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e ast coast inkissue 005 | bONes

C O N T E N T SEAST COAST INK | Issue 005 | BONES

L E T T E r f r o m t h e e d i t o r 2

P O E T R Y 4 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . T h e E a r B o n e s o f W h a l e s . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . T h e B u i l d e r . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . R e d M o r n i n g . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . S o l i d F a d i n g . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . G a l e F o r c e . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . B o n e s o f T h i s H o u s e . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . B r u c e S p r i n g s t e e n ’ s G u i t a r . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . J o v i b a r b a G l o b i f e r a . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . M o t h e r a n d C h i l d : N e w B e d f o r d W h a l i n g M u s e u m . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . K a f k a ’ s C a n e . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . O n t h e B r i d g e o f B o n e s . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . O n i o n s k i n . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . T h o u g h t s I D i d n ’ t S a y

F I C T I O N 2 8 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . S y n t h i a . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . T h e V o i d . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . T h e A d v e n t u r e s o f S l u g . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Yo u r B o n e s A c h e w i t h I t s A c h e s

M I C R O F I C T I O N 4 1 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . T h e N i g h t A f t e r Yo u M o v e d . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . S t r o n g B o n e s . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . I H a v e L o v e d Yo u W r o n g

ISSUE 005

EAST COAST INK Winter 2014―2015

“bONes”

N O N F I C T I O N 4 5 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . C h i c k e n F i n g e r s . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . L o c u s o f C o n t r o l . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . B o n e s o n t h e B e a c h

B o o k R e v i e w s 5 8 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . T h r e e M i n u t e s i n P o l a n d b y G l e n n K u r t z

C o n t r i b u t o r s 6 1

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owner, editor-in-chief J a c q u e l i n e F r a s c a

associate editor A u s t e n W r i g h t

fiction editor E r i k a C h i l d e r s

nonfiction editor J i l l S h a s t a n y

e c i s t a f f

East Coast Ink Issue 005, Winter 2014―2015: Bones.Copyright © 2015 East Coast Ink

Cover image by Jacquel ine Frasca.Images inside front cover and on pages 14, 43―44, 48, and inside back cover by Jacquel ine Frasca.

East Coast Ink magazine is produced four t imes per year and is an individual ly owned and operated publicat ion. For addit ional content , please visit ecimagazine .tumblr.com and connect with us @ecimagazine . Pitch us your creative nonfict ion and submit f ict ion, poetry, micro f ict ion, book reviews, mixed media artwork and photography to ecimagazine@gmail .com . Copyright of a l l materials reverts to the individual art ists and authors . No materials may be reproduced under any circumstances without written permissions from the editorial staf f .

reviews L a u r a A p p e r s o n

editorial interns D a n i e l l e B e h r e n d t I s a b e l l e S t . C l a i r

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l e t t e r f r o m t h e e d i t o r I f you’re anything l ike me, you probably have more than your fair share of skeletons in the c loset . Those who know me wil l often tel l others I wear my heart too prominently on my sleeve, but I have col lected pieces of myself that need to be kept beneath the surface, just l ike everyone else . Winter takes me to very dark places , as i t does many, and something about the cold and the darkness brings on a very specif ic brand of “alone,” even when you’re surrounded by people . One thing I ’ve been dwell ing too much on as the East Coast has seen less and less dayl ight is this : I f I dig past the excuses I make, am I doing my best for other people? I t ’s a hard question to answer for anyone, surely. While there is no doubt that you must make efforts , every day, to tend to your happiness , I ’m a f irm bel iever that the bones of my l i fe are made of other people . The very skeleton of my every move consists of those I care about and what I can do for them, with them, in their best interest . This issue of East Coast Ink delves into the idea of what l ies beneath—the bones, i f you wil l , the very structure of relat ionships , intentions, interactions. The borderl ine in me is prone to overanalyze and, often, misconstrue these types of bones, despite being inherently hesitant to reveal my own. I ’m happy to say that while I am no closer to answering the question that ’s plaguing me, the art ists who contributed to this issue have truly outdone themselves and helped make our f i f th issue so gorgeous and diverse . Inside these pages you’ l l f ind the works of sculptors , painters , i l lustrators and photographers whose interpretations of our theme “bones” went far beyond the l i teral and wil l real ly make you think. What thri l ls me is that we’re seeing more and more student work with every issue—the writ ing, painting, and mult imedia pieces in the magazine come from establ ished art ists as wel l as students from Emerson Col lege, Vassar, Savannah Col lege of Art and Design, The New York Academy of Art , Rhode Is land School of Design, New York Academy of Art and beyond. As we enter our second year (I can’t even bel ieve i t) , i t becomes more and more dif f icult to art iculate my gratitude for this project . What started as a way to get back into the art world has become a forum for art ists of a l l genres , mediums, and niches . We hope to keep del ivering themes that are both inspiring and chal lenging so we can keep sharing art ists l ike these for years to come. Thank you for reading.

Jacqueline Frasca

editor-in-chief

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“ B e s t o n B e a c h , ” 1 5 ” x 2 2 ” , o i l a n d c r a y o n . T r u r o , M A , 2 0 1 4 - L o r n a R i t z

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[ p o e t r y ]

T H E E A R B O N E S O F W H A L E SElizabeth Schultz

among the stonesalong this beachI search for ear bonesof lost pi lot whales along this beachwave upon wavethe lost pi lot whalessighed to each other wave upon waveI hear echoes oftheir s ighs to each otheras they lay heaving I hear echoes oftheir unknown desiresas they lay heavingthe sea bleeding their unknown desiresreduced to ear bonesthe sea bleedingtheir f lesh dissolved reduced to ear bonesintricately real izedtheir f lesh dissolvedthese bones endure

intricately real izedthe whales whisperingthese bones endurehard and white the whales whisperingas I search for ear boneshard and whiteamong the stones

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T h e B u i l d e rNicole Schonitzer

I ’m bui lding a hut made of st icksAround an upside-down lawn chair st i f fened with a weak plasterIt was an assemblageIt ’s st i l l an assemblageBut now with windowsMiniature people moved in I can hear them nowTheir l i t t le moans The far away yelps The smashingI l ike themBut they often disturb dinnerAnd I promised them I ’d never knock down their house againConsidering sending my own miniature to mediate

I f you bring nature insidePut i t up against a white wal l

I ’m bui lding a hat made of st icks Around an upside-down lawn chair st i f fened with a weak plaster6 feet 8 inches tal lCan only be worn where the atmosphere can accommodate i tI put on my cape and parade through the streetsThe wind blows The crown t i l ts , sett ing my body askewI’m the directionAs the rain fal ls I t drips off the branches and seeps into my eyesThe colors invert and the textures pol lute each otherWhen it hai ls The woody container col lects the white shardsI throw the majority back to the sky and bury the rest

I f you bring nature inside And piece i t together with wire And take i t outside againCal l yourself prince

I ’m bui lding a shrine made of st icksAround an upside-down lawn chair st i f fened with a weak plaster The twigs inhabit ing the upper sphere speak to each other Their language cannot be learned

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Their gestures complement those of their neighbors without error The branches of the base remain duti fulIn their s ingular task of upholdingSolidi f ied by the thin metal strands that bind themNot once wil l they waverThey provide the standardFor those who prostrate

If you bring nature insideSeek command no longer

“ b a t h e d i n g r a s s , ” w e n d y v a n c e

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R e d M o r n i n gA. J . Huffman

From the rooftop, the mountains seem al ive ,throbbing veins raised to surface. I attemptto touch their breath. Caughtin dawn’s chi l led eyes , we fal l across a lake,become brokenblanket of fog .

s o l i d f a d i n gSamuel Augustine

once in a while he felt the most bel ievable s i lencewithout fear posit ioned close hot tremblingit ’s ok, whisper to i t , s lap i t , wring i t drydestroy i ts doubt al l together.generations l iving deadly reign twanging against the next t in roofmusic to us , birds waken with usgreat ones l ive before our eyesyou must worry at the disrespect with death expect love respect acceptance expect uswe come swift l ike ones who set the late night f iresf loral paper burning tar, pearls , don’t meltour f ire burns you do feel i t accept i t .

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G a l e F o r c eNik Way

A gust so hot to drive peopleinto holes , melt color fromhair and f lags . Trash is easierto spot on bleached streets .

Singers s i lenced by stormstoo hot to touch, wieldedwith gloves . Used to deterother art ists for their safety.

Heat disappears snowexposes bones buried,black as truth. Windsscatter charred ribs .

They bui lt turbines to blowon towns across seas , I hadto undress . Open windowslet in the smell of burning.

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b o n e s o f t h i s h o u s eSteve Klepetar

Remember the bones of this house,how sol idly i t s i ts , even as i t seems to fal l away from the hi l l l ike a greatstone, rol l ing . Remember how it smells of baking bread on winterSaturdays, and pine-scented cleaner the day company arrives . Rememberhow it looks among dri fts of snow before the plow comes through—orange chimney brick and trees bent , brown slush from your boots melt ingon bone-white t i le inside the scratched up door. Remember your aching legs ,bone-weary f ingers nearly numb after shovel ing, and how this households as you drink and burn your tongue.

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b r u c e s p r i n g s t e e n ’ s g u i t a rJ .R . Solonche

is whiteis pure whiteis pure dominant , pure tonic is whiteis snow, is iceis a glacier gl issando is whiteis a swanis a swan with a straight-as-an-arrow neck is whiteis l i ly whiteis a l i ly pressed and dried in a book is whiteis white whale whiteis Ahab caught in the web of str ings is whiteis white hotis dead white , dead-center white is whiteis bridal gown whiteis the bride of rock and rol l is whiteis ghost whiteis the ghost of a blue guitar

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J o v i b a r b a g l o b i f e r aRosal ie Smith

My sentences are always so precarious—Orchid face ,Horse body. Yours are strong.“They are desert plants ,They do not need water.” We separate Hens from Chicks . Orchid face ,Horse body,Separate Hens from Chicks .

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“ T o d a y I w a s B e s t M a n a t a f i n n i s h w e d d i n g , ” e t c h i n g a n d c h i n e c o l l é , 1 2 ” x 1 4 ” - E m m a C a s e y

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M O T H E R A N D C H I L D : N E W B E D F O R D W H A L I N G M U S E U MElizabeth Schultz

Steadi ly and easi ly,huge with chi ld ,she navigated southward,swimming and grazing,her great mouth gaping,s iphoning nourishment ,spindrift whisking acrossher gl istening is land bulk . Earl ier this year when icefringed the Bay of Fundy,the hot , old bul l , hornywith cal losit ies , had held heramidst the swell ing t ides .Ten months later, she felther f irst cal f twitching, belching. Mildly and calmly,swimming and dreaming,the balmy waters , caressing,she moved toward destiny,imagining her cal f , uncoi l ing,stretching toward the future,s l ipping from the womb’s warmth. Off the coast of Virginia ,the grey ship, unseen, unseeing,s l iced off a f in and passed on,leaving her rol l ing with the wavesonto shore, a bleeding hulk ,lungs and heart ruptured,the cal f unborn, tethered within. Quiet ly and l ightly,f loating and hovering,their immense and intricateskeletons shadow destiny,mother and cal f ,their bones art iculate in death.

17 “ C o l u m n , ” N a y o u n g J e o n g

18 “ C o l u m n , ” N a y o u n g J e o n g

19C a r i n a A l l e n

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K a f k a ’ s C a n eJ .R . Solonche

No doubt he wantedit as a complement to hisblack suit and bowler hat ,the ones he wore everyday,even in summer. Or maybehe wanted one becausehe recal led that Balzacinscribed the head of his ,I crush al l obstacles ,which he could now turninto, All obstacles crush me .What a comical f igure hemust have made walking tothe workmen’s compensationoff ice as , every few steps,crushed by al l obstacles ,he fel l to his knees , or onhis back, where he f lai ledabout to r ight himself ,the cane scribbl ing parablesin the air.

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O n t h e b r i d g e o f b o n e sSteve Klepetar

My grandfather curses the bridge of bones.His losses add up, his jackal howls injurethe night . His thin face burns with the shadowof moon. Al l night he c l imbs across vertebraeand skul ls , ulna, radius and lunate bones. Refusing to say goodbye, he c l ings to girders ,ropes his legs around guardrai ls and bars .His f ingers scrape bone rust , bones withouta shard of f lesh, pi les of bones upon bones. The bridge of bones creaks in the wind.Bats wheel across the night sky, crazy and lost .My grandfather’s eyes are pyramids of grief ,he is drowned in a hurricane of frozen souls .For a hundred winters , he has tasted salt and oi l .He has spit words into the crucible rage.He has watched the adamantine world rol l onacross the gorge of plenty, the desert tracksof a thousand l ies . My grandfather tears at bonesmade of iron, bones of granite and steel . His voice has ossi f ied into bone. Si lent now,he r ips the frozen air into his screaming lungs.

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o n i o n s k i nP. I . Navarro

Common sense compels you to keep away from smoke hissing and sudden elevations in temperature but a sweet smell of hickory and the sound of bubbling f leshpull you toward the window as i f dreaming of yourself f loating toward a smil ing moon past concrete and steel towers that catch at your c lothes so that you must continue naked in your onionskinwooden bones, dead senses dry wires , and a pleasure that comes only from inertia .

I f you fold usinto pretty shapesmaybe the sky wil l softenand we wil l stretchinto skin constel lat ionsso f inethat we al l disappear.

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t h o u g h t s i d i d n ’ t s a yNik Way

I want to eat your words before you speak themcurl my tongue and rol l them over my bare gumslike spearmint that l ingers hours after swallowing

I want to break my f inger bonesknuckle by knuckle and reset themto better f i t your elbows and knees

I want to pluck the scabfrom your skin and hold i tbetween us l ike a pendant

Without me you are uncleanWith me you wil l never be

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s y n t h i aChris Milam

She would be there every afternoon when I drove home from work. Her feet implanted in a strip of dead grass , a chartreuse scarf t ied del icately around her ref ined head. Hair the color of creamed honey rested on blade-thin shoulders . Cars headed in al l direct ions, f l ickering traff ic l ights dictated f low, and construction workers f ixed potholes while sucking on hand-rol led cigarettes . Al l obl ivious to the melancholy girl hawking the wares of a furniture store’s l iquidation. This angel ic oasis in the middle of a concrete desert , a mirage of t i t i l lat ion that begged me to drink from its pool of splendor. Her hand moved in t ight c ircles , a rhythmic twirl ing, forcing the s ign to spin in a continuous loop. She was a more exquisite version of a postman, she wasn’t deterred by bursts of heaving rain or the wail of an enraged wind. Her work ethic was to be admired, her dedication was to be envied. That elegantly sculptured hand of hers never fai led to entice , never fai led to bring the f lock to the parking lot . Two days ago I pul led into Handsome Hank’s furniture emporium. I wasn’t interested in a leather recl iner, a burgundy sofa , or a faux-wood end table . I had to make her acquaintance. I wanted to ask what her name was, but she wasn’t exact ly a loquacious creature. Her face was a mask of fragi le s i lence. Her eyes were painted with masterful brushstrokes , producing two orbs of cerulean glass . Her body was r igid except for that blur of a hand. I traced my f inger in an arc from rouged cheekbone to rouged cheekbone. My touch didn’t e l ic i t a response of any kind, but I l ike to bel ieve that her manufactured f lesh craved the warmth of human skin. That somewhere in her hol low chest , a sol i tary bolt of l ightning was osci l lat ing back and forth against the walls of her synthetic l ining, searching for a way to jump-start my fat igued heart . A fool ’s delusion perhaps, but a fool a lways seeks the truth that hides in a place of ache, a realm where the answer is one of his own choosing. Yes , she felt something for me, but her plast ic l ips refused to let her art iculate her concealed desires . I asked the manager, Larry, i f I could apply to be a s ign holder. He chuckled and explained to me that he used to hire homeless people to hold the s igns , but they were either always late , complained about the underwhelming pay, or showed up drunk. He said the automatons only needed fresh batteries to keep their mechanical hearts thumping, that they were more ef f ic ient and trustworthy than humans. They never t ired, they didnt require a f i f teen minute break, they couldn’t speak about the poor condit ions . Larry said that i f he put a blonde wig

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on her, business would tr iple in a matter of hours . I f he put raspberry l ipst ick on her, he sold more loveseats and coffee tables . I told him that I didn’t care about any of that , I only wanted to stand next to her in the grass , our hands lost in a haze of synchronized pivoting, sharing moments of tender sol i tude. I asked him i f he understood what fate was, what destiny was. I wil l stand there for free , I wil l stand there and endure a catastrophic typhoon, I wil l stand there unti l we become tethered to one another. I t ’s kizmet , I told him. Don’t play God and deny me this sweet rapture of art i f ic ial hope. Give me a pen and an applicat ion immediately, good sir. I ’m banned from the property now. Exi led. I ’m reduced to viewing the girl with the lonely face , this mute goddess created in a soul less factory, through a smudged windshield as I drive by at a respectable speed. I l ike to bel ieve that she secretly waves to me, that her rotating hand is something more than a shiny lure to reel in the horde so they can purchase a fake Tif fany lamp. That she knows I ’ l l come back for her someday and place her in a shady spot in my backyard or maybe by the window in my bedroom. I f she could hear me, she would know that love doesn’t require a voice , f lowing blood, or a skeletal foundation. A chunk of grey matter. A f iery spirit . I wi l l see you tomorrow , I want to tel l her, when I drive home from work. My eyes wil l f ind you. They always do.

t h e v o i dJacob Roundy

I carve a hole in the earth with my gloved f ingers . Each st i f f f inger is l ike a dul l knife scraping against bark. Sweat inches down my temple . The resi l ience of frozen clay has replaced the soft soi l I remember. Clouds of ash f loat overhead. In the distance, an amber sun streams through the sky l ike the glowing embers of a f ire struggl ing to breathe again. There is an absence here. There is a suffocating vacancy of color. There are no birds f lying; their chirping sucked into a s i lent vacuum. Lightning stretches out of the c louds and strikes a tree . The blast shatters branches, sending f iery smithereens down to the earth, where they sit and smolder l ike t iny smoke signals . I catch the gl int of steel in a pi le of rubble not far from my carved divot . I approach without caution. There is no danger of wild animals guarding their home. I am the only scavenger left . Tossing aside the metal remains of a house, I discover a sharp piece of steel that f i ts perfect ly in my palm. I return to the spot , marked with a st ick , as i f i t were a place marker for the dead—a makeshift tombstone. With both hands, I plow the steel into the surface, and a crack about three inches long groans into l i fe . The steel cuts through my gloves and sl ices into my cal loused skin, but I ’m so c lose now. The earth is giving way and crumbling into dust . There is no pain, but the blood tr ickles down my f ingers anyway, soaking the

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cloth of the gloves and dripping into the ground as a sacri f ic ial of fering. The steel crashes and cuts . I l i f t the blade above my head, both hands pressed against the back end of the blade, and gash the ground. Si f t ing aside layers of dirt and ash and sweat and blood, I feel the edge of a box. I am the sculptor of this treasure chest . The steel is my hammer and chisel , and the Earth is my stone block. Final ly, I discard my crude shovel and wrap my hands around the chest . With a strong yank, I wrench i t free , and for a moment , I feel l ike I ’ve torn the st i l l -beating heart from Mother Earth’s corpse. I want to carry the burden of this container to somewhere sacred, but there is nowhere unmarked. Al l is stained, branded with dust and dirt . The cobwebs had mutated into walking creatures with spiny legs , dragging a vei l of f i l th over the brimming beauty of l i fe . I remove the key dangl ing from my necklace. I kiss i t with my dry, st inging l ips , and press i t against my forehead. Eyes c losed, I whisper a s i lent prayer. I f i t the key into the lock, and the l id pops open l ike an old man sighing. Yel lowed, britt le papers and plast ic photographs. Brimming false smiles and meaningless tr inkets . Worn-away ink and invisible characters . Memories of a distant past , entombed in hazy sight and vestiges of avarice . My f ingers trace the girl in the photograph. She is barely vis ible , but I know her frame by heart . And there is an unrecognizable f igure next to her. A person I used to be—me with the chubbiness of baby fat , now completely shed l ike the stale skin of a snake. And then I see the others . Their names lost , chronicled nowhere except in the dead spaces of my brain. But a subconscious part of me understands, and involuntary tears track down my cheeks and splat against the photograph and papers in the chest . I let them fal l and watch as the l iquid mixes with ash. I feel a l l that I am responsible for, and the withering touch of death beckons. Laying down, I spread the memories on my chest and stare into the black abyss above. Gentle snowflakes dri f t downward. The cool touches against my wind-burned face are soothing, and I want to stay l ike this forever. I wish the snow would entomb me in a frozen sarcophagus. But the memories burn with a sudden heat . I t s inges me awake, and I gather the f lames into my hands and stand. Hope is a bright , white-hot star, and the others—the faceless ghosts of my past—scream, “Continue, l ive , and f ight!” Wrapped in my coat and rags with my backpack pressed t ightly against me, I s l ip the f ire into my pocket , burying i t deep, and gaze at the horizon. Somewhere, the land breathes for a revival .

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t h e a d v e n t u r e s o f s l u g Ethan Cohen

High, high up above the city a human man stands at a precipice . He looks across the black sky cei l ing over the glowing l ights . My power is my l imitat ion. He shifts his toe over the edge of the pole , and feels the dry night wind, then he dives .

In water one can stand comfortably on one toe. See the superpower of Slug: the Hero of the Daytime.

Through the whipping wind, within the towering trees , into the networking neighborhoods, navigating the intricate interior, S lug f l ies .Searching for dates . She l ikes dates . A sweet fruit for a sweet girl . A s lash across the face; s l ippage due to crosswinds. “Agh!” S lug is blown toward a bank, pressed against a road sign; he pushes off with his feet and f l ies . He arrives at the supermarket , and buys dates for $5.99. 1

Al l the capabil i t ies of underwater motion are avai lable to Slug above ground. But that is a l l—as a regular human, Slug must use a cane to f ight against the pressure. His muscles are so l ight that a homemade lead patch dwells on his chest in order to keep him grounded. As a superhuman, Slug removes the lead patch and rises in the air, c lear in his invisible uniform. The l ightness of his muscles grants Slug smooth, quick, and agi le passage through the air. His weapon is nature—the force of a great splash of wind. How did such power come from such l imitat ion, and such l imitat ion from such power? The story is banal and secret .

Joseph P. Studd served in the United States Air Force straight out of high school . During his secondary education he won an award for an essay on Engl ish l i terature and played the f lute in a local music ensemble . Upon graduation he said he had l i t t le sense of what he wanted and his parents did not have money. Joseph P. Studd was not the type of young man to have his feet strapped to the ground. The Air Force was the place for him. He trained faithful ly and mastered the curvatures and rhythms of American air from behind a glass windshield . At the t ime of his prime there was no war at which to showcase his abi l i t ies . He trained harder. The Air Force grew monotonous. Every day Joseph P. Studd worked his muscles unti l he felt f ire but this was not enough. Where was the frontier? He stole a plane and f lew east . I t seemed l ike the thing to do. He f lew out unti l there was only blue 2

1 This is the American Conundrum: What do I do with the penny?2 The sky is blue in America.

32 l a r r y h o l l a n d

and he, Joseph P. Studd, was truly alone. At the very moment that the idea of a beer crossed his mind, some oi l -dri l l ing crane somewhere malfunctioned and col lapsed, and a sharp clang r iddled our hero as though i t had originated from the heart of the ocean, and Slug’s airplane tai lspinned. S lug cannot see in the dark. Too much staring into the sun when he was up in the air. I t hinders his act ions as a human. Sometimes he walks home at night and a fr iend says , “Hey, Joe!” He looks around. Slug does not see who is talking and he is not even sure the voice was directed at him. There must be a lot of Joes in the city. Either way, the footsteps have departed, and the fr iend is wondering why he or she was ignored. This l imitat ion comes without a power. Joseph P. Studd suffered from extreme muscular atrophy as he treaded water, e ighty-eight stories above the ocean f loor, for eight weeks. The muscles were overworked and underfed and they decided to learn a new way of functioning. When he was l i f ted out of the water by a special Air Force unit 3, Joseph P. Studd fainted before he could be informed of his highly honorable discharge.

1 This is the American Conundrum: What do I do with the penny?2 The sky is blue in America.

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So he awoke kissing the cei l ing and feel ing entirely natural swimming through the air down to the kitchen. He prepared one baked bean.

S lug could repair his muscles through physical therapy but that is not his destiny: His atrophy is his regeneration. Then again, abi l i ty is detrimental . I t a l lows you not to achieve as a human because you are doing enough as a superhuman. S lug removes the lead from his chest and rises invisibly. The sun gri l ls his eyes now that i t is late afternoon, a lmost dinnertime. Slug has not eaten food from a gri l l in years . The cane l ies beside Slug’s bed and walks with him everywhere. The lead is camouflaged skin-color. S lug avoids doctors and pictures . The hero wears thick c lothing. S lug lounges in buoyancy eighty-eight stories above the city.

Well , Joseph P. Studd kept watch for crime on the roof of a bui lding. The pol ice did a pretty sol id job, though, and i t took him a few weeks to f ind a good drug deal . When he f inal ly found the tableau of a woman crying for help and f lew down to attack the man with mari juana and a gun, the f lash of a camera disrupted his eyesight and he stumbled, real iz ing as he bl inked around that he had interrupted the scene of a f i lm shooting. The cameramen said Whew and fanned their noses . Who was this guy? they asked. Why hadn’t he showered? The name change seemed l ike the thing to do. I am Slug. I make people mildly discomforted.

The world is S lug’s swimming pool . He travels in uniform for his convenience. S lug can f loat over large puddles , speed through thick crowds, splash closed faraway doors , and travel among bui lding f loors . In intense social s i tuations he can sneak out windows; he may survey events and decide whether and where to enter. His toes c lutch onto the American f lagpole . He reviews the droning city l ights and dives . fpfhew / fpfhew / fpfhew / Fal l ing , dropping, accelerating, the stories f ly by– Splash! Birds are sent spinning. And slower and slower, and slower; and Slug lowers his toe to the ground. A New York apartment ledge. S lug maintains his invisible posture and watches . The girl does not appear for a few minutes but when she does Slug can smell her showered hair. She ambles around her room in a towel and eventual ly dresses . In the kitchen a boy steals the cereal bowl from her hands. She laughs.

By the t ime he returns home, Slug st i l l does not feel hungry. “Hi Mom.” “Welcome home, Joseph.” Slug removes his chest-plate , throws i t on the couch, and breathes . “. . .” He decides that the need to pee has been mit igated by the nightt ime cold and that he can just s i t at the counter and replay the images in his head for a while

3 See? They do good after all.4 Slug, who in this scene would appear visibly upset, perhaps is unaware that the boy was the girl’s brother, who was visiting for the weekend.

34“ g o l d e n h o u r , ” W e n d y V a n c e

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before rel ieving himself . “What ’s the matter?” “Nothing.” 4

“Are you hungry?” “No.” “How about a glass of milk?” “Okay.” A tal l , cool , hardy glass of whole milk . As he eats the largest meal s ince his rebirth , S lug feels the cusps of his muscles curl in the f irst yawns of regrowth, and he feels his body relearn to weigh i tsel f down without the lead chest-plate . After al l , no one can be a superhero forever. “ Is i t good?” Slug smiles . “Mmmmm.”

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y o u r b o n e s a c h e w i t h i t s a c h e s a novel extractS . L . Mernagh

When we saw the l i t t le wooden house buried deep in the trees , our hearts leapt to our mouths. We could not speak. We were si lenced by i t ; not choked, but so warmed in our mouths, so caressed and comforted by i t in our mouths, that words were dimmed. What would i t sound l ike i f sweat , caused by al l this warm, pulsing feel ing, came pouring forth from our l ips? Would the l i t t le house feel that this is suff ic ient? And what would happen i f , through al l this excitement , we would bite down a l i t t le too hard on our hearts in our mouths? Momentari ly halt their pulsing, hurt their feel ings through this piercing of their material i ty? This is what happens, we learned, when something has mapped i ts history so deeply to yours i t gets twisted up in your bones. Your bones ache with i ts aches . Are we, then, approaching the l i t t le house in a way that bel ies the distance we have travel led? Our bare feet were brambled, stuck with gravel , torn by the long desert road. Now they are wrinkled, mud-ridden by the r iver. One of my legs was cut in a straight l ine , bleeding red l ike the road i tsel f . Now the r iver has f i l led i t with al l kinds of l i fe I cannot see . Our hair, with i ts trappings of burrs and dead insects , had been rough-handled by that part icular desert wind that growls at dusk. But lately, i t has been wrenched instead by the f ingers of the r iver, leaving traces of i ts games in the reeds twisted in our strands. Our skin, once burned by desert sun, is stretched now over these tempered, r iver-aching bones, t ightly tuned sinews in between. Her bones hum with the same tune as mine, and that of the l i t t le house. I can see that her eyes are distanced by her own physical i ty. Long forgett ing her immediacy. Weeks of gazing from horizon to horizon, seeking out a fabled sea. She st i l l bel ieves i t exists . We stumble through the trees , barefoot , unti l we are in c lear s ight of the house. Our bones hum feverishly with recognit ion. I ts structure, rough-hewn from the forest , is our structure. My red suitcase in one hand, her black suitcase in one hand. We are drawn to the promise of f ireplace, hearth, inhabitat ion, skin shedding and becoming dust , fa l l ing hair, releasing waste . The twin front windows wave greetings to us on the wind. The front door swings suggestively open. The one inside has left his dusty travel l ing case standing to attention on one side of the door. His black leather boots stand expectantly on the other. His weathered suit jacket has been f lung over a broken wooden chair on the verandah, heavy with desert dust . We keel forwards unti l our feet touch the pathway of our l i t t le house. Instantly, the st i l lness of i t is broken. He, inside, has awoken: I feel that he feels the hearts deep and warm in our mouths. And I see that we, in our anticipation and hunger, have bitten down too hard. He can smell i t . The l i t t le house bursts into f lames before our eyes . I ts f ire r ises agonisingly

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into the c lutch of trees surrounding i t . The one inside is trying to keep his secrets . Do we hear the crash of sea in the distance, beyond the l i t t le house? Or is that the trees? Or is that the breaking of i ts bones, our bones, in the f ire? Blood pours from our hearts into our mouths, through our teeth, over our bursting l ips and pours forth hot down our bodies as we arrive at the threshold of our l i t t le wooden house. And as we reach i t , as our skin touches i ts skin , as our hearts ’ blood tr ickles onto the threshold, the f ire begins burning in reverse. I t diminishes , quietens, shrinks to just a trai l of smoke curl ing from the chimney. The f ire now gone, our l i t t le house remains before us , good as new. I t beckons us in .

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[ m i c r o f i c t i o n ]

T h e N i g h t A f t e r Y o u M o v e dDaniel le Behrendt

Later, on the Red Line back from Harvard Square, I ’m too fucked up to look at anything. My eyes stagger from a Japanese newspaper stamped with footprints to the goose bump brist led legs of a girl by the door. Her feet blush pink with cold where her high heels bite into their s ides , the skin over her bones translucent and veiny l ike something newborn. I want to touch them. At home, I wil l fa l l asleep in the tub and wake up, head spinning, in water l ike forgotten tea . A stripe of streetl ight s l ides through the space between the shade and the s i l l and sleeps across my unkissed toes .

S t r o n g B o n e sLara Lewis

Wood shouldn’t have held this sturdy. Even though the storm had torn down most of the trees and rock formations around it , the thin wall supports of oak and rope stood st i l l . Moss fel l in patches from the wind tearing at them, and vines lay at the ground or dangled, r ipped apart by the downpour. Even so, the entire framework of the old , forgotten bui lding stood l ike i t had been bui lt the day before, not even sl ightly shaken in i ts foundation. The posts swelled in the rain , but did not spl inter, and the rope did not fray. Worms crawled out of soi l that washed down from the earth around, while a few birds f lew at them as they tr ied to rebuild their ruined nests . Pi les of waterlogged leaves lay scattered around. Snai ls inched up and down the posts , leaving shiny trai ls against the damp wood. Squirrels bounded across the upright posts , carrying the spoi ls that fel l to the ground from the trees . A s ingle sound of human footprints could be heard, s lowly walking through the empty framework of the hal ls .

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I H a v e L o v e d Y o u W r o n gEmma McPherson

The cat ’s paw gently padded against the smooth, cool hardwood that nearly shone in the bright blue white balance of s ix a .m. Light elucidated every strand of fur l ingering a few inches from its frai l form, creating a soft evanescence of grey shades as i t swift ly stepped in and out of shadows from the s l ider doors . The amber of the wood f loor in the old refurbished townhouse contrasted against the azure hue of the c loud tr ick . The thick bamboo in the terracotta planter at the base of the winding, wrought- iron staircase and the ivory and navy toi le drapes in the adjacent guestroom had a kind of ir idescence brought by the sunrise on the dew of the grass . I t came upon the f irst step and sat , i ts deep amber eyes retaining their golden luster despite the wash out of the r is ing sunlight . I t doleful ly surveyed the potted bamboo as though seizing up an old acquaintance. First one paw and then another, faci le in i ts advance as i t steadied i tsel f on i ts haunches and l i f ted i tsel f up, sharing the dirt with the long hard stems of bamboo. Dampened with a recent watering and kept wet with the chi l l of night giving way to the proceeding day, the cat ’s fur of i ts paws began to darken in color with the dirt . Rethinking i ts step up into the bamboo’s habitat i t drew itsel f to ful l potential , s inking a few inches into the soi l as i t bounded forth from the pot and onto the next step. Recoi l ing from the force , the pot t ipped over the edge of i ts stair and spi l led i ts contents onto the hardwoods; the cat began to c lean i ts soi led paws apathetical ly.

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[ n o n f i c t i o n ]

C h i c k e n F i n g e r sBen Edwards

In Jurassic Park , sc ientists extract DNA from mosquitoes trapped in amber and use i t to reproduce the dinosaurs that the mosquitoes sucked on. Though I wil l defend my chi ldhood favorite to the grave, this is obviously problematic . First of a l l , that is an awful lot of amber mosquitoes . But more importantly, as paleontologist Jack Horner puts i t , i f you were to pul l DNA samples from thousands of mosquitoes trapped in ancient amber, “you’d have a room ful l of mosquitoes .” This is actual ly the stated purpose behind Jack Horner’s genius grant research on chickens. I f he can’t ful f i l l his chi ldhood dream of having a dinosaur as a pet by actual ly reproducing dinosaurs , perhaps he can reverse engineer them. I t turns out that , while in the egg, chicken embryos grow hands—much l ike those of a velociraptor—which, further along in the development process , get reabsorbed and replaced by a fused wing. Horner and his col league Dr. Hans Larson are working to identi fy the genes responsible for reabsorption and inhibit them, so that they can produce “chickenosauruses .” This process of act ivating ancestral traits through gene manipulation is cal led atavism, and i t could have applicat ions beyond giving Horner a pet . For one thing, f locks of roaming free-range chickenosauruses could add valuable awesomeness to the American countryside, making Iowa worth visit ing. But to me, atavism i l lustrates the modularity of the Animalia corpus. Discovering and manipulating a gene for delet ion is a relat ively easy f irst step on the path to identi fying genes responsible for growing these bones in the f irst place , and, by further abstraction, the genes responsible for developing any skeletal feature. This has some obvious medical applicat ions, l ike f inding and correcting deformities in-utero. But I bel ieve we can take i t beyond the purely uti l i tarian. Applicat ion 1: GiraffeshundsAtavism does not al low for the replacement of skeletal features wil ly-ni l ly, but i t could lead to further research on transgenesis : taking

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a gene from one creature and placing i t in another, the process that gives us glowing goldf ish. The most obvious use here is creating a wiener dog with a giraffe neck, and though this concept should real ly just i fy i tsel f , i t ’s worth giving a brief overview of the pros and cons. Pro: They can look you in the eyes at a l l t imes. Pro: They can get your kitten out of a tree . Con: They wil l steal the cigarettes you hide on top of the fr idge.

Application 2: Horses With Claws Instead of Hooves Pros: None. There are none. Cons: This is an entirely horri fying idea.

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Application 3: Take A Beaver, Replace Its Mouth With A Duck Bi l l , Give It Poison Claws And A Kangaroo Pouch, And Make It Lay Eggs , Then Take It Back In Time With The Time Machine That Wil l Exist By The Time This Many Complex Genetic Mutations Are Possible , And Introduce It To Austral ia So That By The Time Europeans Discover The Continent , I t Appears As Though This Creature Evolved Natural ly Pro: The entire population of Earth is as pleased as i t is confused. Pro: Obviously feasible . Cons: Creationists use this as proof that God has a sense of humor, when real ly Dr. Science Jef f has a sense of humor.

Though there are countless more applicat ions for research on atavism and transgenesis , the deadline for this essay is impending. But i f you’d l ike to see more, consider nominating me for a genius grant . The future spi l ls roughly in the direction in which you kick the cup of knowledge.

All i l lustrations included are original works by Ben Edwards .

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l o c u s o f c o n t r o lEmma McPherson

I knew a ghost , once. Facing the mirror with hol low eyes , her l ids narrowed sl ightly as her palms found her thighs . The smallest of motions, easi ly confused with a tr ick of the heavy f luorescent l ight around the vanity mirror. The concert beyond the painted brick walls of the bathroom went on without us . Sucking her bottom l ip between her teeth, she spoke with a voice l ike a shard of glass , “ I don’t think I deserve this .” She operated on sickness and unkind thoughts about what i t meant to be al ive . When we met , I was assigned to l isten and observe. She was on leave from the hospital , and I was part of a special new program cal led “Shadow.” The operative was to remind patients with a history of sel f -muti lat ion and destruction that there was always someone who wanted them to get better and feel posit ively about themselves . That recovery was on the horizon and very attainable . I t coincided with their therapy, and many patients didn’t care to partic ipate in i t . When I was assigned to her, I became overly aware of my own body immediately—not because of our s ize di f ference, but due to her unforgiving scrutiny. The people in the room introduced us as we watched each other in s i lence. I searched her searching me, her hungry

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“ F o l d i n g + D o o r , ” N a y o u n g J e o n g

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eyes peel ing apart my arms and stomach, my thighs , whether or not my feet were hips-width apart . I f my hipbones showed. They didn’t . My instructions were very s imple: I f I judged that a s i tuation was dangerous, I was to cal l 911 to have her detained immediately. Other than that , I was to fol low her around, not talk about myself , and l isten to whatever she had to say about herself , food, sadness , anxiety, anything. Whenever she said something negative about herself , pul led at her skin , or was visibly upset , I was supposed to say, “You are beauti ful and you are not alone.” I would go with her to the mall , her house, her fr iends’ houses , keeping a journal of notes on how many t imes she looked into ref lect ive surfaces , picked at her body, insulted herself . I f I found myself being negatively af fected by this therapy, I was to terminate the experiment . At f irst , she was completely s i lent around me, as i f I was never there. As i f I were the ghost . I would watch her push pieces of cereal around in the bowl of untouched milk and feel completely intrusive as she locked up whatever hel l she was thinking behind her l ips . Her hair was thin and short , every contour of her r ibcage showed through every i tem of c lothing she owned. I sat beside her in c lasses and counted the t imes she wrung her hands. She was always looking at the sky, part icularly at night , no matter where we were or who we were with. At dinnertime, while her family ate around us , she would stare off out the window, counting stars . But f inal ly, doing homework on her bed one night as I drew a sketch of her on a blank page, she looked up suddenly and told me I had cheekbones l ike an anorexic girl . I blanched and stared at her. One, two, ten bl inks . Eyes locked on each other from across the room, I weighed my script in my head. That wasn’t negative against her. Actual ly, in her mind, that was a compliment . “So do you,” I said , going back to my sketch. The night at the concert , she broke away from her small fr iend group and f led to the bathroom with me not far behind. Her fr iends watched her go with long faces , feel ing completely apart from her, watching a f igment of their old companion f lee into the crowd. None of them fol lowed us . Watching her in the mirror, her eyes met mine angri ly, expectant . I ’d been with her for a month. “You are beauti ful and you are not alone,” I said , calmly and loudly over the music . Her face was murderous, but her eyes held lakes . We didn’t return to the venue. I fol lowed her outside where she bummed a c igarette off the c losest stranger. I did the same, and l i t hers for her. I stood in front of her as she sat against the wall , staring hard, dragging too hard, wil l ing her to acknowledge I was here. She was so far away, narrow sl i ts staring off down the street at oncoming headlights . I repeated my l ine . She answered the road, “Al l I think about is food and my body. That ’s i t . That ’s fucking i t .” Then she looked at the sky and didn’t move unti l I eventual ly cal led her mom to give us a r ide home. After that night , she cal led her fr iends less and spoke out loud more. According to her, being amongst people felt l ike an unattainable thing—talking, sharing, l istening, trying to pretend anything mattered at a l l i f she wasn’t thin . Control l ing what she looked l ike was easier, calculat ive , took a l i t t le bit of wil lpower and concerned only her. Hours spent pacing her room, moving things around on shelves , shuff l ing c lothes in drawers and closets , a never-ending stream of talk about how something f i t or didn’t f i t , what she could feel beneath her skin , the di f ferences from mirror to mirror. Whenever she gave pause, I said my l ine duti ful ly. I ’d stopped writ ing notes and taken to sketching her exclusively. Sometimes I would offer more

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words than my single l ine , trying to breach her, trying to show her I was r ight in front of her, every day, l istening and wanting to help. Doe-legged girl unable to lay on her stomach on hardwood f loors because the skin between her hips and ribs was too thin , birch-tree girl wearing three layers of shirts to retain feel ing in her bones on 50-degree days , fainting bird forced to s it and eat a plate of food l ike a toddler. Made of wisps of smoke, s i t t ing with boney knees drawn to her chest , watery eyes endlessly f l i t t ing back and forth between the stars . She told me she wished someone else wanted this for her. She wanted one other person in the world to understand how uncomfortable she was, to want her to succeed in being thin . She kept asking to see what I was drawing and I told her i t was against the Shadow rules . One afternoon, s ide-by side in her bed, she lay on her back with both hands rest ing in the cavern of her stomach and told me I was her only fr iend and she knew nothing about me. She wore a bandeau and leggings and I was c l inging to the opposite s ide of the bed. I kept my mouth shut and waited for more. When nothing else came, I asked i f she wanted me to cal l her fr iends. She rol led over and waved me off s i lently, facing the window. A ref lect ive surface. Al l I could do was stare at her shoulder blades across the bed from me. She inhaled and they expanded as i f there used to be wings there. “ I can’t hold onto anything but weight anymore.” Reaching for her l ightly, my f ingertips brushed nothing substantial and I knew she was r ight . “You are beauti ful and you are not alone,” I said to the curve of her spine. But she was too far away to hear. Eventual ly she stopped acknowledging me again, and spoke less and less . Fearing I ’d missed my window, I of fered more words. Her parents begged me to try and get her out , amongst people . I asked, “Why do you look at the stars when we’re al l r ight here?” Unmoving, her eyes never left the sky. “They feel c loser.”

B o n e s o n t h e B e a c hBarbara Hobbs

I t has now been more than f i f ty years s ince this family adventure occurred and the events of the day have never been far from my mind. What we discovered that day left us with an enigma, a mystery that can never be solved. The events wil l stay in my imagination forever. There were four of us , two couples each with our small chi ldren. We’d planned a tr ip to northern Michigan in search of lake front property. Not just any lake would do. Lake Michigan, second largest of the f ive Great Lakes , was our destination. Lake Michigan is a fresh water inland sea stretching 300 miles in length, north from Chicago and the Indiana Dunes and sixty miles east to west at i ts widest point . The beaches are wide and sandy, the water remarkably c lear, and there is a chi l l to i t even in the heat of August . After spending t ime on Lake Michigan, i t is impossible to think that you might never return. As chi ldren, both my husband, Stu , and I had gone “up north” on summer visits to relat ives l iving near the lakes and had wonderful memories of canoes, swimming, f ishing and fun. After we married, we envisioned a place for us to spend our summers soaking

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up the relaxing atmosphere and eventual ly sharing the t ime with a future family. The four adults decided to start the search near a quaint , old-fashioned resort , the town of Harbor Springs on Litt le Traverse Bay. The f irst tourists there had begun to arrive in the late 1800s via steamship and then train from as far away as Chicago and Detroit . Over the decades, the town f lourished and became a “destination.” Stu and I spent our honeymoon just north of there and so had an idea of where we might begin to look. Jack and Jane joined us enthusiast ical ly. We were such good fr iends! With the scene set , I wil l return to the unfolding adventure. The tr ip north up from Detroit was uneventful . The weather was perfect , bright and cool . Along the way, we stopped and ate our picnic lunch. The chi ldren romped in autumn leaves in “October’s bright blue weather.” Then again we were on our way. The countryside became increasingly rural as we passed through stands of hardwoods and then pines . Lakes and ponds are numerous in Northern Michigan and the scenery whetted our appetite to be there as soon as possible . On the outskirts of Harbor Springs , we found a rustic , local ly-owned motel tucked in the trees and sett led in for the night . As we slept , i t began to rain l ightly and by morning, there was a continuing drizzle . No matter; after a quick breakfast , our intrepid band of moms, dads, and kids bundled up and struck out intent on f inding our stretch of Lake Michigan beach. North of Harbor Springs there is st i l l l i t t le development . To this day, people cherish their space and only an occasional s ide road intrudes into the woods. The plan was to f ind property together. Each family would bui ld i ts own cabin. We would tai lor our l imited budget , perhaps sharing a wel l to ease our f inances . Locating the property was the f irst hurdle . About ten miles north along the bluff we found a gravel road leading down to the shore. Had we not known where to turn, we would have missed the cut-off entirely. Having checked with a realtor ahead of t ime, we searched for the “ lot for sale” s ign and found it deep down the trai l . A small creek bubbled out of the hi l l s ide . Just what we’d had mind! Released from the car, the older chi ldren bounded down the s lope to the beach. The shore was strewn with pebbles and dri ftwood. Everything was coated with a muddy residue that had washed down the sandy incl ine during the night . The weather and beach were grey but i t was no longer raining. As we wandered the beach, the older chi ldren picked up stones and shel ls , tossing them into the waves. I had noticed that our oldest boy held an odd shaped “something” in his hand and asked to see what he had found. On close inspection i t was obviously a rounded section of bone, coated with the grey beach f i lm and barely dist inguishable from other l i t ter strewn nearby. We gathered the others and began a search for other bony shards, anything that might help with identi f icat ion. You might think that such a f ind would be threatening or extremely scary. Whatever the source of the bone, i t was extremely old and there was no evidence of foul play. No need to cal l 911 at this point . Al l of the adults were teachers , so i t quickly became a learning experience. The bone suggested a piece of skul l , human perhaps or maybe part of a deer, weathered and with an aged, eroded texture. Within twenty feet or so , I came upon another fragment and recognized i t as a broken fragment of human jaw bone, complete with molars . Now, we were onto something! Rather than being alarmed, our inner

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Sherlock Holmes kicked in . Up the s lope that we had just descended, looking closely, we saw what seemed to be a c lavicle jutt ing out only a few inches below the surface. This was a burial s i te! Time and erosion had long ago reduced the soi l cover to a maximum of s ix to eight inches . No recent burial would ever be so near the surface of the ground. We were al l excited, curious and in awe of our f ind. We decided to careful ly excavate the shal low grave. With f ingers and a pocket knife , the sandy soi l was gently removed from what was an almost intact skeleton. The chi ldren stood by as amazed as we by the f ind. Never disrespectful , we removed the sandy soi l , leaving the bones unaltered in their posit ion. Perhaps the way that the person had been laid to rest , however long ago, would give a c lue to the identity. The bones seemed lovingly arranged with the left hand across the chest and the other arm down to the s ide. No clothing, fabric , or other material was apparent . We si f ted the soi l , f inding something foreign only under the pelvic area. With less drainage there, we guessed that the f ibrous material might be al l that remained of a pine box, another c lue to the identity of our new found fr iend. Deductive reasoning at ful l speed, we surmised that a large tree nearby had come along much later. Large roots wound around and through the grave site . No doubt , a very old burial . The tree would have been a sapl ing at that t ime. Jack, the other dad, had brought an excel lent camera and after the burial was completely open to view, he captured the s ite . Would the arrangement of bones be another c lue to the person’s identity? We hauled an old army blanket from the car and reverently removed the remains , s i f t ing again with our f ingers so as not to miss a s ingle digit or vertebrae. Al l pieces of the skeleton and scrap of f iber were wrapped in the blanket , bundled, and taken down state . The University of Michigan Dept . of Anthropology would be our next stop. After some discussion, we’d decided that , g iven due respect , the remains could properly be taken there. What would be revealed about the “someone” we now regarded as a fr iend? Shortly thereafter, the department sent a lengthy analysis of our f ind. She was of Caucasian descent , roughly twenty-nine years of age at the t ime of death and had never given birth . Only an est imate could be made as to when she had been interred, due to soi l composit ion and drainage concerns. We cared about her. Our fr iend died, we don’t know why. So many years ago she was lovingly buried facing the sett ing sun on the beauti ful shore of Lake Michigan. Her f inal rest ing place is now at the U of M. We felt a lr ight with that decision given that she could not be returned to her original rest ing place . The soi l was too shal low and the s loping bank left her no room. Foot traff ic would make reburial r isky. To f i l l in the gap between then and now: Sett lement began when the Michigan territory was opened to expansion after 1825. That far north, this young couple , sett lers with a land grant , would have staked their c laim in the late 1830’s or so . Li fe was dif f icult and often short . Winters long and bitter near the lake shore. We can only guess at the “rest of the story.” We had gained a deep fondness for the young woman that we could never know. Eventual ly, we found and bui lt our special home on the “big lake” and al l of our chi ldren and grand chi ldren cherish the gi f t we have gained over the past half century. The kids are grown now. We have a deep and abiding love for Lake Michigan, i ts history and i ts heritage.

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“ I n n a t u r e , ” w e n d y v a n c e

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“ I n n a t u r e , ” w e n d y v a n c e

57 “ J a w , ” D u s t i n S c h o t t

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t h r e e m i n u t e s i n p o l a n d : D i s c o v e r i n g a L o s t W o r l d i n a 1 9 3 8 F a m i l y F i l m

THREE MINUTES IN POLANDby Glenn Kurtz432pp. Farrar, Straus and Giroux. $15.95.Review by LAURA APPERSON

What i f f inding an old home video—created by family long before you were born—helped you discover the lost history of a town that was almost entirely changed during World War I I? What i f i t introduced you to the real i t ies of Nazi-control led Poland, told from the mouths of those who l ived i t? Inspired by an unlabeled three-minute c l ip of a small town in Poland—sandwiched between shots of London and Paris—Glenn Kurtz sets of f to f ind out more about this vi l lage portrayed in his grandfather’s 1938 home video of a tr ip to Europe found in his parents ’ Florida basement . The video shows a vibrant , thriving community of chi ldren and townspeople welcoming the Americans and leaving cheder ( Jewish

elementary school) to investigate the excitement . After much investigation and many questions, Kurtz discovers this is the town of Nasielsk , Poland, shown in that video only one year before the beginning of the war and the destruction of a lmost al l of the town’s predominantly Jewish population. The book takes readers through Kurtz ’s step-by-step process as he s i f ts through public records in New York, attempting to f ind names and contact information for any survivors that may have known was Nasielsk was l ike f irsthand. He visits the Holocaust Museum in Washington, D.C . to submit the f i lm as wel l as restore the original strip . Perhaps the most excit ing moment is when he travels across the United States to meet a survivor whose memory gives him many names, places , and detai ls about the town that , in turn, leads him to f ind other

[ b o o k r e v i e w s ]

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survivors , photos , and important facts . In the process , Glenn learns about l i fe in a small , Jewish town pre-World War I I ; l i fe during the war as Nasielskers fought to survive as Germany ful ly occupied Poland and as the Soviet Union forced those who escaped from Poland into forced labor camps; and, f inal ly, the intricate and fascinating history of his own family, and how that f i ts into his l i fe today. I t ’s a story about

Nasielsk , but , perhaps more importantly, i t ’s the story of the survival of a people , their love for their hometown, and their desire that their history be shared and celebrated. Rich in history and detai l , Three Minutes in Poland reads more l ike a fast-paced mystery novel rather than a non-f ict ion narrative . Kurtz is an expert storytel ler, and his passion for Nasielsk’s history jumps off the pages and he walks readers through interviews with natives , his personal research, and his travels to Europe and Israel . He meticulously organizes the information, accumulating the names, places , and stories told by those who l ived in Nasielsk , making them his own memories , and, in turn, the reader’s memories . Towards the end of the book, he s its with two survivors who were fr iends as young boys. As they talk , laugh, and reminisce , Kurtz guides the reader through their conversation, c lari fying each person to whom they refer—and sometimes, he partic ipates in the conversation himself . I t is this moment when the reader real izes how deeply Kurtz cares about this town, i ts people , and i ts history. Three Minutes in Poland looks at the horrors of the Holocaust in a total ly di f ferent way—it celebrates the l i fe that existed before the war and shows how truly beauti ful i t was. Today, Nasielsk has changed—what was a primari ly Jewish town before the war has become almost entirely Pol ish in the modern day—but there are st i l l traces of the community that used to thrive there. What Kurtz has done here is give that memory a true heartbeat .

“You’ll have a new name. You don’t look Jewish. Your Polish is excellent. Try and be that person.” - Three Minutes in Poland by Kurtz

In the process , Glenn learns about l i fe in a

small , Jewish town pre-World War I I ; l i fe during

the war as Nasielskers fought to survive as

Germany ful ly occupied Poland and as the Soviet Union forced those who

escaped from Poland into forced labor camps; and, f inal ly, the intricate and

fascinating history of his own family, and how that

f i ts into his l i fe today.

60 “ n i g h t , ” s a m u e l a u g u s t i n e

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[ c o n t r i b u t o r s ]bONes , W INTER 2014 ―2015

CARINA ALLEN

LAURA APPERSON

SAMUEL AUGUSTINESamuel Augustine, a contemporary American artist , works across many disciplines including illustration, sculpture, audio/video, painting, and poetry. A graduate of Milwaukee Institute of Art and Design, Samuel has shown work in various group shows and solo installations while juggling nomadic tendencies and working various jobs. Samuel likes to live out of his van, skateboard, sleep outside, and disappear with his lovely fiancé for extended adventuring. Samuel’s art is a product of life, believing decisions and circumstance are great mediums of creation. strangepagan.com

DANIELLE BEHRENDTDanielle Behrendt has her BFA in Writing, Literature, and Publishing from Emerson College. She currently writes book, film, and music reviews for edgeboston.com, thecriticalcritics.com, and listenstereo.com, respectively. dmfbehrendt .wix.com/portfolio

DOUGLAS BREAULTDouglas Breault is a fine artist who lives and works in his studio in downtown Providence, RI. His work challenges the notion of permanence in photography, creating dark room prints as the base for mixed media paintings. The photographs deviate from documenting a representational subject once they are ripped and painted, and become an object of embodied thought that influence the overall painting. doug.breault@ymail.com

EMMA CASEY

ETHAN COHENEthan Cohen is a New York-based avant-garde author and playwright whose guilty pleasures are anti-art and Cosmopolitan magazine. He studies English, history, and Hispanic studies at Vassar College and spends his free time performing standup comedy and jazz guitar. @ethanhcohen

BEN EDWARDSBen Edwards is a man who wears a lot of hats and doesn’t look good in a hat. He lives with a cat and likes snacks. He might have a cursed notebook, but who knows. You can find a link to his website IN THE FUTURE!

JULIANNE FRENCHJulianne French, artist and art educator, received her MFA in painting from The New York Academy of Art and her BFA in painting and art history from Jacksonville University. Currently her artwork focuses on syncretism and how architecture establishes cultural identities. French has received several awards including an artist residency at the Hermitage Artist Retreat in Florida, a Career Teacher Fellowship to study art , literature, and history at Cambridge University, and an Art Ventures Individual Artist grant from the Community Foundation in Northeast Florida. Her work can be viewed at juliannefrench.com

BARBARA HOBBS

LARRY HOLLAND

A. J. HUFFMANA. J. Huffman has published eleven

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solo chapbooks and one joint chapbook through various small presses. Her new full-length poetry collection, “Another Blood Jet ,” is now available from Eldritch Press. She has another full-length poetry collection, “A Few Bullets Short of Home,” scheduled for release in summer 2015, from mgv2>publishing. She is a Pushcart Prize nominee, and her work has appeared in hundreds of journals, including Labletter , The James Dickey Review , Bone Orchard , EgoPHobia , and Kritya . She is also the founding editor of Kind of a Hurricane Press. kindofahurricanepress.com

NAYOUNG JEONGNayoung Jeong is a ceramist , sculptor, and painter whose work takes form as performance and installation. Exploring identity rooted in heritage and uprooted by globalism, her process-oriented work evokes memories and questions to make the unfamiliar closer to familiar. Jeong was born and raised in Korea, and currently works and lives in Providence, RI. She received her BFA from California College of the Arts, and MFA at Rhode Island School of Design. instagram.com/nayoungjeong

STEVE KLEPETARSteve Klepetar’s work has received several nominations for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net, including three in 2014. Three collections appeared in 2013: “Speaking to the Field Mice” (Sweatshoppe Publications), “Blue Season” (with Joseph Lisowski, mgv2>publishing), and “My Son Writes a Report on the Warsaw Ghetto” (Flutter Press). An e-chapbook, “Return of the Bride of Frankenstein,” came out in 2014 as part of the Barometric Pressures series of e-chapbooks by Kind of a Hurricane Press. sfklepetar@stcloudstate.edu

LARA LEWISLara Lewis is a writer-in-training and full-time creative mind. Originally from Houston, TX, she has uprooted herself and resituated in Georgia for school,

where she spends her days chasing buses and looking for writing muses in thrift stores and sandwich shops. When she isn’t creating stories with words, she’s populating them with her drawings. “Strong Bones” is Lara’s first piece published with East Coast Ink , and she looks forward to seeing more of her brainchildren off into the world.

EMMA MCPHERSONEmma McPherson spends entirely too much time in the past , which can make the present relatively impossible. She has approximately 20 half-filled notebooks and won’t be found without something to physically write on. Her ideal form of escapism is a bottle of wine and a good book, a.k.a. someone else’s life. Ultimately, she aims to work in children’s book publishing. emcfearson@gmail.com

S. L. MERNAGH

CHRIS MILAMChris Milam is a voracious reader with an affinity for the prose of Donald Ray Pollock, Khaled Hosseini, and Cormac McCarthy. He is a consumer of sweetened coffee and a diehard baseball fan. His stories can be found in the Molotov Cocktail , Firewords Quarterly , Dogzplot and others. @Blukris

P. I. NAVARROP. I. Navarro is a writer and drummer living in East Atlanta, GA. He runs the writing workshop and collective Aleph with Kory Oliver. His poetry has appeared on Everyday Genius and in Loose Change Magazine . He also edits the fiction section of killbot86.com.

LORNA RITZColor is the universal language that reaches across culture borders where she has taught/lived/visited. Ritz lives in the world of her travels, landscape, books, and color. She reaches for the inaccessible, referential to landscape. Her painting process is always

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unsettling, completely passionate, radical, and driven, but it is the paint itself that guides her to a place of wonder, just as an improvisational musician finds “lines.” lornaritz.com

JACOB ROUNDYJacob is a freelance copyeditor and proofreader. He recently graduated from Emerson College with a B.F.A. in Writing, Literature, and Publishing. When he isn’t reading and writing at work, he’s reading and writing at home for fun. Jacob is the epitome of an introverted hermit, surrounded by tomes in his private cave hidden in the mountains of East Boston. He’s an unapologetic lover of fantasy and is working on a novel in the same genre. jacob_roundy@emerson.edu

NICOLE SCHONITZERNicole Schonitzer is a junior at Vassar College where she is majoring in English and minoring in studio art . Her written and visual pieces are often closely connected and in dialogue with each other. She regularly returns to her hometown, Chicago, IL, to stare at the lake and attend grimy concerts. Soon, she will be dropped off in London for a semester where she will attempt to survive and continue producing poetry and art while drinking more beer than she could ever imagine. She expects this experience to be fruitful, as her shenanigans frequently influence her work. nschonit@gmail.com

DUSTIN SCHOTTDustin Schott received his BFA in Painting from the University of North Florida in 2005. He completed a one year sabbatical at the New York Academy of Art , the Graduate School of Figurative Art in 2006. Schott is currently completing his MFA in painting at Savannah College of Art and Design.

ELIZABETH SCHULTZFollowing retirement from Kansas University’s English Department,

where she was known as a Melville scholar, Elizabeth Schultz became a dedicated advocate for the arts and the environment. She continues to write about the people and places she loves and has published two scholarly books, five books of poetry (three in 2014: “The Sauntering Eye,” “Mrs. Noah Takes the Helm,” “The Quickening”), a memoir, a collection of short stories, and a collection of essays. Her scholarly and creative work has appeared in numerous journals and reviews. eschultz@ku.edu

ROSALIE SMITH

J.R. SOLONCHEFour-time Pushcart Prize nominee as well as nominee for Best of the Net, J .R. Solonche has been publishing poetry in magazines, journals, and anthologies since the early 70s. He is co-author of “Peach Girl: Poems for a Chinese Daughter” (Grayson Books) and author of “Beautiful Day,” forthcoming from Deerbrook Editions.

WENDY VANCE

NIK WAYNik Way writes, acts and directs, occasionally doing some work for his degree. He has been known to shave his head for a part and undress during poetry readings. In 2013 he was shortlisted for the Young Poet Laureate of London. He is currently a member of the Roundhouse Poetry Collective 2014/15. Broadway Baby described his play “Last Supper” as “thought-provoking and poignant.” @NikWay

64“ S P I R E S 1 , 2 0 1 4 , ” C H A R C O A L A N D I N K O N P A P E R , 1 8 ” X 2 4 ” - J U L I A N N E F R E N C H

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