selling and prize-winning

Shotgun Lovesongs, and his most

recent, A Forty Year Kiss. His work

has been translated into over ten

languages. He lives in rural Wisconsin

with his wife and children.


Grandpa’s Dragon

Noah Spellich

Have you ever heard the legend of Grandpa’s

Dragon? I wouldn’t blame you if you haven’t. It’s not the

sort of story most people are lucky enough to hear, but then

again, most people don’t have grandpas as extraordinary

as mine. When I was a boy, no more than six, my grandpa

told me the most amazing tale, the one of his encounter

with a dragon. It was a long time ago, when he was still a

young man living in the Northwoods of Canada. He’d been

on a hunting expedition, traversing the boreal landscape in

search of game to bring back to his family, when suddenly

he heard an ominous rustling in the underbrush nearby.

Without hesitation he stopped in his tracks and ducked

behind the nearest birch tree before readying his rifle, a

Winchester bolt-action, and waited with bated breath.

“All I could hear was the sound of my heartbeat,

and my eyes were glued to the bush in front of me, never

wavering for even a second. I thought it was a bear, and

trust me, you don’t ever want to come across one of those

when they’re hungry. I thought I was a goner!” Grandpa

used to say in a manner so over the top that it made even

six-year-old me laugh.

“That must’ve been REALLY scary Grandpa! What

happened next?!” I would always ask from the carpeted

floor next to his armchair, knowing full well what he would

say. You see, I used to love Grandpa’s stories so much that

he was never allowed to tell any of them just once, but of all

his tales Grandpa’s Dragon was my favorite.

“What happened next is something that I’ll never

forget as long as I live,” Grandpa muttered softly, rubbing

his stubbly old chin as he stared into the crackling hearth

of our family’s fireplace. “I waited for what seemed like a


lifetime, but when I finally saw it I couldn’t believe my eyes!”

I gasped, hanging on his every word, his every

movement as if they were the only things in the world that

mattered, and to six-year-old me they were. “What did you

see?! What did you see?!”

Grandpa turned back to me and grinned, his eyes

glimmering with excitement. “Right there, standing in the

clearing only fifteen feet away, was a dragon!” As Grandpa

spoke his voice rose to a dramatic crescendo, and at the

word ‘dragon’ he jerked his hands abruptly in the air,

causing me to jump. “It was like nothing I’d ever seen in my

entire life. A beautiful dragon, no bigger than a horse, with

pearly white scales that shimmered in the sunlight like the

waves of the ocean. As it gazed around the woods with

calm sapphire eyes I froze. What if it saw me? Even from

behind my tree I could tell its teeth were razor sharp, like

a row of daggers just waiting to feast on whatever prey

happened to find its way into its clutches.”

I shuddered. I didn’t know anything about daggers,

but the way Grandpa described it was clear enough for

me to understand. His words were like magic, with every

motion of his lips transporting me deeper and deeper into

the past. There I was, ankle deep in snow with a Winchester

in hand, crouching behind a birch as I watched the dragon

carefully. My heart raced faster and faster by the second,

and as I took an involuntary step backward the snow

crunched beneath my boot, alerting the dragon of my

presence.

“Did it see you Grandpa?”

“It sure did,” Grandpa replied in a relaxed tone,

letting out a content sigh as he smiled once more. “The

moment its eyes made contact with my own I tossed my

weapon aside and walked slowly forward. I knew then that

it wasn’t gonna hurt me.”


“But how’d you know that? Why’d you do that?

What’d you see in its eyes?”

As my Grandpa leaned forward in his armchair and

gently caressed my cheek with his palm I cocked my head

in confusion, prompting him to laugh at my expression. For

a while he said nothing, but as I stared deep into the azure

irises of his tired eyes I waited patiently. This was it. The

best part. The one that made all of the hair on my arms

stand up every time without fail.

Grandpa reached forward, grabbing hold of my tiny

hand with one of his own while fishing in his pocket with the

other, and when his hand re-emerged I gaped at what I

saw. In it was what appeared to be a pearl at first, its divine

radiance a stark contrast to the flickering fireplace, but as

I leaned forward curiously I realized it was a dragon scale.

Small. Shiny. Perfect.

“When I looked into the dragon’s eyes I saw the

eyes of my grandfather,” My grandpa explained solemnly,

all the while rubbing the scale in his hand tenderly with a

thumb. “He used to tell me the best stories when I was a

boy like you. He’d always talk of grand adventures, the kind

nobody in their right mind would ever believe are real, and

the most absurd ones of all were the ones about dragons.

I used to sit by the hearth and listen to him for hours, until

one day he told me a story so wild that it HAD to be made

up! He claimed that when especially good people passed

on from this world, they would be reborn AS a dragon!”

“No way! Could I be reborn as a dragon someday

too?!” I cried, my voice echoing throughout the house, and

at once I began to wonder what it would be like to be a

dragon. There I was, soaring above the clouds as free as a

bird, and as I flapped my leathery wings I smiled with teeth

as sharp as daggers. I could feel the warmth of the sun on

my scales as I continued onward, and as I gazed into the


horizon I found that I could see the entire world. Nothing

else mattered anymore. I was wild. I was limitless. I was

free.

“As long as you’re a good boy I know you will,”

Grandpa replied reassuringly, pulling my thoughts back

to reality. “For a long time I didn’t believe he was telling

the truth, but the moment I looked into the dragon’s eyes

I knew he was right all along.” His hand trembled slightly

as he extended his arm in my direction, urging me to take

the scale. I turned it over and over in my hand, feeling

every inch of its smooth surface as my eyes widened with

astonishment.

“I hope I can become a dragon someday so I can

have sharp teeth and fly!” I blurted impulsively, smiling

from ear to ear at the scale in my hand. “I’m gonna be the

biggest dragon of them all!”

As per usual my Grandpa laughed at my childish

antics, then continued his tale without missing a beat. After

dropping his rifle he became suddenly overwhelmed by

the urge to hop on the dragon’s back, and before he knew

it they were off, gliding through the sky in the same way

I’d imagined in my daydream. They flew for miles upon

miles, passing over several large towns as they went, and

eventually came to the mountains, where they stopped at

a secluded spring in a place where the trees met the rocky

incline.

“It was the clearest and calmest water I’d ever seen.

I swear I sat there for at least an hour simply admiring its

beauty!” Grandpa exclaimed lightheartedly. “As I sat by the

edge of the spring the dragon stood by my side, watching

every move I made in silence. I knew it wanted me to do

something, but for the life of me I couldn’t figure out what

it was. That is, until I had another sudden urge, this time to

bathe in the spring.”


I always remember feeling a chilly sensation every

time Grandpa got to this part of his story. Spring water isn’t

exactly the warmest water you’re bound to come across,

especially in the Northwoods of Canada during the winter,

and even though I wasn’t there I could still imagine it easily

enough. “Weren’t you afraid you’d die of hypo...hypo...” I’d

say, never being able to properly pronounce ‘hypothermia’.

“Well of course I was, but there was something

deep inside of me that kept telling me it would be okay.

And it turns out that little voice was right,” Grandpa told

me patiently before going into greater detail on his bath.

“As I leaned my head back in the spring my entire body felt

warm, as if the water itself were a blanket I’d crawl under

before bed, and before I knew it the world was fading all

around me, and I was fast asleep.”

At this point my Grandpa’s face contorted into the

biggest smile yet, and I furrowed my brow, waiting for an

explanation. “I had so many wonderful dreams, dreams

of when I was young. I could see them all as clear as day.

My father. My mother. My grandfather. Even my younger

brother, who had passed on as a baby. In my dreams he

appeared as a young boy that I’d never seen before, but

somehow I still knew it was him. I wanted to stay in that

place with my family forever, but before I knew it I woke up.

I had a family of my own that still needed me, and it wasn’t

my time to rest quite yet.”

“Was the dragon still there?” I asked, not really

understanding the gravity of what he was saying. Being

able to see deceased loved ones is an occurrence that most

people can only dream of experiencing, but for six-year-old

me it was like another day at the office. I wanted to hear

more about the dragon, and I wouldn’t be satisfied until I

did.


“Nope. When I came to the dragon was gone, and I

was back in the snowy woods where I’d dropped my rifle.

And if you’d be willing to believe it, on the ground next

to me was a dead bear, shot clean through the heart,”

Grandpa said with the most bizarre look on his face, then

glanced down at the scale in my hand. “But that was only

the first mystery. When I regained consciousness I found

that scale in my hand, and although I’d never owned

anything like it I somehow knew exactly what its purpose

was. You see kiddo, that scale in your hand is special, a one

of a kind treasure right there.”

My eyes lit up enthusiastically. “So what does it do?

Is it magic?!” I stammered, unable to sit still. “Show me

Grandpa, show me!”

“It IS magic, but it’s not the kind of magic you’re

thinking of,” Grandpa chuckled softly. “This scale is a good

luck charm, a blessing of the dragons reserved only for

the luckiest of people. It will always protect you regardless

of the predicament you find yourself in, but there’s one

condition that must always be met for this to be true.”

“What is it Grandpa? Do you have to be strong and

have big muscles, like you and Dad?”

My grandpa shook his head, and with an amused

smile he ran his hand through my curly brown hair. “Nope,

it’s a condition much more important than that. You must

never stop believing in yourself, no matter what happens.

There will be many hardships that you’ll face in your life,

but as long as you keep pushing forward the scale’s magic

will never fail. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

“I think so...” I crossed my legs in front of me and

leaned backward, rubbing my chin thoughtfully, but the

attention span of a child prevented me from dwelling on

it for too much longer, and soon after I was ready to move

on. “Did you ever see the dragon again?”


“Never, so long as I’ve lived. I went back to the

same woods many times after that, yet the dragon never

returned,” Grandpa replied somberly, then turned his gaze

to the clock on the wall. “Oh boy, it’s getting late. Let’s get

you to bed kiddo, and maybe if you’re lucky I’ll tell you

another story in the morning!”

“Aww, okay...” I mumbled as the disappointment

welled up in my chest. Without another word I followed

Grandpa through the house until we came to my bedroom,

but as I climbed under the blankets I realized I was still

clutching the dragon scale in my right hand. “Oh! Here

Grandpa, I’ve still got your scale!” I offered it back to him

right away, but as he stood by my bedside he shook his

head and knelt down, gently closing my hand around the

scale with his own.

“No, it’s okay Joshua. This time I want you to keep it.

That way it’ll be able to keep you safe the way it has for me

all of these years,” he answered warmly. I thought he was

joking at first, but as I stared into his calm sapphire eyes I

knew he was being sincere.

“Okay Grandpa. Thank you.”


Nonfiction Winner

Judged by: Theresa Okokon

Memory is a complicated, fickle

thing—and that recognition was what

drew me to the opening lines of “Papa

and Mr. Paine.”

The writer guides us through a

retrospective where they examine

what is and is not recalled from what

was likely—in many ways—one of the

most formative moments in their young

life. In the days leading up to and

immediately following the death of

the writer’s father, we spend time with

the people the writer expected to be

there (like their big brother reassuring

them that Papa is now in heaven),

and the people the third grader never

expected to show up.

Given that I also lost my father

while in the third grade, I so deeply

related to the way some of the writer’s

memories of that time are clearer

than any other mental artifacts they

can cling to of their dad, and some

are forever lost to the blurry, grey

void. And I deeply related to how

everlastingly meaningful it is to have

one’s school teacher show up in their

life in a moment of unexpected familial

crisis—even if it seemed somewhat

bewildering at the time to be seen

in that way.

Whether they’ve experienced a

loss or been lucky not to have yet,

readers will be drawn to “Papa and

Mr. Paine” for the way it demonstrates

the universal feeling of time-traveling

through one’s own life, and seeing what

was from the reflective perspective that

hindsight allows. I am grateful to the

writer for sharing their story.

A Wisconsinite living in New England,

Theresa Okokon is an award-winning

writer, storyteller, teacher, and the

co-host of Stories From The Stage.

An alum of UW-Green Bay, Theresa

studied writing at Grubstreet in Boston.

Theresa’s memoir of essays—titled

Who I Always Was—was published by

Atria Books at Simon & Schuster in

2025.


Papa and Mr. Paine

Vladislav Angere

I never understood how everyone (except me) has

such vivid, detailed memories of their childhood. Maybe

I washed away too many brain cells in my drinking days.

Maybe I filled my head with too much calculus, too many

science magazines, and novels in high school, leaving little

space for anything else (except I could only vaguely tell you

the plot to any book I read back then). I kind of wish I had

kept a journal. Perhaps it isn’t too late to start grasping

desperately at ever receding visions of the past and

immortalizing them in Microsoft Word.

I do remember Mr. Paine, my third grade teacher

at Emerson Gridley Elementary in Erie, Pennsylvania. Joe

Paine—I even remember his first name. Which is weird

because I can barely remember my fourth grade teacher,

except I think she was mean. If I ask my brothers, they

might remind me who my second grade teacher might

have been, because I have little recollection of her at all

(I’m pretty sure it was a her). Mr. Paine was around medium

height and stocky. (Maybe a bit fat?) To us third graders, he

was a broad, jolly giant with reddish hair and beard fading

to gray. His flushed face rivalled Santa’s own rosy cheeks,

especially when he was flustered.

Third grade was the first year I remember doing well

in school. My family emigrated from Estonia right before

the fall of the Soviet Union. Though I was just shy of two

years old when we came to the states in 1988, my English

wasn’t the best during my first couple of years of school

because I grew up in an insular Russian Pentecostal church

community. I had to leave class daily for ESL (English as a

Second Language) tutoring. By third grade, though, I had

started to read every Goosebumps and Boxcar Children


book that was lying around our house, and I picked up on

spelling and grammar more quickly than my peers. As a

people pleaser, being smart in school was a way for me to

get the attention of teachers and impress my friends.

I think Mr. Paine sensed that I craved attention,

attention that I may have been lacking at home. We were

a large immigrant family, eleven kids, with the oldest three

or four being teenagers, and Papa, our dad, had cancer.

Before my semi-delinquent older brothers tried to teach me

to disdain education, I really liked school. At school, I had

friends my age. At home, my younger brother was almost

two years younger, so just old enough to be annoying, but

we were both young enough to be left out of all the stuff

the next four older brothers were doing, so we at least had

camaraderie in that. With the two youngest sisters being

toddlers, and Papa sick, Mom didn’t have a lot of time to

be a mother. So having a fun teacher as a father figure

made school that much more appealing.

Mr. Paine was hugely into Cindy Crawford. He had a

Cindy Crawford calendar in the classroom. (I think it might

have been a swimsuit calendar). His wife even bought him

a Cindy Crawford fitness video tape for his birthday (or so

he told us). He brought it in once and we did sit-ups with

Cindy. I wonder if such a thing would be appropriate today.

I suppose it didn’t matter to eight and nine-year-olds—

Cindy was a nice lady in various spandex outfits showing us

how to exercise. Mr. Paine did have a bit of a stupid grin on

his face when he showed off his Cindy merch though. The

girls in class snickered at his obsession, although I didn’t

understand why at the time.

I don’t believe Mr. Paine ever got mad at me,


especially since I was too desperate to please him to

misbehave much. But when he generally got mad—man,

did his face get red, kind of like a streetlight. It was a good

indicator to the class to settle down. Slightly flushed face

meant simmer down. Deep red meant stop. Sometimes he

even got into arguments with kids, acting almost like a third

grader himself. Maybe that’s why we loved and trusted

him—he was really just one of us.

Mr. Paine came to Papa’s funeral. I knew that he

was nice to me in class, but I never realized how much he

cared about a poor immigrant kid from the former Soviet

Union. I don’t remember much of the funeral service, but I

remember standing with my mom by the open casket at the

freshly dug gravesite. The open grave had a green canvas

stretched across it between two rollers, which would later

lower the casket into the ground. Papa lay peacefully,

with several bouquets of flowers laid carefully around and

across his body. My mom approached the casket, and

nudged eight-year-old me to come with her. She placed

her hand on my dad’s shoulder. She then took my hand

and moved it to touch him as well. I resisted a little. Papa

had not been the most accessible father to us younger kids.

Maybe I was afraid to touch him even in death, as I had

been afraid to approach him when he was alive. I think my

mom just wanted me to grieve as deeply as she did. I’m

sure she felt very alone, a widow with eleven kids, the oldest

only a teenager.

After we stepped back, two heavy hands landed

gently on my little shoulders. I looked up and saw

Mr. Paine’s broad bearded face, looking down with


compassion and sadness. Sadness for me. It was a bit of

a shock, seeing my third grade teacher out of his natural

habitat. I looked forward again, not sure how to react.

Eventually Mr. Paine disappeared back into the ether,

wherever it is that third grade teachers go when they’re not

in the classroom.

A week or so before, I had woken up to loud wailing.

I knew something was up with Papa. Maybe he was feeling

worse than usual. My mom might have been crying out

to God for healing. Among Russian Pentecostals, there’s a

myriad of tales about miracles happening in the USSR. The

underground church was often persecuted, and there were

many stories of God protecting His people from the KGB.

Perhaps if Mom prayed loud enough, God would hear and

heal Papa. So while loud, desperate prayers were fairly

common in our faith tradition, it was unsettling to wake up

to in the middle of the night. Eventually the wailing settled

to quieter, defeated crying by my mom and older siblings.

I stayed upstairs at first (I might have been told to stay up

there, or maybe the loud commotion scared me). But I did

sneak to the middle stairwell landing to take a peek after

things started to quiet down.

I saw the paramedics finish zipping up a body bag.

It might have been gray or possibly a navy blue. I get the

memory mixed with body bags in movies and TV shows.

I didn’t actually see my dad, but I knew that’s who was in

the bag getting zipped up. I thought it was strange—didn’t

he need to be able to breathe on the way to the hospital?

After they took the gurney with the body bag out the front

door, some of my siblings started heading back to their


bedrooms. I snuck back into my bunk before they had a

chance to see me. In the bedroom where I usually slept, we

had two bunkbeds on either side of a window. They took up

most of the space in the room. I was in a bottom bunk that

night. My oldest brother Ilya came in the room and climbed

into the bunk above me. He was trying to stifle his crying.

“Ilyafka,” I ventured.

“Chto?” (What?)

“Gde Papa?” (Where’s dad?)

“Ón na nebe” (He’s in heaven)—my brother

squeezed this last bit out through a cracking voice. I didn’t

ask any more questions.

Mr. Paine looked surprised to see me when I came

to school the next morning. “You don’t have to be here

today,” he said in a softer than usual voice. But where else

would I be? School is where I usually was on a weekday.

“Oh. OK.” I replied. I think he knew about my dad

because my older siblings all stayed home that day. Their

teachers must have told Mr. Paine about it. Mr. Paine didn’t

realize that I wasn’t really grieving. I just wasn’t all that

close to my dad. He must have called home because I got

to stay home for a few days before coming back to school

again.

***

It’s weird to me that the clearest memory I have of

my dad is the night he died. A few weeks before, when he

was bedridden, he had me and my younger brother called

into the bedroom and told us a little story. It was about a


young boy who broke his mother’s knife and then hid it.

After his mother started asking about it, he brought it out

and admitted that he had broken it. Because of his honesty,

he wasn’t punished. Maybe my dad realized that he

needed to impart at least one life lesson to the younger kids

before he died. Before he wasn’t there anymore to help my

mom discipline us.

All of my other memories of him are blurred and

maybe a little idealized. He was the steadfast driver who

moved us from East Greenwich, Rhode Island, to Erie, PA,

all of us stuffed into one van. When the van broke down

halfway through we weren’t worried—Papa was there

to take care of things. He was kind to animals. In Rhode

Island, our house had a window that faced just the right

angle and birds would regularly crash into it. Many of

them died. One little sparrow survived but injured its wing.

Papa splinted the wing and fed the bird. When it seemed

strong enough, he gave it flying practice inside the house,

releasing it from incrementally higher distances until it

could fly well enough to be released. One memory that I’m

not sure is mine is Papa coaxing a wild squirrel onto his

hand. That one might be from a picture I saw or maybe my

siblings told me about it. We also went to the beach and

to parks a lot, but I don’t remember ever playing with him.

He did get me a really cool, colorful life jacket vest for my

birthday—I remember my brothers being jealous. Maybe

that was his way of showing affection.

Mostly though, I remember being kind of scared

of him. He was the enforcer—if I was naughty, he would

only need to look in my direction and I would wither. My


mom handed out plenty of spankings, but maybe I was

used to it from her. In a recent phone call, my younger

brother mentioned how he remembered Papa spanking

him once. After, he got to sit on Papa’s lap and play with

his beard. I have to say I’m jealous. Not of the spanking but

of the memory of a tender moment with Papa. To me he

was mysterious, revered, almost worshipped. And feared.

Although I don’t remember my dad ever getting visibly

angry, he wasn’t very approachable.

Maybe the lack of emotion made him that much

scarier. I got a little bit scared when Mr. Paine got

mad, though he never got mad at me. But he was still

approachable (after the redness faded from his face and

I felt the danger had passed). I think Mr. Paine’s ability to

show his emotions made him more human. He wasn’t some

aloof, ideal godlike figure; he was a kind, accessible father

figure, what my dad was not. While most of the memories

from grade school have been lost to the void (even much of

third grade,) I will always remember how Mr. Paine made

me feel.


Visual Arts Winner

Judged by: Tania Nelson

The age-old riddle about why the

chicken crossed the road has met its

match with “If You Give a Chicken a Job

….” Beginning with the captioned title in

the upper left, your eye roams through

all that is happening in this artwork,

building the story with each new layer.

To be sure, it’s not as anti-climatic as

simply getting to the other side.

One wonders if this has Orwellian

influence, or if it leans more toward

Animaniacs. Neither, I suspect, is in the

pop culture lexicon of the young artist,

yet both ideas are present in the angry

chicken pelting its human customer

with a bucket of deep fried bird bits.

Dark humor aside, this illustration

uses a contemporary pallet, balancing

the prominent use of a naphthol red

with a paynes gray. This works really

well with the cartoon style and keeps

the humor of the story up front.

Overall this piece succeeds for

bringing humor to serious questions

that viewers will draw, varied by their

personal experiences and values.

Tania Nelson is an explorer of the

modern human experience. She shares

her observations in photographs

and paintings, focusing on issues of

personal identity, consumer culture,

politics, and historical narratives. Tania

was born and raised in Wausau, WI.

She earned a BA at UW-Green Bay in

1999 where she studied in the Social

Change and Development program.

Tania has exhibited in group shows in

Northeast Wisconsin since 2021. Her

signature works are viewable on her

website tanianelsonart.com.


If You Give a Chicken a Job…

Raina Klawitter

I am inspired to make art by the chickens I own and by artists like

Vincent Van Gogh and Paul Cézanne. I love painting with acrylics and

gouaches and using bright colors. This piece was first done digitally in

Procreate then printed out and painted on with acrylics. I have made a

children’s book based on this artwork called “Little Blue.”

29 | Contributor Notes

Madeline Perry is an English-Creative Writing major at UW-Green Bay. She

loves to write stories, particularly fiction/fantasy, and has been published in

three previous issues of Sheepshead Review. Madeline hopes to become a

published novelist in the near future.

Born and raised near Manitowoc, Wisconsin, Noah Spellich has been an

avid reader and writer his entire life. He is currently enrolled at UW-Green

Bay and will be graduating this spring with a Creative Writing major and

Psychology minor.

Vlad Angere is a senior majoring in Electrical Engineering at UW-Green Bay.

His first attempts at creative writing in many years were in a creative writing

class at UW-Green Bay, where he rediscovered his love of writing. He

plans to continue writing in the future, both for enjoyment, and to hopefully

publish more of his work.

Raina Klawitter was determined to create art from a young age. She has

illustrated and written three children’s books and plans to continue writing

and illustrating.

Contributor Notes | 30

33 | Poetry

Poetry | 34

The First Time I Watched Something Die

A.D. Powers

You were wild,

light-battered and small.

I watched you scamper across the lawn.

Your parents sat on the other side of the driveway,

fat white tails dusting the concrete.

The cat got you the next day,

pulled your skin from its flesh and

twisted you up all funny and

brought you inside, into the strange land

from which you had escaped once before.

You were crying.

Large hands scooped you up and brought you back out.

The storm door snapped shut behind us.

Infinite sun.

We watched you die out on the grass.

We watched you quiet, stretching, broken,

shaking, curling, reaching—

Nonsense. Nonsense taking over.

Your tiny chest heaved and then nothing,

and then nothing.

My father patted your little head,

right between your short not-yet-rabbit ears.

I wish he could hold me when I die, too.

35 | Poetry

A Letter to Persia

Lynn Gilbert

Mother, when fall arrives, will you

do this for me? Take tweezers

and a piece of paper folded to form

an envelope. Go to the autumn crocus

pluck the gold filaments

from its purple blossoms

dry them to scarlet-brown

then send me a thimble-full

to color risotto, to flavor paella

with its mussels and pimiento,

or Mexican rice, Indian sewian,

Algerian chicken rich with sultanas

or bouillabaisse from the South

of France—an infusion of sunset

with the pungency of paprika,

the aroma of coffee

brewed in stalls near a cobbled square

where anklets chime like

tambourines and all secret things

become possible.

Poetry | 36

Undoing What’s Done

Cecil Morris

Were we to go back to that week before the last week,

I would be kinder, less brusque, more dad than coach,

ready to console not exhort. I would take her sooner

to the hospital and not accept the doctors’ advice,

would like Prometheus defy those white-clad gods

would demand, would win the fire of radiation,

would bring it myself, become thief for her.

For her, I would eschew their comfort care,

would refuse the palliative prestidigitations

of those trickster gods, would dismiss their promises

to transform her to poplar or laurel or delicate

bloom or everlasting stream running cold through our hearts

or eternally weeping stone frozen forever

on precipice of pain. All of those defeat, surrender,

the dead end of failed magic. They held her

in a limbo where we could not reach or help

or tell her all would be right. This time will be different.

Were I to go back, I would conjure a cure

from essential oils and crystals, from mindfulness

and meditation that marshals an inner warrior

to destroy her enemy, from the bombardment

of atoms humming down, from clinical trials

with experimental drug cocktails administered

in distant cities, from Eastern herbal remedies

that smell like compost, like wood coming back to life,

like the last desperate hope of a father

who can’t fix the life of his grown daughter.

37 | Poetry

viscera

Mae Fraser

I wish “want me the way I want you” was

something that I could say

without sewn lips

jaw cracking, unhinged

ripping out stitches

blood-salt-tears rage.

I don’t need all-consuming

flesh against flesh

or beer-bitter breath against my tongue.

wrangle me, coiled to attack

with those strong satin hands.

tell me something to keep me quiet.

Hold my wrists back, red-rubbed pain

that starbursts suns behind my eyelids

or a growl or whimper of my name

against my own skin, rumbling

and echoing into our lust.

show me something to keep me here.

Teeth gnashing, viper fangs

drawing more blood-salt-tears from

wells we thought were all dried out.

I cannot make you want me, but I know

that the way you push me down

has my siren screech silenced.

Poetry | 38

Wasps my beloved

Basil Payne

Handprints, fingerprints still blaze down my body.

Shoulders burnt, hips singed, ghost hands hold my skin.

I stopped saying no after a while. Touch never felt like a

choice or the green life of forests, not flowers that burst

from my chest or vines draped like tinsel. As soon as I gasp,

shudder, push away that unwelcome warmth, I turn into

some toothed creature, a feral, crazy animal.

Do you ever wonder why they glower at the sight of you?

Why they tear and yell at the gentlest touch? Why their

colors blink from sunset to eclipse again and again and

again? They’re as evil as any creature can be.

I haven’t been stung by a wasp since the word no etched

itself into my skin, since I saw the shapes of coercion

turn a heart into something geometric and sharp. From

a distance, wasp stripes blink, sunlight through breezed

leaves, like the living water at noon, or maybe just like

stripes. I like to think they feel the same way, that they

respect me from a distance, too.

***

***

***

Stinging nettle, poison ivy, spiders, wasps. To refuse touch

is to hate is to be a pest, to have your features burn to ash

and tar, to smolder in the memory of someone who could

have loved you. Every fang, lobed leaf, stained-glass wing,

I love you. If you wanted my hands a light year away, I

would still love you and all the small beauties of your being.

39 | Poetry

from my inner child to my older self

Eileen Porzuczek

i watch your shaky hands folding days into scrapbook

receipts, filing years on window shelves—

did you forget the beauty of the little things?

i bet you don’t remember growing strawberries in the

backyard,

how the sweet juice stained your fingertips and

lips bright red—

the luminous taste of astronomical fiery galaxies.

have i become the splinters beneath nails,

the taste of copper pennies under your tongue,

a lost vibration in your vertebrae—

i miss the girl you were pre-tax return.

it’s not hard to find where your smile cracks in desert

coffee grounds,

here you plant seeds to please, to appease other souls

without quake—

but remember it’s your sacred garden, not their

playground.

if only we could run barefoot through fresh cut grass

again, free from worry and without hurry—

no one could take your magic then, they still can’t now.

Poetry | 40

We don’t have sex, but

Electra McNeil

walk me home, hold my shaky hand.

Don’t be afraid my skin might slip off in your tender grip,

overripe from all its touching.

You seem upset, are you? I say nothing,

nothing. My tongue is poison in my mouth so often

you’d think I like the taste.

Ghosts of the night before stumble and star

in their streetlamp spotlights. Exposed midriffs rise and

fall, as if

they’re still alive. They laugh and puke, cry and kiss.

I wonder if we’re ghosts, too,

walking in the same light.

I try to remember a time you complimented me without

your mouth

on my neck.

I try to list what’s in me.

A draft.

Vermin.

And something else, something so big

and untapped, despite all

your prodding.

41 | Poetry

To Those Who Fear Death

Mickey Schommer

In the liminal space between sound and meaning,

I once heard you begging quietly into the cavernous body of the

Universe—

your worry, echoing off of stardust.

Are you still waiting for the patient reply of its heartbeat?

You have withstood the seasons as spring turns to autumn.

You have endured the sunlight giving way to darkness.

Your body has fought ceaselessly against its own exhale.

The body remembers how to live, but the soul must be convinced.

Soften, and listen to your breath.

Hear the Universe whisper back to you its reply:

I am because you are.

Poetry | 42

Salt

David Jibson

The day you decide to leave

the streets have melted

and you discover that

your feet have burned away.

But you’re determined so you crawl

on your knees through broken glass

trying not to look back like Lot’s wife,

a woman thought so insignificant

even God didn’t know her name.

One glance over her shoulder

was all it took to stop her

in her tracks, so you keep eyes front,

reminding yourself

there is no reason to stay

because you never belonged.

43 | Poetry

Pink tax and cosmopolitans

Susanna Skelton

Pink tax and cosmopolitans

do not begin to describe

the lost dog longing

of 99 cent chipped nail polish,

of claws cut back and canines filed.

I will scrape knees

and apologize for bleeding.

For us, pain is complimentary,

built into our biology from birth.

Boys go to war,

shove fist in face,

and call themselves men.

We have a few years

before the bleeding starts.

And we are told

women age like milk.

Spoiled girls discarded

and our bodies

set up like cement,

with permanent reminders

etched into flesh

of who got ahold of us

while still wet.

Poetry | 44

What’s Left

Susanna Skelton

I had a black cat who died only two weeks after I brought

him home. I have two nieces, tiny faces marked with Dollar

Tree eyeshadow, and they loved him. I have a weight on

me, heavy as the family Bible, old as the hickory standing

in the front yard. I had faith like a dog waiting for God at

the door, and I scratched and pawed until the paint flaked

off. I had an heirloom ring, the kind that doesn’t turn your

finger green. I have a body bruised deep, the kind that

turns all colors of the rainbow before fading back into milky

flesh. I had the patience of a saint, Agatha’s chest splayed

open spouting hope like a holy Pandora’s box. What’s

left is lifeless forms, buried in discount shoeboxes in the

backyard. What’s left is shame that lingers like the smell of

hit skunk in the holler.

45 | Poetry

Independent Living

Susanna Skelton

My apartment flooded only once. The tan carpet sopped

with tap water. Frozen pipes burst and then began to leak.

The cold water crawled across the linoleum and lingered

in the living room like the ghosts of guests past. I learned

to keep my voice on the inside, only letting it out to circle

the block or to take out the garbage. Soon, my voice began

to echo. Weeping from the bathroom wandered into the

kitchen, the laundry room. It created such a cacophony that

I got my first noise complaint. I learned to whisper in the

bathroom and instead cry with a window open. The place

had plenty of room for my overflowing baggage and just

enough storage to put it all on display. My bookshelves

shined in the sweltering evening sun, yet not a single piece

from my collection sprouted. The seeds left in marginal

notes began to split open. They grew from their ruptures

and started to reach for ultraviolet rays. Growing against

the grain of shag carpet up to the popcorn ceiling, they

started to block the windows from light until I cut them

down, weeping with their fresh wounds. “I’m sorry,” I said,

but sorry does not fix flesh; their spines were splayed out,

like a butterflied breast, ready to be consumed.

Poetry | 46

The Tower of Cronus

Jeremy Thompson

Elysium,

The land of the dead where I suspend.

Your actions,

Gaze up at me and quiver.

By the things you’ve done, the enemies you made.

Retribution

is the item you fear.

Virtue was never your ambition.

The womb of Metis is dormant,

though you’d like to believe it hollow.

Inside sleeps a monster,

The sword that your beast will swallow.

Choke down your bigotry.

Choke down your psalms and falsehoods.

Choke down your fucking blasphemy.

Love thy neighbor

Thy neighbor won’t love you back.

Love thy neighbor

Kneel over a basin and wash their feet.

Of the blood they spilled, the lives they tread upon.

Wash it off and cut their ankles.

I am the sword that your beast will swallow.

Eat of my flesh.

I am the poison that your sins will answer to.

Drink of my blood.

You are sick. I will guide you home.

I will guide you home with a trail of blood.

47 | Poetry

Dead Girl P.I.

Elle Snyder

I discovered my body in the same way

someone would solve a murder.

The marbled skin, hacked within an inch of beauty.

Freckled with blood.

She girled her boy-parts

Veined with grief;

all the youth lost in vibrating eyeballs.

I used to pour poppers into a cloth

Inhale until I passed out,

snort another line

and when I woke up—believe I had discovered

a pantheon worth praying to.

Vision was not something I had, but a loan

I defaulted on.

I never trusted my own premonitions,

an existence in which I knew the difference

between fire roasting my skin

and the rays of the sun.

Poetry | 48

Carry Me Down

Jessie Raymundo

Carry me down into the underworld

again, where your name sounds

like wings unfolding in the wind. I kneel,

loosen my numb hands, allowing

hunger to slip through my fingers.

Above the river, a swallow cuts

the air—its arc shivering

through the sky’s open wound.

You put your beating heart

into my mouth. I swallow it.

I swallow it whole,

a black hole devouring a star.

49 | Poetry

Another Inheritance

Noel Sloboda

The check from the clown factory was directed to my dead

stepfather. I had thought he was joking when I asked where

he worked before retiring and meeting my mother. The

check was from a pension fund. It was festive with blue

and red lettering. The line under the signature of the CFO

formed a candy cane. Shiny, yellow balloons danced above

the date. When I took the check to the bank, the teller

scowled. “I am afraid we won’t be able to deposit this,” she

said. “Why not?” I asked. “Banking is serious business,” she

said. “I know. My father—my biological father, that is—was

a banker. In the few pictures I have of him, he wears a top

hat. It doesn’t get more serious than that! My stepfather, on

the other hand, worked at a clown factory, and he never

had professional headgear. It made him sad, which is not

the same as serious, but also not funny,” I said. “I’ll have to

check with a manager,” the teller said. “What do you mean

check with a manager? Are you trying to be funny while I

settle a dead loved one’s affairs?” I asked. “No, no. Shush.

Here. I’ll make the deposit if you’ll just be quiet,” she said.

As she typed, I thought about my stepfather. Even though

he might have wished for another job, he always said

work was an important part of adult life. “I know you’re just

following company policy,” I said. The teller handed me my

receipt. She said, “I wouldn’t have hesitated—except for the

shiny, yellow balloons.” Not until I was home did I look at my

receipt and notice the bank’s logo. It was a derby canted at

a jaunty angle, rendered in somber black-and-white.

Poetry | 50

January

Lynette Esposito

The butterflies are quiet now

Their delicate wings folded

as if back in the cocoon

and all the beauty they brought

with their flight

is saved for later.


Lynette Esposito has been published in North of Oxford, Glass Post, Poetry

Quarterly, The Philadelphia Inquirer, Readers Digest, Deep Overstock, Front

Porch, and others. She was married to Attilio Esposito and lives in Southern

New Jersey.

Lynn Gilbert’s poems, twice nominated for Pushcart Prizes, have

appeared in such journals as Appalachian Review, Arboreal, Blue Unicorn,

Consequence, Light, The MacGuffin, Sheepshead Review, and Southwestern

American Literature. A founding editor of Borderlands: Texas Poetry Review,

she lives in an Austin suburb and reviews poetry submissions for Third

Wednesday journal.

Cecil Morris, a retired teacher and Pushcart and Best of the Net nominee,

has poems appearing in 2River View, Common Ground Review, Hole in the

Head Review, Lascaux Review, Rust + Moth, and elsewhere. His debut poetry

collection, At Work in the Garden of Possibilities, is forthcoming from Main

Street Rag in 2025.

Mae Fraser (they/them) is a queer poet, pagan practitioner, and hopeless

romantic born, raised, and thriving in the New Hampshire seacoast. They

have been previously published with Hobblebush Books, Hive Avenue, Prose

Before, and Molecule: A Tiny Lit Mag, and have works forthcoming with

Alien Buddha Press and Northern New England Review.

Find them online @maeflowerreads or @dazeymaes.

Basil Payne (they/them) is a queer poet-artist living in Logan, Utah,

currently working on their thesis—a multimodal poetry collection with plants,

bugs, and art—at Utah State University. Their work can be found in Sugar

House Review, Sink Hollow, Progenitor, The Southern Quill, and Utah State

University’s Projects Gallery.

Eileen Porzuczek is a creative storyteller in Greater Indianapolis. She is the

author of the poetry collection Memento Mori: A Poetic Memoir in Three

Parts (Finishing Line Press, 2025). Eileen’s poems also appear in So It Goes,

Creation Magazine, New Plains Review, and more.

Electra McNeil is a well-adjusted writer and waitress from Albuquerque,

New Mexico.

Mickey Schommer is a full-time UW-Green Bay student and an occasional

poet who examines the wonder and transience of life through her writing.

Outside of her studies and writing, she enjoys climbing, playing board

games, and cooking with friends.


David Jibson lives in Ann Arbor, Michigan. He is managing editor of Third

Wednesday, an independent literary journal. A board member of the Poetry

Society of Michigan, he also coordinates The Crazy Wisdom Poetry Circle.

Retired from a career in social work (most recently with a hospice agency),

David has had poetry appear in numerous print and online journals.

Susanna Skelton (she/her) is an emerging writer pursuing an MFA at

Western Kentucky University. Her pieces have been published in Eclectica

Magazine, Stonecrop Magazine, HerStry, and Sequoya Review. When she’s

not writing or teaching, she can be found browsing the aisles of thrift stores

or taking care of her houseplants and beloved cat, Phoebe.

Jeremy Thompson is very involved at UW-Green Bay. One might find him

at Sigma Tau Delta as the club president or in housing as one of the RMs.

Occasionally, he is in the University Union as a building manager, too.

Elle Snyder is a trans woman, poet, and part-time phantom from Staten

Island. She has represented her borough as part of the 2018 Advanced

Slam Team at NPS, facilitated workshops for LGBTQIA youth, and published

a chapbook, Where the Knife Landed, from NYSAI Press. She is also

aggressively seeking a sponsorship from Mountain Dew.

Jessie Raymundo is a poet and educator from the Philippines. In 2024, he

was awarded a Brooklyn Poets Fellowship. His poems have appeared in

TAB: The Journal of Poetry and Poetics, Failbetter, South Dakota Review,

North Dakota Quarterly, Singapore Unbound’s SUSPECT, and elsewhere.

A.D. Powers is a writer from California currently attending UW-Green Bay.

She primarily writes in the horror genre.

Noel Sloboda has published two poetry collections and seven chapbooks, as

well as hundreds of poems in journals and magazines. Currently, he teaches

English at Penn State York.

55 | Fiction

Fish and Cigarette Diaries

Charles Sternberg

She wasn’t the lead singer or even the lead guitarist.

She was the bassist in a band I had never heard of and

was seeing for the first time on a whim. Still, even though

she stood behind the singer, outside the spotlight’s glow,

dressed in a plain striped shirt and black skirt, her hair

concealed underneath a modest winter hat with ear

flaps, I couldn’t take my eyes off her. She was locked into

the music, her mouth twisted into an expression of pure

concentration. Her eyebrows were arched and her stance

was confident and wide. The loud, raucous music managed

to be both precise and expressive, but that wasn’t what

had me ensnared. It was her eyes. They were twin flames

glimpsed through thick jungle foliage—alluring and distant.

And she kept staring at me. Well, she was either looking

right at me or at her own reflection in the mirror on the wall

behind me.

Every time her eyes flicked in my direction, I could

feel their flames licking at my heart. Suddenly, I was

imagining myself approaching her after the show and

talking to her. I had this vision of how I might charm her

with a compliment and a joke, how she would smile and

laugh, what that would sound like, how she might smell.

I was constructing a future where we would hit it off and

maybe exchange phone numbers and agree to meet

again. At twenty-seven, I was feeling an intense infatuation

like I hadn’t felt since I was a kid.

When the music was done, I swallowed the last of

my beer and watched her pack up her things on stage.

When she was alone, I approached.

“Great show. You were amazing,” I said.

Fiction | 56

I had to shout to be heard over the cacophony of

people chattering in the small basement venue. She turned

around and looked up at me, reading my face like a map.

Initially, her raised eyebrows and narrowed eyes belied

suspicion, as if she had been hurt by strangers in the past.

But then she shrugged, and her expression melted into a

cool, nonchalant mask.

“Thanks for coming out,” she said.

She had a British accent—effortlessly chic. Not what

I was expecting.

“I’m Sal,” I introduced myself. “Where’re you from?”

“London,” she said. “It’s my first time in New York. Say

your name again, please?”

“Sal,” I shouted.

My voice cracked, but she didn’t acknowledge it.

Instead, she repeated my name like it was an unfamiliar

taste she was sampling. She thoughtfully chewed on it

like she was deciding whether she liked it or not, and then

repeated it again.

“Sal,” she said. “It’s hot in here. Want to go outside

and have a smoke?”

She pointed to the stairs and stared at me

expectantly with her big, magnetic eyes. I hadn’t smoked a

cigarette in about two years, but I shrugged.

“Sure.”

“You sound uncertain,” she teased. “Are you really

sure?”

“Yes,” I assured her.

She smiled.

“Great. Follow me.”

57 | Fiction

It was cold outside. I rubbed my hands together and

stuffed them deep into my pockets. My breath floated in

front of my face like a little whisp of a ghost. The sidewalk

was crowded with people hurrying in both directions. A

hefty bouncer in a black t-shirt stood by the door with his

arms crossed but paid us no mind.

“Fresh air,” she remarked.

She was wearing a heavy coat that made her look

like a bird with her skinny legs poking out from underneath.

She sucked in a big inhale and then sighed as she pulled a

beat-up box of Marlboro Reds from her back pocket and a

black BIC lighter. She held the cigarette in between her lips

but paused and looked at me before lighting it.

“It’s not really fresh though, is it? It’s polluted and

dirty.” She shrugged. “Oh well, it’s the same in every major

city. We’re breathing in toxins no matter where we go, so

might as well enjoy it.”

“Here for a good time and not a long time?” I asked.

“Something like that.”

She snapped her fingers.

“I already forgot your name.”

“Sal,” I said.

“Sal, right.”

She cupped her hands around the end of the

cigarette and inhaled as she lit it. With the cigarette held

between her index finger and her middle finger, she looked

like a femme fatale from an old noir film. She breathed the

first puff of smoke out the corner of her mouth. Then she

passed me the cigarette. Our hands brushed as I took it.

Her skin was warm like coffee with milk.

Fiction | 58

She narrowed her eyes at me as I brought it to my

lips.

“Do you know who I am?” she asked.

Her tone was accusatory. The hair on the back of my

neck prickled.

“No,” I said, confused. I coughed a bit on the smoke.

“You haven’t even told me your name.”

She peered into my eyes and scrutinized my face

like she didn’t believe me.

“You’ve never heard of me?”

I passed the cigarette back to her.

“Should I have?”

“Well, you kept looking at me. I thought maybe you

recognized me from a magazine.”

She relaxed a little bit and took her time bringing the

cigarette to her lips.

“You’re famous?” I asked.

“Have you heard of NME ?” she asked me.

I shook my head no.

“Since our band was on the cover of the latest issue,

I’ve been paranoid about being recognized.”

“Sorry, I swear, I didn’t recognize you,” I said.

“That’s okay. I believe you,” she replied.

Her slender shoulders relaxed a little bit. Mine did

too.

“But is it really that big a big deal?” I asked. “Being

identified?”

“I’m dreading it.”

She passed me the cigarette. I pinched it in between

my fingers and rolled it around watching the orange

59 | Fiction

embers slowly fade. Finally, I sucked on it, and they burned

back to life.

“Why?” I asked.

“Because right now, I can go out and meet a

stranger like you and not have people act weird or selfconscious

around me because they want to impress

me or pick my brain or something. Once I start getting

recognized, that goes out the window.”

She took the cigarette back and crossed her arms.

The sleeves of her coat were too long so that only the tips of

her fingers peeked out.

“Some of my friends in other bands can’t go out

anymore without someone approaching them. They have

to go to special exclusive clubs—places where you need to

be on a list to get in—but I’m against that. You can’t meet

someone like we’re doing right now. You can’t just talk like

people. Everyone there is networking. Trying to leverage

their little bit of fame and land a relationship that will

rocket them up a few more steps on the social ladder.”

“And where are you on the social ladder?”

“Oh, to call me a C-lister would be a stretch. I

have a Wikipedia page but it’s all wrong and it never gets

updated.”

“That’s better than me,” I offered. “I’m nobody.”

“But isn’t that freeing? Your history hasn’t been

written yet.” She waved the cigarette around in the air. “You

can be whatever you want. You can walk into any place and

reinvent yourself. Every time you go somewhere you haven’t

been before, you can choose which ‘you’ you want to be.”

An ambulance whipped down the road with its

Fiction | 60

sirens blaring. We waited for it to pass. For a moment, we

just stood there in silence, our faces transformed by the red

and blue light of the passing emergency vehicle.

“Well, in theory, I can be anyone,” I finally said. “But in

reality, I bring myself with me everywhere I go.”

“And what is yourself?”

I forcefully exhaled a puff of air through my nose.

“I don’t even know. That’s the worst part. I feel like I

have a better grasp of what I’m not than what I am.”

“How so?”

I thought about it as she passed me the cigarette

back. I tapped the ashes onto the ground and wiped my

nose on the back of my sleeve. She waited patiently for me

to speak.

“I imagine it like I’m a goldfish in a clear glass tank,”

I finally said. “The walls are invisible, which gives the illusion

of infinite space for exploration, but every once in a while,

I bump up against a boundary. My self exists someplace

inside that undefinable boundary. I can never know where

the boundaries are until I test them by running right into

them.”

I implied an invisible box by gesturing with my hands.

“Alright,” she said. “Give me an example.”

I tapped my finger on my chin as I thought for a

moment.

“This is kind of dumb,” I said. “I hope you don’t think

I’m stupid.”

“Not at all,” she replied. She put a hand on my arm.

“Please keep going.”

When she touched me, my heart fluttered and I

61 | Fiction

shuddered involuntarily.

“Okay, fine,” I said, collecting myself. “Today, before

I went out, I considered wearing this beanie I had in my

closet. I’ve seen lots of people wearing similar hats when

they go out. But, for some reason, I’ve never had the

courage to wear one. Finally, I thought, what the Hell? I’m

going to try it out. As soon as I stepped outside with the hat

on, it felt wrong.”

“Wrong, how?” she asked.

“Like bumping up against an invisible glass wall,” I

explained. “I realized I’m just not a hat person.” I nodded

toward the hat on her head. “Not like you are.”

“But being a hat person or not being a hat person

hardly says anything about your values or who you are on a

deeper level,” she said.

“True, but not everything about your sense of self is

deep. Sometimes it’s shallow.”

“I like that,” she said.

She nodded thoughtfully and took one last drag

from what was left of the cigarette. It was burned all

the way down to the filter. She dropped the butt on the

sidewalk and ground it into the cement with the toe of her

boot. Then, when she was done, she picked it up and flicked

it into a nearby trashcan.

“Smoke break is over,” she declared. She looked

at me with those eyes again. “Too bad. I felt like we were

getting somewhere.”

A tinge of disappointment was discernable in her

voice. Then she reached into her big jacket and pulled out

a small leather-bound notebook. It looked beat up like

Fiction | 62

it had been dragged around the globe and seen some

things. She started scribbling in it with a pen.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“Writing down what you said about the fish,” she

stated without looking up. “It’s going in my cigarette diary.”

“That’s a whole diary dedicated to conversations

you have over cigarettes?”

“Exactly.” She continued writing as she spoke. “I find

the most meaningful conversations worth remembering are

often over a cigarette. There’s something about the fleeting

nature of lit cigarettes that gives weight to conversations.

When the end of the cigarette is reached, the conversation

is over, so you’re forced to be concise.”

“So, you just used me for an entry in your diary?”

“No,” she looked up. “It was a transaction. You gave

me an insightful observation and I gave you a cigarette.”

I tried to crane my neck and get a peek at what she

was writing on those pages, but when she saw what I was

doing, she slammed the notebook shut. Then she stood up

and smiled at me.

“Thanks for that,” she said. “It was wonderful talking

to you.”

“You’re leaving?” I asked.

“I have somewhere else to be. Don’t worry, though.

I’m sure we’ll run into each other again.”

“Maybe tomorrow?” I suggested.

“I’ll be in another city tomorrow and then another

one the day after that.”

“When will you be back here?”

I failed to mask the disappointment in my voice.

63 | Fiction

“I don’t know yet. Life on the road is unpredictable

that way.”

She winked and turned to walk away. Her

bandmates were all loading into a double-parked van

packed with their instruments and equipment.

“I don’t even know your name,” I said.

“Maybe next time, Sal,” she called back to me. “You

bring the cigarette and you can ask the questions.”

I wanted to chase after her and go with her. To say

the perfect words to convince her to stay. I had seen a

million movies that ended with the guy chasing the girl to

the airport and making her change her mind. But I wasn’t

that type of guy. Instead, I floundered, and I watched

helplessly as she slipped into the van. She waved from the

window as the vehicle sputtered to life with a roar. I weakly

waved back. The van pulled away and was absorbed into

the traffic like a drop of water in the ocean. Just like that,

it was over. The girl and her cigarette diary were gone,

and I was all by myself, alone except for the lingering odor

of tobacco and the noisy music that seeped through the

venue door behind me.

Fiction | 64

The Disguise

T. S. Parnell

The sunrise over Warsaw cast orange rays through

the smoke rising from the city. Long shadows covered

narrow alleys and shattered windows. Yitzhak saw it in

the reflection of a cracked bathroom mirror. His hands

trembled as he held the bottle of peroxide. The sharp scent

stung his nostrils and made his eyes water. His dark curls, a

mark of his lineage, were about to be transformed.

Warsaw had been Yitzhak’s home his entire life—a

city once filled with laughter, vibrant culture, and deeprooted

traditions. Now, it was a shadow of itself, ravaged

by war and occupied by an enemy that saw him as less

than human. His family was gone—his parents rounded up

in the middle of the night, and his younger sister dragged

from their home in tears. Yitzhak had hidden, helpless,

as the last echoes of their voices were swallowed by the

streets.

Each stroke of the hair dye felt like erasing a piece

of himself. He watched the black strands turn pale, hoping

this desperate act might save his life. When the task was

done, the young blond man in the mirror was a stranger.

Yitzhak buried the empty bottle deep in a trash heap in the

alley as he left the building.

His gut wrenched with anxiety as he navigated the

streets. The taste of stomach acid crept up the back of

his throat, and he swallowed it back down. Each step felt

heavy with the weight of his decision. He thought of his

family, their faces etched in his memory. The sense of pride

in their heritage his parents had always tried to instill in

him. The way his younger sister had looked up to him. The

thought of never seeing them again tightened the knot in

65 | Fiction

his stomach. The thought that he’d been a coward in those

last moments, turned it into one that could never be untied.

Yitzhak knew he couldn’t stay in the city. The

German occupation was relentless. They covered every

inch of the place that, only a year ago, bustled with beauty

and peace. He had to escape—reach the forest on the

outskirts, blend in with the early morning workers, then

find a way to cross into the countryside where the German

patrols were less frequent. There, perhaps, he could find

shelter with sympathetic villagers, or even join a resistance

group. But the first step was survival.

In an alley, he stumbled upon a German soldier’s

uniform coat hidden behind some crates. Realizing the

opportunity, he quickly put it on. The coat was heavy and

coarse against his skin, but he hoped it might help him

avoid detection. With his newly dyed hair and the coat, a

surge of desperate hope swelled within him—maybe he

would make it out alive.

He did. Once he reached the outskirts, Yitzhak

continued into the forest. His steps were quick, but cautious,

keeping his ears attuned to every rustle of leaves and

snapping twig. The narrow trail had been trampled

before—possibly by deer, or others escaping the city. The

forest was the closest chance for anyone to disappear from

Jew-hunting eyes.

As he walked, memories of happier times flooded

his mind. He recalled picnics in the park with his family, the

sound of his sister’s laughter, and the comforting presence

of his parents. Those moments felt like a lifetime ago,

overshadowed by the constant fear and danger they’d

faced since Hitler’s forces crossed the border.

Hours passed, and Yitzhak’s legs and back burned

along with his scalp. Hunger panged at his stomach,

and his throat was dry, but the will to survive pushed him

forward. By the time the sun began to set, he stumbled

upon a clearing. In the center stood a small, rustic cabin

with smoke curling atop its chimney.

A fire suggested there were people.

Approaching with caution, Yitzhak circled the cabin.

There were no windows to peer through. Back at the front

door, he knocked gently and called out. Silence greeted

him. He pushed the door open and found the cabin empty.

The interior was simple—a wooden table, a few chairs,

a cot in the corner, and a fireplace with a few glowing

embers. The fire hadn’t lit itself, but whoever had done so

may have left hours earlier—maybe around the same time

Yitzhak fled the city. Still, they could return. He thought he

shouldn’t linger long, but his body protested. He decided to

rest a while, just until he could muster the strength to move

on.

Yitzhak took off the German soldier’s coat and

hung it near the door. The sight of it made his stomach

churn, but he knew it was a necessary part of his disguise.

He found some bread and dried meat in a cupboard and

helped himself. More than once, he thought of Goldilocks

and wondered when the three bears might come home. As

night fell, he kept to the shadows, peering through a crack

in the door and listening for any signs of life outside.

The forest was eerily quiet, making him restless, but

he needed sleep. Finally, Yitzhak dozed fitfully on the cot.

Fiction | 66

67 | Fiction

The sound of a click snapped him awake. Close

enough to his face to make him cross-eyed was the

barrel of a rifle. At the other end stood a tall, rugged man

with a thick black beard, and eyes that spoke of loss and

hardship.

“Nazi,” the man said. The hiss of the word broke for

a moment, as if the man would cry.

If Yitzhak had time to respond, perhaps his accent

could have convinced the man he wasn’t who he appeared

to be. Perhaps he could have explained about the hair dye

and the uniform. Perhaps he could have done something—

anything—to save his life. But there wasn’t time. The man

squeezed the trigger, and the world shattered like glass

around Yitzhak, each shard reflecting the life he would

never have.

Fiction | 68

Long Distant Lover

Rachel Racette Metis

I once loved the voice on the radio that sang me to

sleep. I swore one day I’d marry that man with the silken

voice who sent me smiles through the static and sang

sweet words of love. In return I sent him letters. So many

conversations held between my pen and his voice. I waited

for the day when he would call me to him. That day I sat

before my radio, dressed in my finest, and no voice came

through the radio. I waited for my love to speak, but there

was only static.

Where are you, Love?

69 | Fiction

The Story of the Bear

Suevean (Evelyn) Chin

It had already been five years since I started living

my life as a bear. I don’t remember all that much from my

human life, but I do remember that living as a bear wasn’t

absurd for the people in our village. Living a human life

was so hard, even compared to the bears, that when the

village occasionally found a dead bear, someone would

skin it, wear it, and join the bears. Of course, it didn’t

happen very often, but every year, at least one or two

people would sneak their way inside.

But even that had stopped eight years ago when

two humans were caught. They were eaten on the spot,

with their guts spilling out of their bodies and their throats

ripped out in a bloody mess. After that, no one dared

pretend to be a bear anymore. I was an exception. With

both of my parents dead, and no family or friends to take

care of me, I had been sulking alone at the edge of our

small village for years. Then five years back when I found

the dead bear and skinned its hide, I decided to live as one

of them.

The wolves I had feared so much as a human were

nothing to me anymore. Of course, I couldn’t kill them, but

just by baring my teeth, I could make them scramble away.

If I had done that as a human, I would’ve gotten ripped

to pieces on the spot. This went the same not only with

wild animals, but with humans as well. In truth, I secretly

enjoyed watching the steely look in the eyes of the hunters

turn into fright and dread in a matter of seconds. I was

strong. I was powerful.

In my bearly routine, I took care not to go anywhere

near the human town, lest I become tempted to go back.

Though that day, I must have drifted off too far, because

when I got back to my senses, I was standing just half a

mile from the entrance of the village. Being here again

for the first time in years, I could see how much of a

miserable life I had. The whole village reeked of rubbish

and sour milk. Standing behind a thick tree, I could see

people shoveling animal droppings out of their roads,

and dragging away carcasses that were swarming with

maggots. Children, who seemed to be no older than six

years old, were wearing clothes that looked practically like

sacks, sharing a bread that was so clearly moldy.

I knew I could never go back. Not if it meant I had to

endure the pain and sorrow of living a lowly life. And I knew

I couldn’t. Especially not now when I already had a taste

of comfort and power as a bear. For the last five years I

was never hungry. I was never stepped on. All I ever had to

do was lay back and sleep. Trying to hunt animals I could

never hunt was easily the hardest task I ever faced as a

bear. So naturally, I could never return to the life I had.

I was about to walk away with no regrets, yet when

I turned, I saw a small, scrawny girl, no more than nine

years old, looking up at me. A human girl. When I saw her,

I stopped dead in my tracks. What was I supposed to do?

I obviously couldn’t eat her, but should I scare her away?

I’ve never threatened a kid before, only wolves and hunters,

and that was different. I could scare them, because if I

didn’t, I would die. But not a kid. If I went weak on her,

would she suspect something was off? What if she realized

I wasn’t a bear? If I threatened her with full force, would

she start crying? I couldn’t afford to get caught.

Fiction | 70

71 | Fiction

I realized I was already running out of time. In the

distance, I could hear the panting of breath and the shuffle

of paws through the dense forest. Bears. Judging from the

sound, it was the whole pack. Why were they here? They

rarely ever traveled this far, much less move all together. To

my left, I heard the click of guns, and men’s boots thudding

on the ground. Hunters. At least a dozen of them. If the girl

didn’t move away in time, she would be dead. The bears

would eat her alive. If I didn’t run now, I would be dead

alongside her, skin riddled with bullets. And the skin the

bullets would run through wouldn’t just be the bear’s - it

would be my human skin too.

Desperately, I stood on my hind legs, towering over

the small girl. I bared my teeth, growling, glowering down

at her. My claws were out to their fullest, poised to show I

could strike whenever I could. But instead of running away,

the girl froze. She was intimidated. I could see it in her eyes,

but she didn’t move. Or rather, she couldn’t. Did I scare her

too much? What should I do? How do I get her away? As

the thump thump of boots and paws drew closer, I knew I

had run out of options.

Instantly, I stripped down the top of my bear skin,

revealing my head. I took a deep breath. Fresh air. I could

feel the sunlight shining on my face, on the human features

of me: the nose, mouth and the eyes. Looking down back at

the girl, I could see confusion and bewilderment in her face,

clearly lost in what she was supposed to do. She didn’t even

seem to comprehend what she was seeing.

“You go now. No safe. Bears come. You eat,” I said

sluggishly.

Fiction | 72

After five years of growling, I knew my English

must’ve been rusty. I just didn’t know it would be this out of

practice that I couldn’t even form full sentences anymore. It

felt wrong, but also right.

All the while, I could hear the footsteps grow closer

and closer, coming towards us with every breath. I had to

take her out of here. Now.

“You go! You go now! Bear! Eat!” I stuttered, growls

bursting out through the words.

Despite all this, the little girl stood still, trembling, her

eyes wide with what seemed like shock. I understood why,

but there was no time for this now.

“NOW! YOU GO NOW!”

We couldn’t waste more time. I shot out, paws

reaching for her arm. Just then, I heard a sound. Click.

A gun.

I froze, then turned around. Behind us were a dozen

hunters, eyes burning, mouths sneering. And their weapons

were all pointed in one direction; into the forest. Then

THUD. THUD. THUD. Through the trees emerged the bears.

Spotting the hunters, their expressions turned into pure

hatred. They bared their teeth. Their muscles tensed. Each

side eyed each other warily. The air turned cold. It was as if

a war was about to break out.

But then, a young hunter’s gaze shifted. He looked

straight at me. Me, a bear, but human. He took in a sharp

breath. Eyes darting from the bears to me, he eventually

seemed to understand what he was seeing. My bear

body, my human face, and the mask of the bear loosely

put on my back like a hood. I looked at him hopefully. He

73 | Fiction

understood. He would help. He would help us get out of

this mess. Just then, the confusion on his face changed. It

changed, forming a sneer of triumph.

“WE DON’T NEED TO BE AFRAID ANYMORE,” He

screamed, “THOSE BEARS ARE HUMAN. THEY CANNOT

WIN.”

What did he mean? Human? Yes, I was one, but not

them. Did he think the others were human? Like me?

“No. Wait,” I cried.

“Take their skins! Think about how much money we’ll

make! And if they resist, kill them.”

“They no human! They bear! You die!”

But they weren’t listening. Already, the hunters’ eyes

were filled with greed. There had to be one, at least one

who thought this was crazy. But looking at those hungerfilled

eyes, I realized. They would kill. They would kill every

one of them. They would kill for our skins, for the money.

Before I could let out a roar, a hunter lashed out. His

hand clutched the bear hood, and harshly, he jerked. In a

single moment, the skin ripped off of me. My human skin

was raw and exposed. I stood there, naked, vulnerable.

Immediately, he gathered the skin in his arms. He

let out a crazy laugh, a sound that sent a shiver down my

spine. The other hunters took in the scene. A strange light lit

up in their eyes. BOOM. A single gunshot. BOOM. Another.

Then multiple. Countless.

The men charged. Their guns fired. They roared

fiercely, madly, like bears. A whimper rang out. It was a

bear, shot, bleeding. Spotting him, the other bears must’ve

realized. They were going to die. They were going to end

Fiction | 74

up like the one on the ground if they stood there doing

nothing. So they pounced. Claws ripped through arms.

Teeth sank into legs. Bullets pierced paws. But the more they

fought, the more they roared, their cries turned into screams.

Pained screams that sounded almost human. One fell. Then

another. Then two more. Until there were five left.

Still, the men continued to roar. They clawed into the

dying bears’ skin. Their nails dug in through the flesh. They

crawled through the pools of blood. Studying them, the

bears trembled with eyes full of fear. As bullets continued

to shoot past, they huddled together. Each and every one

of them were protected in each others’ arms. Their ragged

breaths seemed to be a human’s begging for mercy.

In a moment, all had been shot. All that remained

were blood and fur. Among the havoc, the men continued to

skin the bears, knives plunging in through the fur.

Finally, the young hunter said, “They aren’t human.”

I looked at my family. The words sank in. The bears

laid dead at my feet. The ones I had lived with for years.

My friends, my family. Dead. “They aren’t human.” His voice

rang in my ears.

Out of the corner of my blurring eyes, I spotted a

movement. The little girl whom I had so desperately tried to

save, now grabbing the bear skin of which I used to wear.

Then, she put her arms into the paws, her head, into the

maw. A second later, the face of the bear turned. It looked

straight at me, its eyes piercing. Then, its mouth curled into

something familiar. A sneer which I had seen so often in the

faces of the hunters a second before they killed.

One by one the men left. Their claws soaked in blood,

75 | Fiction

their blood-stained teeth dripping with saliva. The bear

skins hung limply from their shoulders. The girl left too. Into

the woods. Crawling on all fours.

And I...I was left standing there. Just as naked as the

dead.


Charles Sternberg is a writer who took the leap from

New Jersey to New York in 2024 but still identifies as a

New Jerseyan. His short stories have appeared in The Ear,

Zeitgeist, and The Mercury. Recently, he earned his MFA in

Creative and Professional Writing from William Paterson

University.

T. S. Parnell is a multigenre author from Indiana. His work

received recognition in the 2024 Gemini Magazine Flash

Fiction contest and appears in Suburban Witchcraft. When

not writing or reading, he can be found exploring used and

local bookstores or sitting in the back corner of a movie

theater. tsparnell.com.

Rachel Racette Metis was born in 1999 in Balcarres,

Saskatchewan. She has always loved books of fantasy

and science fiction as well as comics. She lives with her

supportive family and cat, Cheshire—and vicariously in

fantasy settings of her own making.

Suevean (Evelyn) Chin is a freshman in Seoul, South Korea.

Recently, she’s been interested in writing stories that

explore themes of emotional truth and the reality of human

life, and delivering them through distinctive, unique images.

79 | Nonfiction

Nonfiction | 80

Give Me a Break

Kate Maxwell

My twenty-minute lunch break was about to

become a triage situation, yet again. Stomach growling,

head pounding, and desperately needing to pee, I did a

rough tally of time versus tasks in my head while the class

collected their lunchboxes. Sacrifices must be made. A

toilet trip was not negotiable as I’d been holding on since

8:30 a.m. That was at least two minutes. The ridiculously

optimistic selection of last night’s leftover curry in my

own lunchbox, meant at least three minutes standing at

the microwave. Possibly longer if other teachers were

experiencing similar free time delusions and forming a

microwave queue. Worksheets needed to be photocopied

and, again, that was entirely dependent on the queue. I

allowed five minutes for that. The principal had told me to

pop into her office to discuss a parent. At least five minutes,

maybe ten, if it was a typical Mrs. Williams complaint. I also

needed to find paracetamol before the thumping in my

brain got loud enough for the kids to hear. One minute for

a quick staffroom pharmaceutical begging session. I also

risked a parking fine I couldn’t afford if I didn’t move my car

from the last two-hour parking spot. Five to seven minutes,

surely. OK, maths wasn’t my subject but even I knew I was

coming up short. I hadn’t even accounted for the walk

down to the staffroom.

The bell rang and I sprang into action.

“Quickly, hats! Lunch boxes! Let’s go, let’s go!”

Jamie Williams wasn’t moving.

“Come on Jamie. Let’s go,” I encouraged him.

He sat at his desk and let his head fall into his hands.

A few students dawdled at the door, watching.

“Miss, Jamie’s upset. He won’t say what’s wrong.”

81 | Nonfiction

It took at least three minutes to get him to move.

Tissues, promises that the whole class would search for his

‘stolen’ rainbow pen after lunch, and a dinosaur sticker,

finally got him out the door.

Seventeen minutes left. Toilet first. I power walked

to the staff room. All three toilets were occupied. At

least half a minute waiting, reminding my bladder to be

strong. I ripped my tights on a fingernail in my hurry to

hoist them down, so now my appearance was starting to

match my mental state. The next choice was parking fine,

paracetamol, or principal? The principal was a pathway to

cash up the other choices, so I figured that should be first.

Her door was shut. Great. I asked the receptionist how long

she’d be.

“No idea,” she said without looking up from her

screen.

I allowed one minute waiting time. I grabbed the

door when it swung open and switched places with another

teacher. Five minutes later I was even more desperate

for paracetamol. Apparently, I hadn’t answered Jamie’s

question last week and he came home sad. His mom

thinks I may be favoring other students. I seriously only

favor lunch and Tylenol. As I couldn’t even remember

the supposed incident where I failed to answer the

child’s raised hand, I informed the principal that I had

no favorites, and possibly it had just been the end of

question time. She rolled her eyes and reminded me that

she needed to check in on all matters raised by parents. I

invited her to visit my class any time and observe. She said

that wasn’t necessary.

Nonfiction | 82

“Could I go and eat lunch now?”

“Please do.”

Nine minutes. Paracetamol, parking fine,

photocopying, or lunch? Obviously, I didn’t get paid enough

for a parking fine. I rushed out the front gate and jumped

into my car. Oh, Lord. There was always a car space

available close by, but not today. I spotted one in the next

street. Running back in my stupid wedge shoes, I almost

sprained my ankle stumbling up the front school steps.

Bloody hell. That took six minutes and now I was a sweaty,

head throbbing mess. Three minutes left. I slumped into a

staff room chair.

Anna, the sports teacher asked, “Have you had

lunch? You look exhausted?”

“Headache,” is all I could answer.

Two teachers reached into pockets and bags to

search for sanity saving drugs. I grabbed my apple, a glass

of water, and thanked Anna for the white pills that may just

get me through the afternoon. No time for photocopying.

I’d have to adjust my lesson on the fly.

And then the bell rang. Oh, give me a break.

83 | Nonfiction

Introduction to Active Ideation

Peyton Clark

PSYCH 103: Intro to Active Ideation

Course Days and Times: Asynchronous and spontaneous

Office Hours: By (forced, unavoidable) appointment only

Phone: 1-800-273-8255

Course Description: Intro to Active Ideation delves into that

weird feeling you’ve been experiencing. This course will

outline the timeline of lethargy and procrastination, build

the framework for shame and disappointment, help create

the skills to craft barriers and walls, and teach the art of

digging an inescapable, closing hole in the ground. We will

also examine the futility of your existence and the abhorrent

state in which you live. This course will not explain the

burning in your chest, the numbness of your nerves, or

the fatigued nature of your body, however, as those

symptoms are a figment of your imagination. This class is

asynchronous, meaning you will be alone in experiencing

the material we cover. You will also not be able to find the

answers online or through any other human being.

Learning Outcomes:

• Recount every wrongdoing you’ve committed.

• Understand your negative impact on the people

around you.

• Become fluent in drafting apologies and excuses.

• Think critically and philosophically about the

torturous meaning and unworthiness of life.

• Identify and describe all ways to withdraw from

this course when presented with them.

Technology Policy: Use of personal electronic devices,

especially cellular devices, is highly encouraged. All devices

Nonfiction | 84

are required to be silenced, and all notifications must be

ignored, particularly ones from loved ones, but your selfish

ignorance should be heavily pondered. You must enter a

state of complete apathy to be permitted to access social

media, for you are only permitted to mindlessly scroll TikTok

or click through satisfying videos on Snapchat. Access to

a search engine demands the same prerequisites as social

media, but research on death and suicide are the only

topics that are to be searched. Ignore any and all pop-ups

for help, whether they be in a Google search or on bridges.

Use of technology to contact the number within the

pop-ups or at the top of this syllabus is not permitted within

this course.

Course Expectations

• Assignment 1 (15 pts): Reality Analysis—this

assignment focuses on those strange feelings

located in your body. They may show up in the

feet, legs, torso, arms, neck, or head, and it is your

job to determine the realness, source, and catalyst

of each feeling.

• Assignment 2 (15 pts): Research Essay—after your

Reality Analysis is an essay that doesn’t have an

end. Through research that is in accordance

with our technology policy, you will further build

on the conclusions made within your analysis.

You will develop a deeper understanding of denial,

and the goal of the research essay is to help

you overcome each and every ounce of confusion

and uncertainty you may be experiencing in

regard to your analysis outcome.

• Assignment 3 (20 pts): Realization Activity—the

85 | Nonfiction

Realization Activity focuses solely on the digestion

of your Reality Analysis findings and the

continuously-building research essay that tackles

the most taboo parts of you.

• Final Exam (100 pts): Heaven or Hell?—a desperate

prayer to God.

Attendance Policy: Attendance is mandatory and forced.

Please note that you do not have the ability to drop this

course, and no incomplete or exemption is available.

Withdrawal is only granted upon death.

Nonfiction | 86

Life Isn’t All Archetypes, Just Most of It

Zoé Mahfouz

Recently, a man had the audacity to tell me that “not

everyone is an archetype.” By saying this, he earned himself

a place as The Bastard. You read that right, one of the

eight characters of comedy, as detailed in the brilliant book

by Scott Sedita. And guess what? Everyone fits somewhere,

because everyone is mentally challenged to some extent.

For instance, my current screenwriting tutor, a man

who told me I couldn’t write a story about a doctor being a

villain because doctors are bound by the Hippocratic Oath,

falls neatly into The Dumb One category. My previous

screenwriting tutor, a woman who forbade me from

writing a fictional story based on the title of a news article,

claiming Warner Brothers might sue me for “the idea”

because they might already be in production for a movie

inspired by that title, belongs squarely in The Neurotic

category. She could be joined there by the headmaster of

the school, who, during my admission interview, became

so frustrated with my ability to respond cleverly to all of

her questions (thanks to my improv background) that she

abruptly stopped me mid-sentence to demand, “Why

should I care?” This was her last-ditch attempt to prove

she still held all the answers and that I, apparently, had

much to learn from her. Nonetheless, I apparently did

not have much to learn from one of my classmates, a

Lovable Loser to whom I was supposed to give feedback.

This manbaby from Canada spent the entire three-hour

session compulsively eating Chicken McNuggets, which

he kept dipping in ketchup, and presented a story that

revolved around a manizer fleeing his rich parents to

settle in a provincial town under a fake identity, where he

87 | Nonfiction

has sex with a girl who co-owns a record store with her

sick uncle, whose business is on the brink of bankruptcy.

And in case you were wondering whether this could be

autobiographical, I can assure you it is not. His nails have

a strange shade of brown, as if he had been digging in the

dirt beforehand, he carries a Quechua hiking backpack

despite the fact that the closest he has ever come to hiking

was probably in Far Cry 5, and he possesses all the sexual

appeal of a blobfish.

My mother, who convinced me not to ambush these

people after school to make them pay for their ignorance

because I could lose my visa, fits perfectly into The Logical

Smart One archetype.

And me? Well, I’m currently developing an entire

scene for one of my characters who’s participating in a

crab race, so I’d define myself as The One Living in Their

Own Universe. Then again, I might also qualify as The

Materialistic One, considering how much pride I take in

displaying all the physical awards I’ve won over the years

for my screenplays, scripts that have earned accolades

in some of the biggest screenwriting competitions in the

world. And since I’m so adept at recognizing my own worth,

maybe I’m also a little bit of The Logical Smart One.

So maybe life isn’t all archetypes…but let’s face it,

if you’re disagreeing with me right now, you’re just The

Contrarian. Case closed.

Nonfiction | 88

Bruce Kong

A Mother’s Mom

I heard my mom cry the other night. She cried

a child’s cry: one that children cry when they ask their

mothers to console every tear that they shed from their wet,

puffy eyes.

I heard mom cry that night, sobbing uncontrollably,

and drowned in her own tears that may have flown at a

swift pace down her tan, and what I could have imagined,

an unrested face. But you know what the interesting thing

is? You never want to confront your parents at the face level

when they’re crying; it’d be hard for you to share empathy,

much less cry with them, too.

You’d stare off into the blank distance, while a

stream uncomfortable warmth flows through the entirety of

your body, and to no surprise, you’re scrambling for words

to gap the discomfort.

Hearing is different from seeing. It allows you to

soak in the emotions that your ears are exposed to and

forces your mind to sketch out an image that displays your

parents in the moment of their despair and vulnerability.

Your sense of sympathy proves stronger when you hear

mom and dad liberate any set of unhappy emotions, and

for a minute, you cry with them.

Mom cried for her mom that night. Cried for her to

come back to console her grief in a time of hardship, asking

God to bring her back from the dead to spend overdue

quality time together. She groaned the words “Mommy”

and, “Why won’t you come back?”

The words, “I’m sorry,” immediately find their place

at the wrong time.

continues on next page

89 | Nonfiction

Mom didn’t have mom to hold her that night and

no words of comfort came her way. And if my sketch was

accurate, only a thin blanket, a box of Kleenex, and a

crusted picture frame on the coffee table coddled her to

sleep.

Nonfiction | 90

My Blue 100% Polyester Leisure Suit

David Sapp

I looked good, really good, in my blue one hundred

percent polyester leisure suit. Aunt Jane took up sewing

pants for my cousin Jimmy and Uncle Pat. After they were

adequately garbed, she thought of me. At first, I was

skeptical as I never imagined handmade clothes would

ever look cool enough to wear anywhere, never mind

passing scrutiny in the halls of my high school. But after

I was happy with one pair of pants that fit perfectly, she

proposed a leisure suit. I said sure. I picked blue as the

color, and Aunt Jane found the perfect hue. It wasn’t cobalt

or cerulean—which resembles sky blue. Definitely not navy.

It was somewhere between midnight blue in the Crayola

crayon box and ultramarine blue, an oil paint color I was

learning to admire in art class. And a few years later in art

school, when I discovered Prussian blue, that exquisite color

that created black holes of depth in paintings, I thought of

my blue one hundred percent polyester leisure suit. Then

there was Yves Klein’s blue. In his Anthropométries, at a

Paris gallery in front of a well-dressed and well-coiffed,

champagne-toting audience and accompanied by a string

orchestra, nude women slathered his patented blue paint

on their bodies and made impressions on white surfaces

around the room. My blue one hundred percent polyester

leisure suit wasn’t quite that blue, but it was close.

I wore my blue one hundred percent polyester

leisure suit to the Valentine’s Day dance. This was the same

year disco took off with Saturday Night Fever and John

Travolta in his white, big pointy collar, tieless suit. The disc

jockey was preoccupied with the Bee Gees, ABBA, and

K.C. and the Sunshine Band in the school cafeteria. Disco

91 | Nonfiction

was composed for dancing; however, I do recall some

difficulty dancing to Wild Cherry’s “Play That Funky Music.”

I enjoyed how the cafeteria was transformed as during

the week it was a socially dangerous minefield of cliques,

a confusing landscape of acceptance and rejection. I was

at ease dancing anywhere. I was confident that my blue

one hundred percent polyester leisure suit would fit right

in, garner notice, or even be discussed. This would redeem

my poor performance as a freshman: as I did not drive

yet, Dad chauffeured my date and me. I was not aware of

the protocol of corsage and boutonniere so neither of us

had the required flowers; and my attire was a miserable

sweater vest. We sat silently and sullenly through most

of the dance. Now as a junior, I was wise to the way of

the world. I brought my girlfriend, Barb. I drove and we

exchanged flora. And of course I was wearing my blue one

hundred percent polyester leisure suit. Barb was a silly,

giggly girl who laughed at everything I said. That’s why

I was so taken with her, I suppose. She was a mediocre

clarinet player, and I was a mediocre trumpet player in

concert band. In identical uniforms which included white

spats, we got to know each other during football games

and marching band, talking and teasing between fight

songs and ignoring the Mount Vernon Yellow Jackets. I don’t

recall ever seeing her without her vivid blue eyeshadow

(a shade somewhere between cobalt and cerulean). She

sewed and embroidered matching blue denim shirts for us

to wear while walking around the mall. On our first date,

after Jaws at the Knox Drive-In, I put my hand on her thigh

while we cruised up and down Main Street.

Nonfiction | 92

Two years older than me at the time of the

Valentine’s Day dance, Barb was out of high school

and working as a teller at the First Knox National Bank

downtown. She made her own gown for the dance. From

her neck to her ankles, it was a solid red. Just red. As I

worked at Ron’s Pizza, I could not help but think of a large

tube casing of uncut pepperoni or salami. We had fun.

We danced every dance though her long dress obliged

her to take only tiny furtive steps. Entirely sheathed in

synthetic petroleum-based polymer thread, my blue one

hundred percent polyester leisure suit did not allow for

any breathability and halfway through the dance, the

accumulated sweat became rather uncomfortable. But

that was fine as everyone at the dance was encased in

the same fabric and suffered equally. I later learned that

heat releases chemicals in polyester which are known

carcinogens. I don’t recall wearing my blue one hundred

percent polyester leisure suit anywhere other than that

one dance. My blue one hundred percent polyester leisure

suit is buried in a landfill somewhere, hidden off a back

road in Knox County, Ohio. Researchers state that the color

in polyester will not fade over time and that it may take

three hundred years or more for the fibers in my blue one

hundred percent polyester leisure suit to decay. My blue

one hundred percent polyester leisure suit turned out to

be my best chance for immortality. I asked my wife about

her experience with polyester, and she recalled her date,

Willy, wearing a lime green one hundred percent polyester

leisure suit to homecoming. Not forest green, viridian, or

chartreuse. Lime green.

93 | Nonfiction

Where’s the Beef

Paul Grussendorf

I might as well tell you about the time I worked as

a projectionist in a porn theater in Washington D.C. It’s

summer of 1977, during the golden age of hardcore porn in

America, when pornographers and theater owners were

pushing the First Amendment boundaries of expression,

and it was considered chic to go to a nice theater and see

images of giant naked humans on the screen getting it

on. I’m not talking about some seedy back-alley sixteenmillimeter

dive, this was the majestic Stanton Art Theatre.

I was invited by the union, International Association

of Theatrical and Stage Employees (IATSE), to work as

a freelance projectionist in D.C.’s movie theaters. I was

already working as a freelance stagehand, camera

assistant, and sound man. “I’m an all-around man, I do

most anything comes to hand,” sang Mississippi bluesman

Bo Carter. I accepted the additional challenge of going

around to a dozen unionized movie theaters and learning

the ropes from the resident projectionists, so that when

called upon at a moment’s notice, I could show up and run

the show for the evening. One of the toughest things about

this new responsibility was the wide array of aging and

antiquated projectors in the different theaters, and I had to

be familiar with all of them so I could run a flawless show

when the phone rang. Some of the projectors dated from

the 1930s and they all had their own quirks, which, if you

didn’t know them, could lead to catastrophe just when the

lights were off in the theater.

I worked as a replacement projectionist at the

Dupont Theatre, showing Taxi Driver and Dirty Harry, and

at the Art Deco Uptown Theater with Cinemascope screen,

showing Star Wars the season that it opened on a Norelco

35mm/70mm projector.

Nonfiction | 94

I get the call from Leonard, the union shop steward,

to run the evening show at the Georgetown Theatre, which

was a beautiful independent movie house on Wisconsin

Avenue, built in 1913 in Gothic Revival style. It was later

used as a set in the movie St. Elmo’s Fire. (Now the lobby is

converted to a jewelry store.) The film showing that night

is Emmanuelle, the 1974 French soft porn skin flick that got

panned by critics but was loved by audiences, it’s success

leading to an onslaught of soft, lush European skin flicks.

That night, halfway through the second reel, the film got

stuck in the gate, burning up. When you’re in the audience

and you see the film suddenly burning on the big screen

it’s really a thrilling moment, like a religious experience—

unless it’s during the iconic scene when Emmanuelle is

getting nailed inside the airplane’s restroom. But if you’re

the projectionist when that happens, and you can hear the

audience stomping their feet in disapproval, then you’re

screwed.

One Saturday night I was called to report to the

Ontario, one of my favorite movie houses, in the Adams

Morgan neighborhood on Columbia Road, a second-run

theater (tragically later converted to condos.) It was my

only night there as a pinch hitter projectionist, projecting

the comedy hit M*A*S*H. The projectors were two large,

beautiful Simplex projectors with the carbon arc lamp

housing, which used burning carbon rods to power the

brilliant lamp light. The same kind of Simplex is currently

on display in the lobby of the American Film Institute’s

(AFI) Theatre in Silver Spring, Maryland. With that kind of

machine, you had to keep an eye on how quickly the rods

95 | Nonfiction

were burning and be sure to replace them before they

burnt out.

That night, I had started the second reel of the

show, using the big, heavy sixty-minute reels, which I had

to lift shoulder-high and place on the projector. I had

turned my back on the machine to do some splicing at

the workstation, when I heard a huge KLANG! I turned to

see the reel spooling across the floor toward me while

the film was still running through the projector, like some

kind of comedy film. I had neglected to push the little

metal clip that would hold the reel in place. I’m thinking,

“Am I going to be able to actually get this reel back up on

the projector while it’s running so nobody notices, or do I

have to interrupt the show and shut down the projector?”

I had to briefly shut down the machine, a bad mark for a

projectionist.

At the end of the evening, after two full shows, the

theater has emptied out, and I’m finishing up in the booth,

cleaning up some stuff and generally getting things in

order for the guy who’ll be in the next night. I hear behind

me, at the door, “Hello. So, this is where all the action is?”

I turn to see a blond woman with braids and a

bandana, hippie vibe, dressed in denim shirt and cut-off

shorts. She’s standing in the doorway with a mischievous

look on her face.

“Yeah, this is where I’ve been all night. Did you like

the show?”

“Oh, I loved it, that Donald Sutherland is so funny!”

I hadn’t actually caught the whole movie, what with

my duties in the booth and the discomfort of having to peer

Nonfiction | 96

through the booth’s window to see anything.

“Do you work here all the time?”

“Oh, no, just tonight, I’m the replacement guy. First

time here. I love these old machines though.”

“Can you show me?”

She comes in, we get to talking, turns out she’s not

in a hurry, and by now we’re all alone in the theater. It’s

like a scene from Emmanuelle, to remain cherished in our

memories. Talk about the ’70s.

***

Here comes the porn theater story you’ve been

waiting for. I got the call from Leonard to go out to the

Stanton Art Theatre at 3100 Eighteenth Street N.E., just

off Rhode Island Avenue, for one night of training before

I would start filling in regularly there. “And Paul, this gig

includes hardship pay,” which meant instead of the regular

union rate of $4 an hour I’d be getting $4.35.

In 1977, the Stanton Art Theatre was a slightly rundown,

formerly majestic film house. It was inaugurated in

1927 as the Jesse Theatre in Atmospheric style, which was

all the rage back then, with heavenly stars adorning the

ceiling. In the late ’50s it became an art house, showing

second-run double features of independent and European

films. Then by the mid-70s it had become an adult theater.

The building is now a church, the Capitol Temple.

Inside, the lobby was decorated in what I would

call “comfortably seedy.” But the interior of the theater was

in quite good shape, because the owner had paid for an

97 | Nonfiction

upgrade on new seats, sound equipment, and modern

sound-proofing paneling for the walls.

If you’ve never seen an X-rated film on a full-size

movie screen, first you’ll probably never have the chance

to now, and second, it was really something astounding to

behold. I would say, quoting a Nicholas Ray movie title, that

it’s Bigger than Life.

The manager is a grandmotherly lady, Ruthy, who

always holds her Chihuahua in her arms while dealing

with her staff, with whom she is very pleasant. She directs

me to a door behind the concessions stand, which leads

to a wooden ladder that I have to climb to get into the

projection booth. It actually feels quite spacious inside.

I meet the vice president of the union, who works there

regularly. He greets me warmly. Looking out through the

small glass window at the screen, I can’t help but stare.

“Yeah, it affects everyone that way the first time,”

he says.

I’m delighted to find two old Simplex projectors. The

old model has a comfortable film gate and mechanism,

easy to get your hands around and your fingers into. It’s

a real joy to handle, to take the 35mm film and lead it

from the top reel through the lens housing and sprockets,

leaving a little loop so the film doesn’t tear, and down to

the bottom take-up reel. The machine’s original carbon arc

lamps have been replaced with electric bulbs, so I don’t

have to mess with keeping an eye on the burning carbon

rods.

The house runs Warner Brothers cartoons between

Nonfiction | 98

features. (So the audience can cool off?) There are two

hour-long features, and a typical evening consists of

running the program three times all the way through. The

curtains are on a synchronized timer. When I push a button

they pull back while the house lights dim at the same time,

so I’d better be ready to hit the ground running when those

lights are dimming.

As in any movie theater at that time, the projectionist

is like a jockey, riding two huge machines. Some houses

run twenty-minute reels, switching machines for the

changeovers every twenty minutes, but that’s too much

work. The more practical ones run sixty minute reels, or

three twenty-minute reels spliced together, so that the

projectionist usually only has to switch once, or at most

twice, during a show. When the reel one projector is

nearing the end, the projectionist, standing between the

two steel behemoths, must bring the second projector up to

speed, and at the right moment they must simultaneously

close one shutter and open the other shutter with both

hands moving in opposite directions, while at the same

time hitting a foot switch that turns on the lamp of the

projector, which will now be running the image while

dousing the other lamp.

How do they know exactly when to do all that?

You’ve seen it on the screen at the movies, probably not

taking conscious notice, or thinking there is a defect in the

film. The visual changeover cues: at twelve seconds out

from the point where the reel would run out, there is a hole

punched in the frame, or an X drawn through the frame

with heavy marker, which is visible to the projectionist’s

99 | Nonfiction

trained eye. They’re peering through the window, and when

they see that light hole in the frame pop up on the screen

they start the second machine running and count down,

still scrutinizing the screen. When they come to twelve

seconds that same mark pops up on the screen again and

they rapidly do the synchronized dance with their foot and

two hands. The image is now coming out of the second

machine, while the first reel is spinning to a stop in the first

machine.

So, say at that theater, taking into account two

cartoons between each of three shows, I would probably

go through that little ballet routine around ten times. It was

always fun, staying alert for the changeover, being in the

physical moment, actually counting time, responsible for a

good transition that creates a flawless experience for the

audience.

At this time in the 1970s, the Supreme Court had

ruled that it was up to “community standards,” whatever

those were, how each community wanted to regulate, i.e.

censor such public exhibitions of obscenity or pornography.

This wasn’t long after Supreme Court Justice Potter Stewart

had so presciently declared that, regarding hardcore

pornography, “I know it when I see it.”

In D.C., Maryland, and Virginia, two things were

forbidden to show: the actual penetration, that is, close-up

of male part going into female part, and the “money shot”

in porn parlance. So, each time a new couple of films would

come in after a run of a few weeks, the projectionist on duty

would have to sit down at the editing table in his booth,

and go through and edit out all the penetration shots.

Nonfiction | 100

They were gathered on a separate reel, which theoretically

should then be added back to the film on the day that

it was shipped to the next destination, but practically

speaking nobody bothered, so over time they had accrued

a big reel of five- to twenty-second shots in the booth.

Similar to the last scene of the art film, Cinema Paradiso,

where the aged Italian projectionist has kept a lifetime of

clips of kisses on a reel that he was required to censor out

of the films.

I soon learn that the structure of these one-hour

films is pretty routine. At first, we get introduced to one

couple, like a postman comes to the house and finds the

housewife alone in a robe and slippers. There’s an instant

attraction, and they get it on. Then a second couple is

introduced, like a gardener surprises a teenage daughter

while she’s masturbating by the pool, and they get it on

outside. Then all four find a way to get it on in a climactic

orgy.

The other regular projectionist I met working at the

Stanton Art was a pleasant young guy with hair down to his

waist, a student at American University who was working

his way through school. He explained that he always hid

his dope stash in the metal box that held the fuses, marked

Danger! because the cops were afraid of the electric

box. From time to time, the cops would raid such adult

theaters, perhaps looking for the forbidden shots that were

supposed to be edited out of the films. We were subjected

to two raids while I was working there, though I was never

sure what the police were looking for exactly when they

climbed up into the projection booth. Maybe they didn’t

101 | Nonfiction

know either. Something forbidden! But he was right; they

didn’t touch the electric box.

Regretfully, working at that porn theater made me

cynical of the whole idea of commercial narrative film. I

found myself scrutinizing any traditional movie I went to see

in comparison to the skin flicks I’d been showing, thinking

“Where’s the beef?”

In the fall of 1977, I left D.C. and moved to West

Germany, where I worked for another decade in the

German TV and film industry.

Now in my mature years, whenever I see a sex scene

in a commercial film, where the actors furtively pantomime

the sex act when a simple kiss would suffice to make the

point, I think back to those halcyon days of big-screen

porn, when for a few brief hours I would be the master of

ceremonies at the upscale porn theater dishing out the

larger-than-life technicolor bedroom scenes of human

passion and ecstasy.

That’s all. Curtain down, lights up. You can go home

now. Drive safely.

THE END

Nonfiction | 102

Chowder

Stellana Erickson

There it is, the most delicious thing my sister and

I have ever seen: thick, churning, greasy yellow chowder

in the middle of summer. The trees cover our house in

darkness and shadows, but the chowder shines like candle

light. We scoop heaps of chowder into bowls and carry it to

the dining room table with glee. The potatoes sink into my

tongue like velvet, and it’s smokier than a forest fire. The

soy milk adds an odd glimmer and waxy taste that only a

vegan can ignore. It’s so thick that I gulp down streams of

ice water so I don’t choke, repeatedly burning and freezing

my mouth. We look at each other and nod. We’ve done it

again. We’ve made chowder. And there’s enough servings

to drown us until a summer day comes where we have

something to do.

Cooking the complicated meal swallows up an

entire afternoon, but lengthy activities are

a must when the days are never ending, soaked with rain

and howling dogs. And our friends are too busy to hang

out, or even to text, because they’re pouring themselves

into summer jobs and oozing across Europe. I can’t wait to

be busy again, to dedicate myself to something purposeful,

but for now, a hearty meal will do. My aimless wandering

around the house became a determined trek to the

kitchen where we tied on deteriorating aprons and cooked

chowder. And then the swirling steam, gurgling pot, and

screaming blender all push us forward in time until the day

finally comes when we make money instead of soup.


Kate Maxwell grew up in a small, rural community in Australia. She won first

prize in the Darling Axe Flash Fiction Competition (2020) and is the author of

two published poetry collections: Never Good at Maths (2021) and Down the

Rabbit Hole (2023). She is currently working on a collection of short stories.

kateswritingplace.com

Peyton Clark is a UW-Green Bay student from Rhinelander, WI. Although

her academic focus is on psychology, writing has always been their escape

from the world. Her passions lie in painting the world as they see it through

poetry, prose, and creative nonfiction.

Zoé Mahfouz is an award-winning bilingual actress, screenwriter, and

writer whose works span fiction, nonfiction, and poetry, featured in 40+

literary magazines worldwide. Her comedic scripts, including “I Follow

You” and “Commercial Actress”, have garnered recognition at festivals like

Hollywood Comedy Shorts, Filmmatic, Scriptation Showcase, and Toronto

International Nollywood Film Festival. www.imdb.com/fr/name/nm8051766/

Bruce Kong is a graduate of UW-Green Bay’s Writing & Applied Arts BA

program. He currently resides in Chicago, IL, and plans to pursue graduate

school to obtain his MFA. Bruce strives to teach writing in the future—and if

the moment presents itself—he‘ll step foot into the publishing industry.

David Sapp lives along the southern shore of Lake Erie in North America. A

Pushcart nominee, he was awarded Ohio Arts Council Individual Excellence

Grants. The author of two chapbooks, the novel Flying Over Erie, and

Drawing Nirvana, a book of poems and drawings, David has also published

work in Journal of Creative Behavior.

Paul Grussendorf was director of the Immigration Clinic at George

Washington University, has been an immigration judge, and is a consultant

to the UN Refugee Agency. His book My Trials: Inside America’s Deportation

Factories is a scathing indictment of America’s dysfunctional immigration

system. He worked in documentary film for a decade.

Stellana Erickson will graduate the University of North Carolina-Wilmington

this spring with a major in Creative Writing and a minor in Women’s and

Gender Studies. Her work can be found in Second Story Journal and the

Atlantis Women’s History Month Online Feature.


107 | Visual Arts

My Imaginary Friend, the Tiger

Melanie Van Handel

“My Imaginary Friend, the Tiger” started as a simple digital study of tigers that quickly

developed into a bright and cheery piece with its own little story playing out. Tigers have

always been an animal that I’ve been interested in drawing one way or another, so that

on top of my love of creating stories created a fun combination. As the title suggests, this

piece follows a hospitalized girl and her imaginary friend, The Tiger, as she shows off the

drawing she made for them in absolute glee.

Visual Arts | 108

Sheep Princess’s Knightly Dream

Melanie Van Handel

“Sheep Princess’s Knightly Dream” was originally an intaglio print for my

printmaking class that I then digitized on my own time. This piece features the

aforementioned Sheep Princess as she yearns in the mirror to shed her life as a

princess to become the Wolf Knight that she has always dreamed of becoming.

Will Sheep Princess’s dreams become a reality, or will she continue to live a life

full of yearning? That’s up to you to decide.

109 | Visual Arts

Tree Memories

Grace Musial

Visual Arts | 110

Submerged in Flow

Grace Musial

111 | Visual Arts

PotPourri

Kevin Bodniza

I make art to explore tension—between order and chaos, past and present, beauty and

decay. Growing up in South Florida, a place of stark contrasts, I’m drawn to the push

and pull of opposing forces. With no formal training, my process is intuitive. Collage lets

me build layered worlds from everyday fragments, pulling from the past and present

to explore time, memory, and transition. Whether my work sparks joy, unease, or

something in between, I want it to linger—pushing viewers to sit with what they feel

and why.

Visual Arts | 112

Formation of Life

Lindsay Liang

Thales believed water was the origin of all things. “Formation of Life” imagines

the first life born not from divinity but from molecular chaos. There is no name, no

form—only binding droplets, filaments, and crystalline hearts merging in fluid motion.

Drawing from ancient myth and modern biochemistry, I explore how life emerges after

destruction. Water, with its polarity, becomes both medium and memory, enabling

regeneration in hostile environments. This work reflects on how fragile beginnings,

shaped by both chaos and structure, carry within them the potential for infinite rebirth.

113 | Visual Arts

Still City in Blues

Nuala McEvoy

When we look outside any window, the same view changes countless times over the

course of a day. Infinitesimal shifts in light, shadow, and movement can impact how

each of us sees what is before our eyes. With “Still City in Blues,” I tried to capture the

solitude and emptiness of a familiar city at night. I have painted this scene several

times, and each time the result has been distinct as I try to recreate subtle changes in

shades and hues at different times.

Visual Arts | 114

Visual Art

Mirka Walter

Even though I don’t like to cherish men, this piece includes references to one of my

favorite painters, Henri Matisse, who brought the lightness of the South of France to the

canvas. I think he did pioneering work for the graphic arts.

115 | Visual Arts

Danger

Rollin Jewett

My piece “Danger” is one of a series of photographs I took when I became fascinated

with “industrial” artifacts. Not typically considered beautiful, I nonetheless find

these types of instruments quite compelling in their sturdy uniqueness and practical

engineering elements. Gauges, coils, hoses, thick glass, tubes, knobs, bolts, iron, and

steel casings are all obvious man-made components, and their assembly into working

apparatuses in the service of humankind is very interesting to me, especially in the

archaic form that’s no longer used. I look at these components and still marvel at

mankind’s ability to craft such seemingly simple yet complex machines.

Visual Arts | 116

The Color of Memories

Claire Lawrence

“The Color of Memories” is a collection of original art made using alcohol inks on 8 x 11

inch Yupo paper. These pieces address how quickly rights and freedoms can disappear

in society. From physical abuse, imprisonment, the removal of personal rights, and forced

expulsion, these pieces are a mirror of the world’s current global political climate.

117 | Visual Arts

Masked Masks Confronting COVID-19

Donald Patten

COVID-19 changed the way people interact with each other and with our own bodies.

We lived our lives in vulnerability during that significant time of disaster. In the past,

master painters would depict historically significant disasters that happened to them

as a way to cope. As an artist learning the techniques of past masters, I have the

opportunity to create long-lasting visual information that depicts the trauma of this

pandemic. Therefore, I have created a series of drawings that represent COVID-19 life

by drawing inspiration from past masterpieces that depict the embodied experience

of trauma.

Visual Arts | 118

The COVID Nightmare

Donald Patten

119 | Visual Arts

Peonies

Rachel Coyne

The paintings in the “Peonies” series were created with peony petals from my

garden. After being soaked in watercolor and collaged on paper, the images were

digitally altered.

Visual Arts | 120

Red Peonies

Rachel Coyne

121 | Visual Arts

The Harp

Gloria Keeley

I took up photography during the pandemic. I wanted something to do that was

outdoors and I could be by myself. I went down to Pine Lake after the winter storms.

Every year, Rec & Park cuts up fallen and dead trees. I like to take photos of these

trees. They make for interesting shapes. “The Harp” was one such tree. I didn’t notice

the harp shape until I converted the photo from color to black and white. I was

so happy with the outcome. If you squint your eyes, you can see arms and hands

strumming the harp.

Visual Arts | 122

The Ambiance of a Changing Matrix

Kira Ashbeck

As a nature photographer, my goal is to inspire viewers to engage in nature

conservation. This piece was photographed in the Porcupine Mountains in the Upper

Peninsula of Michigan during the fall of 2024.

123 | Visual Arts

Line to Perfection

Gabby Feucht

Visual Arts | 124

Buone Feste

Ignatius Sridhar

Through my work, I aim to evoke a sense of joy and nostalgia—especially the feeling of

standing behind people, gazing at the light amidst the darkness of these challenging

times. I am particularly drawn to leading lines, which create a spatial awareness of time

passing. I am also captivated by visual depictions of words within their surroundings,

which highlight the evolving nature of language across millennia. “Buone Feste” captures

the spirit of Christmas nightlife in Rome, Italy, taken at Piazza del Popolo, a gathering

spot since ancient Roman times.

125 | Visual Arts

Sad Tree

Elizabeth Agre

Visual Arts | 126

3106

Richard Hanus

“3106,” part of the Circa 13 sequence, is a redrawn compilation of sketches done on

napkins in 2013, seven years before I tried to publish any art. Since 2020, I have published

roughly two hundred pictures in fifty-nine magazines using a wide range of media,

mostly watercolor (like “3106”) and oil, but also oil pastel, ink, metallics, mixed media, and

chemical pours (oil paint, hydrogen peroxide, laundry detergent, bleach). Not being able

to draw representationally, I have had to rely on innovation, and many of my pieces have

an “edgy” quality as a result (like “3106”).


Melanie Van Handel is a twenty-two-year-old Graphic Design student year

old Graphic Design student attending UW-Green Bay, currently trying to

get around in life, one step at a time. She enjoys drawing (who would have

thought?), spending time with friends and family, and trying to find time to

take a good ol’ nap in the mess of it all.

Grace Musial is a third-year Graphic Design student at UW-Green Bay with

a passion for exploring different artistic mediums to bring her ideas to life.

Grace enjoys sketching, curating playlists, and immersing herself in nature,

constantly finding inspiration in the world around her.

Kevin Bodniza, a self-taught artist born in South Florida, has always

approached art instinctually, creating without formal training. Using collage

as his medium, he constructs textured worlds that reflect the chaos and

beauty of life. In 2024, Kevin held his first solo exhibition at his studio in

Miami Shores, a milestone in his emerging artist career.

Lindsay Liang is a contemporary artist and neurobiologist based in New

York. As a custodian of intangible cultural heritage, her work blends

classical Pacific and modern art to contemplate culture in today’s world.

Drawing on her pioneering research in neuroscience, her work integrates

dream studies and psychological theories with elements of neo-mystical

paintings.

Nuala McEvoy started writing and painting at age fifty. Since then, her

writing has been widely published, and over one hundred of her paintings

have been accepted for publication in over fifty literary magazines. She has

had two exhibitions in Münster, Germany, and currently holds an exhibition

in The Cavendish Centre in London.

Mirka Walter is an emerging visual artist from Cologne, Germany. Her

themes are the beauty, banality, and brutality of the everyday, the human

body in motion, as well as a fantastic representation of the natural world.

Her favorite materials are watercolor and ink in all its expressions.

Rollin Jewett’s varied past includes acting stints in The Bodyguard, Unsolved

Mysteries, and Miami Vice, penning Carmen Electra’s first film (cult classic

American Vampire with Adam West), and being a contestant on Jeopardy.

Rollin’s writing and art have been widely published.


Claire Lawrence is a multi-genre storyteller and visual artist based in British

Columbia. Her stories and artwork have been widely published, earning

nominations for both the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net. Her goal is to

push the boundaries of writing, and not inhale too many paint fumes.

Donald Patten is an artist and cartoonist from Belfast, Maine. He creates

oil paintings, illustrations, ceramics, and graphic novels. His art has been

exhibited in galleries throughout Maine. donaldlpatten.newgrounds.com/

art

Rachel Coyne is a writer and painter from Lindstrom, MN.

Gloria Keeley is a graduate of San Francisco State University, with a BA &

MA in Creative Writing. Her poetry and photographs have been included

in Spoon River Poetry Review, The Emerson Review, The MacGuffin, and

Chiron.

Kira Ashbeck is a UW-Green bay graduate from North Central Wisconsin.

Her goal as a nature photographer is to inspire viewers to engage in nature

conservation.

Gabby Feucht, a small-town soul from Southern Wisconsin, lives for the thrill

of photographing bigger, broader stories from around the world. An Art

Education major ready to share her artistic passion, she has been living in

Studio Arts the last four years. If you think you saw her outside of Studio Arts,

no you didn’t.

Ignatius Sridhar is an emerging artist, photographer, and student at the

University of Toronto Schools. His work focuses on the digital arts in the

areas of street photography and landscapes. His current project is Found

Latin, a study of the language’s influence in modern Rome. His work has

been published in Echo and The Burningword Literary Journal.

Elizabeth Agre hides out in the Northwoods of Minnesota with her husband

alongside the bears, wolves, and bobcats. She dabbles in writing, painting,

and taking pictures.

Richard Hanus writes, “Had four kids but now just three. Zen and Love. Art

for Art’s sake!”

129 | Digital and Interactive Media

Digital and Interactive Media | 129

The King of Capitalism

Donald Patten

“The King of Capitalism” is a class-conscious comic representing my frustration with the

societal elite. They disrespect and consume the proletariat without remorse or consequence.

sheepsheadrev

sheepsheadreview

sheepsheadreview.com

SHR Spring 2025

Transform your PDFs into Flipbooks and boost your revenue!

Delete template?

Save as template ?