east coast ink, issue 008: memory

east coast inkissue 008 | MEMORY

C O N T E N T SEAST COAST INK | Issue 008 | MEMORY

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 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . G h o s t S t o r i e s . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . A l m a n a c o f m y G r a n d f a t h e r, 1 9 4 5 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . I n M e m o r i a m . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . I R e m e m b e r Yo u r S m i l e . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . C h a n g i n g B a c k F r o m N e w O r l e a n s . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . U n t i t l e d N o . 2 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . A n a t o m y . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . H o w t o R e a s s e m b l e . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . C o m b a t i n g M e m o r i e s . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . K o i F i s h / R o s e . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . V i s i o n s o f a F o r m e r T h e r a p i s t

F I C T I O N 2 4 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . U n d e r s t o o d . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . M e m o r y . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Y u k o n H o . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . C u s h i o n e d

M I C R O F I C T I O N 3 9 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . S e t t l i n g . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . M o s s R o s e s . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . F a r e w e l l s . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . G l a s s a n d S t e e l

ISSUE 008

EAST COAST INK Fall 2015

“memory”

N O N F I C T I O N 4 3 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . C o n s t a n t V i g i l a n c e . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . T h e B o s t o n P r a y e r

a r t i s t s p o t l i g h t : h i p t r i p 5 1

e a s t c o a s t E V E N T S , f a l l 2 0 1 5 5 9

r e v i e w s 6 5 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . N o . 4 I m p e r i a l L a n e

c o n t r i b u t o r s 7 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 008, Fal l 2015: Memory.Copyright © 2015 East Coast InkISBN 978-1-329-58315-3

Cover image by Jacquel ine Frasca.Images inside front cover, inside back cover, and on pages 59―62 and 76 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

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l e t t e r f r o m t h e e d i t o r I ’ve never been a “ leaf-peeper,” as we from New England lovingly cal l those who get in their cars for the wild pi lgrimage to Vermont , New Hampshire , and Maine to see the leaves change color in autumn. I mourn the summer season—every leaf that fal ls is a travesty to me. Give me green fol iage l i fe , g ive me consistent heat , spare me wondering i f I need a jacket today and what kind of jacket and how thick of socks I ’ l l need with these boots . . . I t is truly pit i ful to minimize a season into i ts small inconveniences , especial ly when fal l is so evocative for so many people . I ’m no stranger to posit ive associat ions with this t ime of year, e ither. Pumpkin carving with hoards of fr iends, picking apples from real orchards throughout Massachusetts , raking leaves into jumping pi les when I was st i l l in the s ingle-digits of my l i fe . But for me, those memories are pale , tenuous—the offset is too high. I know I have them, but they are not vivid . They could belong to anyone else . They ’re happy , most importantly, and for someone as turbulently nostalgic as I am they don’t hold a candle to memories that are painful and st i l l st ing. They ’re ful ly saturated, and there is no mistaking that they are mine alone. Ask my mother or my best f r iend and they’ l l te l l you my memor y is , in a word, atrocious , so I ’m a lways fasc inated by what other people carr y with them and how they remember pieces of their l ives . Just l ike in our PORTRAITURE issue in summer 2014, we’re seeking refuge with potent ia l ly unrel iable narrators , but there is a unique authent ic ity to hear ing a stor y f rom someone else and honoring their perspect ive. In this issue of East Coast Ink , we dive headf irst into the memories of others and what the concept of “memor y” e l ic its for them, and I am over f low-ing with feel ing to present these stor ies , poems, and ar tworks to you. We sent out a separate ar t ca l l to inst itut ions , univers it ies , and organizat ions throughout the East C oast to t r y and make this issue as v isua l as poss ible for you, our readers . You’ l l a lso f ind a book review by Laura Apperson, events for writers and art ists happening in states al l down the Atlantic , and an Artist Spotl ight on HipTrip, one of Boston’s newest rappers . So when you’re done picking apples , baking pies , jumping in leaf pi les , and trekking your scenic hikes , read through this issue al l cozy-l ike by the f irst bonfire of the season decked in al l your layers , because I guess you’ve waited long enough for cooler weather.

Enjoy,

Jacqueline Frasca

editor-in-chief

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“ s h e r e m e m b e r s h o w t o m o v e , ” L a r r y h o l l a n d

4

[ p o e t r y ]

g h o s t s t o r i e sTaylor Bond

When my brother f layed his hand in the f irehe had half-convinced me that the world lay

between the folds of a shel l , pink-scal lopedand thirst ing for a dryness to breathe in .

I did not remember the sound as much as the smellof the wetness evaporating, the fat peel ing i tsel f away

and leaping to the air, the carefree suicide. I t seemed to me that ir idescence from his words

had spun hungry the heat of the Earth, his taleskicking wind at the embers . His scars boi led.

I knew better at the t ime than to bel ieveanything in the world I did not see

that I could not touch or taste , his l iescost him skin and a memory that is st i l l

tender to the touch. A mouthful of hooks.The ease of disappearing. Suddenly here and gone.

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a l m a n a c o f m y g r a n d f a t h e r , 1 9 4 5Katherine Gibbel

I t pushed 90° in Chicago when he resignedfrom his four jobs and left for Balt imore.Gas was 21¢ per gal lon, but he took the train .

To think he was once my age. “Any normal fel lowwould want to study theology and also wantto go to Greece tending cows.” Late June, red tape.

The United States was At War, folks grew VictoryGardens, my grandfather refused to s ign an oathdeclaring that he would bear arms for his country.

The S .S . Mexican was bui lt in 1907; i t was 599feet long. They set sai l on June 28. By July 4 they rol led eight dead, pregnant horses overboard.

On the mess walls they sprayed DDT to keep away the f l ies . For the third night in a row he turned his watch ahead 31 minutes . My grandfather held Sunday

services on the ship. He was surprised that men thought “ in the l ikeness of God” meant a body. “ I thoughtpeople forgot that or at least changed their minds” he wrote .

The ocean was rugged. The ocean was calm.

6 “ S l e e p i n g g i r l , ” k y l e h e m m i n g s

i n m e m o r i a mPJ Carmichael

She turned into a cardboard box,folded over in the rainand someone else s lept on her.I watched fromafar, counting downthe years unti lI might becomethe sidewalk.

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i r e m e m b e r y o u r s m i l eSteve Klepetar

as I hung from a crab apple treeheavy with red and green t ingedfruit , sour in the huge, grassy yardof the green house with peel ing paint where we l ived almostthirty years ago. I could seewhere your teeth pressedagainst your thin l ips , but then i t wasn’t c lear whether you meantto smile or scowl and I had tolocate your melt ing brown eyes ,those puddles of pheromones and soul . Al l night you painted skywith the palms of your hands,spreading that beauti ful mixtureof darkness and stars . Sometimes when I dreamedin our t iny bed, I fe l t the motionof your art across that small seabetween us , my boat struggl ing with the current your sweet , sweepingbreath brewed, oars leaping al ivein my bl istered hands, salt spray blast ingmy face . Was I a traveler yearning for home, prayers dripping frommy l ips l ike honey stolen fromsmoky hives? Al l down the isthmusof your thigh, I rowed through storm.

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c h a n g i n g b a c k f r o m n e w o r l e a n sAline Carriere

Ground absorbedI make the fogThe clouds and darkBitter mistAs I change backDissolve the sultry rapture in the southDelicacies , del ightDance ref lected streetsWrapped in wrought iron, forgedVigi lant spirits infused Flying the entire t ime Languished, lostThe heat a wanted weightPermeates , meldsLike the length of your body on mineMagnif ies scents , sensesSweat beads twist to tears , rainRigors my coreThe cold c lutches .

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seri

es b

y st

ephe

n ja

mes

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u n t i t l e d N o . 2Emily Randal l

you say that i read into things too muchquote passages of t ime from memorybut i have cracked open your spine and dog-eared the page where our chapter endstwo yel lowed corners stuck togetherand i a footnote , long forgotten

a n a t o m yTaylor Bond

dreaming of that blue bathroom & blue l iquorwith the t i les a puzzle spel l ing out foreign wordsedges lost on a native mind, a rooted hopedrowning in the s ink, a care f lushed, you f i l led the tubwith rose petals but they had wilted and you f i l led my dreamswith the mist of surreal but they melted, and t ime was a constantthat escaped through the windows. Those ribs became the bindingsof a bible . Those hands became the serpents at my throat . They hissed andstole the air with f lame-l ike tongues. They l icked the blue tears at my eyes andmade me bl ind. The past ached to be forgotten. A memory was folded into a squaresimple as a napkin, tucked in a pocket , i ts borders crackl ing. The bott les swelled and spi l ledpouring from the faucet , begging to be stopped, but this can’t be replayed, only repeated. Onlyremembered. Perhaps the t i le has faded and the walls have peeled now. Perhaps everything isexactly the same. Perhaps the only thing changed is me.

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h o w t o r e a s s e m b l eMargaret Mar y Ri ley

a short guide

1st take the jaw between the second and third molar ( I should get out not out , but here)

the mouth wil l start to shake and recite or groandying men sound just l ike a woman giving birth

you won’t stop bleeding, when you sit bloodpuddles mouthshuteyeshut around your toes

2nd take the c lavicles and pinch them together3rd attach the r ibsthe chest wil l start to r ise and fal l even bones remember l i fe

section the heart , when i t starts to pump

(the roof leaks at night ,

i t ’s been seventeen days , your c lothes are rust coloredwe don’t wash them because the blood just pools on the f looryou don’t wear c lothes anymore)

i f the left ventric le cannot be located look in the panOnce completed, the reassembly may not look l ike i ts former inhabitantthis is only to be expected

if you col lapse the neighbor wil l come roundcrows only scream when someone comes roundit hangs, scratchy in their throatcrows sound l ike infants just born

and reassembled.

29.

I am obsessed with the dai ly requirements

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f i l l me up, dry me, touch me

you’d l ike to know how I am – i f I am depressedof course I ’m depressed the fantasies of f i l l ing me up aren’t enough I want you to s ink inside of me and break apart

how can I erase the latest memories? wil l mathematics do i t for me? when wil l I be able to drink my memories l ike this afternoon’s coffee?

I am cruelest in the afternoon.

you’d l ike to prove that nothing is real you do this throughgroaningno one sees you l ike thisyour knees shake at nightI dream about shattering them after you dry my skin

I want to begin with my f irsts .

spatial awareness

l ight years away from here i t ’s a completely di f ferent sky you wil l say this while s i tt ing far away from me on your bed that sags in the center, I don’t know anything about the stars , monsters are frozen in our sky and at night they crawl around my window, i f they eat al l of their prey soon they wil l have to eat themselves and the sky wil l be empty.

halves .

I want to be cut in two, Can you do that for me?

the man beside me says he only wants to be lovedhe ate his photographs. he s its a l l a lone at night

he wil l do i t for a price

I want you to separate the skin from the muscle and place i t to the r ight

he wil l place my heart next to my eyes i f he can trace my nerves ,and lay his head inside my dislocated my jaws

he says i t ’s never warm in his mindbut i t ’s never cold eitherit just doesn’t s i t r ight

he wants to tel l people I was in love with him, sure, that ’s okay.

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c o m b a t i n g m e m o r i e sA.J . Huffman

Forget me , you whispered, crawlinglater under many sons and daughters , humanplots strategical ly selected to bury me. Forget me , you whispered when f irst you reachedme, retracting tracks that had no intentionsof going further or back. Forget me , you whispered, confronting your ownimage. My gaze of decreasingfrankness , st i l l held by love of turbulence. Forget me , I screamed, shatteringboth of our pieces , declaring thisas our home, the place where I disappear.

” m e m o r i e s , ” m a r c u s b o y d

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k o i f i s h / r o s eMax Gri f f in

In my youtha girl withchocolate brown hairespresso thighsand plum l ipsgave birth to awhisper inside myinner ear ’s sanctum.

Koi f ish only existin houses of therich vani l la doughboys.

Years later my hair isgreying l ike the graniteat Greystone mansion.As I scan the yel lowed pages of smogged downtownwith canary colored sacsrunning under my eyes .

Thirty years into themegadroughtthe hands of every waterfountain c lasped togetherrusted shut sol idarity.

In le jardin de paixacross the way I seeclear blue water andkoi f ish .

There were threehundred eighty sevenbrick stairsl ike red marks of shameto be swallowed andtripped overon the way to Greystone greenhouse.

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With the glass halfshattered I l i t acandle and cuta rose while Iprayed for opalescence.

In my pocketthe salmon thornsscratched my chest l ikeyour nebulous nai ls .

When we make loveI imagine givingyou Greystone mansionpounds of i tto weigh my bodydown as I

c lose my f ist andexhale .

v i s i o n s o f a f o r m e r t h e r a p i s tJ i l l Shastany

There you are in your carin a traff ic jam.Now you’re crossing a squarein the corner in my head.You were white-haired-niceand clever in a black mannerwith a scythe of a smile(only less cartoonish,

Not the jack-o-lanternmy mother drewin what I ’m now rememberingwas the thing you wanted;something closer to my f irstMemory. Again,near Hal loween,when more beganthan either of us real ized.

We didn’t knowa girl ’s name

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could have such a lusty ef fect ,or that a haircut couldignite such vitr iol ,didn’t know that an unmistakecould weigh so heavy,or that the trai lon the f loorwas a curse .

You were just as baff led as I ,those months later.

Maybe I would haveremembered the scissorscontrasting the warm snipsof your extendedcurled f ingers)si f t -s l ic ing throughmy feeble inconsequentials ,lending me the feel ingof being human,as I sat in f luorescence.

I saw you in my town,in the high school parking lot(but no one ever comes here,not even for a carnival) .I bl ink and the l ights remind methat I ’m in my own world,populated by my past ,a confusing c lusterin which I can’t keep trackof who is st i l l in a room,in a house, with everythingsti l l glowing for mein case I [ too] come back.

They are the bricksin the hearth,forming some characterin my head--one from whichthere’s no parting,except in the f issurescaked in f lecks .

I t ’s hard to tel l

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whose faces are realand made of c layand sett ing,and whose are madeonly of l ight ,those impressions lefton the back of your eyel ids .You panic becauseyou know they wil l ,just have/have justdisappear[ed]or become someone else .

“wha

t w

as h

ere

befo

re,”

Lar

ry H

olla

nd

23 ” a n d i w a s t h e b i r d , ” j a c k s a v a g e

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[ f i c t i o n ]

u n d e r s t o o dMatt Lowe

Of course you can ask. You think you’re the f irst to wonder? No: most traff ic in and out of Pewter is commercial , but you’d be surprised how many come just as s ightseers , or pi lgrims—we’re never sure which, and we’ve found it can be considered rude to ask. You come with eyefuls of questions, yes; but few of you stand st i l l long enough to voice them, let a lone to l isten for a response. But then again, we don’t often stand st i l l , e i ther. I hadn’t been bui lt yet , then, but our inst itutional memory is sound. My oldest forebears swear they remember i t c learly—not when the Statue was bui lt , mind, but before i t fe l l . Here, they swear, is how things stood: The Dictator ’s emergence ended our Civic Wargame, and at f irst , yes , we resented him for i t . The Real War had ended decades earl ier, but the Game went on in their place: we were l ike the s iege towers of old , raised to be not merely “smart” bui ldings , but mobile ones . Back and forth my forebears s l id across the boards, in a new and more sporting form of warfare . New! Civi l ized! Urbane! Complex! But even though the Wargame displayed al l these, our proudest Civic virtues , for al l to see , i t was also unwinnable . This the Dictator showed us: for al l that we captured and incorporated and occupied, our profiteering was leaving more losers than winners , and fewer avai lable moves. Instead of gridlock, he offered us a merger, and profits l ike we’d never dreamed of . We restructured ourselves—grudgingly, at f irst—and saw his vis ion real ized. Soon, this new thing we had become—this c ity—stretched across our state , then our r ival-neighbors’ states , then our continent , then al l of Pewter i tsel f . And further st i l l : he taught us ways of inf luencing other worlds , even across the vast spaces where bui ldings cannot go. How could we express our gratitude to the Dictator, who had shown us the way to new wealth? We did what came natural ly: we bui lt . Not a bui lding, not even another Civic l ike us , but—as you’ve read in the brochure—a Statue. A hybrid of a person and a bui lding, one that would stand st i l l . Not that i t was intended as a statue of the

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Dictator himself ; a statue can no more stand for him than one of us can represent our parent corporations. But an emblem, a monument , yes , the Statue was that , and more. For i t a lso stood as the base for— —a space elevator? Is that what you tourist-pi lgrims think? How si l ly! No, the Statue was more practical : our rule stretched to the stars by then, but our bui lding ambit ions reached only to the top of the sky. The Statue supported only a suborbital tower, reducing the cost of payloads to space, but without the trouble and suspense of a space elevator, we reasoned to one another. Without the hubris . Which was, of course, a l ie . Why did the Statue fal l? There’s st i l l some debate about that . No, i t wasn’t because i t of fended the old gods of Pewter, or any of the worlds we’ve taken over. At least , i t probably wasn’t—and “act of gods” isn’t a very sat isfying analysis of structural fai lure . No, i t wasn’t an earthquake or wind shear or any such stressors; not direct ly, anyway. No, the current prevai l ing theory is that we got too ambit ious in bringing the Statue to l i fe : by pressurizing i t , g iving i t not only bladders of hydrogen and hel ium, but also lungs of a sort , with which to breathe above the smog. By making such a monstrosity sel f -stabi l iz ing, we made i t unstable . So one minute i t was standing—legs astride our city and i ts harbor, one hand on i ts hip , the other pointing to the heavens, balancing the suborbital platform on a s ingle , confident f inger—and in the next , i t fe l l . The death tol l c l imbed to terrible heights: in the old days of Real War, i t would have been seen as col lateral damage, but in those middle days of new peace, a l l Pewter mourned, and al l the worlds of the Magistracy were made to mourn, too. And then the bui lders gathered l ike prey-birds around the corpse: the senior Civics looked down, solemn, as their perishable consultants scutt led about , comparing architectural notes on their oversized s lates and tablets . And together, they decided not to rebuild . Can you grasp, l i t t le perishable pi lgrim, how revolutionary that was? We had always bui lt and rebuilt . Bui lding was who we were. The Dictator was also less than pleased: he hadn’t endorsed the Statue, but he hadn’t opposed i t for very long, e ither, and the idea that i t wouldn’t be rebuilt was unwelcome. But now it was our turn to change his mind: we would bui ld a new suborbital platform (only a platform tower, not a Statue) in a less densely-populated area of the planet-city. And we would rebuild around the Remains , incorporating them back into the cityscape—and the parts left standing would st i l l serve as a tourist attract ion, as you know. So the answer is no, I ’m not standing where the Statue once stood; I stand where he fel l . I was born and raised in the crater where his head came to rest . And though I was designed, l ike al l the other Civics , to move i f I need to , I general ly don’t . Why? Because while my peers , and al l you t iny perishables , are busy running around, someone has to stop and remember. And that fal ls to me.

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m e m o r y Ryan Higginbotham

The slamming of the door snaps me out of my trance. I can’t remember any of the drive over, which is nice , as the present is unbearable . Walking down the trai l that leads from the parking lot to my favorite bench, I force myself to stop thinking and pay attention to my senses . The smell of autumn, the crunching of the leaves , e l ic i t a feel ing, the ghost of a memory; no specif ic autumn, al l autumns. The excitement of the new school year; the weather f inal ly cool ing. Autumn is my favorite t ime. I arrive at the bench and take in my surroundings as I s i t . The leaf less trees look l ike mothers crying to the heavens over their dead chi ldren. The breeze swims across my face , caressing me l ike a lover. I can feel the warmth of sun. I look up at the trees to see i t ’s l ight shining through the branches. My gaze fol lows the l ight along i ts path. I look down to see i t surround my brother. I am so happy. Every grain of sand, every gust of wind, every squawk from the seagul ls is infused with so much exuberance that this bl iss suffused the world with his own l ight , with the sun merely a spectator. The ebb and f low of the water on my right leg , the sand on my left leg , the sun on my back batt le for sensual attention; my body absorbs them al l and becomes al l sensations. As I help my brother bui ld his sandcastle , I watch him, intently, but fut i le ly—saving a spire from the coming t ide , I feel such joy that I try to focus on everything, every sensation, every thought , every movement to capture i t forever. Suddenly he looks up at me, his bright blue eyes piercing through everything I ’m feel ing, unit ing us in such love that my previous bl iss is l ike staring at a candle in the dark versus staring direct ly at the sun. The entire scene, the unl imited explosion of this love, swirl around me; my body is st i l l so euphoric , that I ’m impervious to the s l ic ing autumn wind that blows against me as I walk along the creek. I love the smell of the creek at autumn: i t ’s f i l led with such an earthy mixture of trees , soi l , and rocks—I seem to perceive i t more as sol id than air. The dripping of the water brings my attention away from the wall and back to her. She puts her hand back in the bath, having only dribbled the water from it to bring my attention back to her. S itt ing on the c losed toi let next to the tub, I can see her entire body submerged except for her head and, barely, her breasts . I hate that I enjoy and even f ind some vague erotic pleasure when she makes me mad. Her smirk shows that she knows this . She reaches for the shampoo and says , “Are you st i l l made at me?” only looking at me after she f inishes her question. From our vantage points , to look at me her eyes are up and to a s l ight angle . Her shoulder is now blocking my view of the rest of her body. She looks l ike a painting r ight now. My heart is beating. I ’m hyper aware of the blood f lowing through my body. I have the butterf l ies that should only exist when you feel joyous love, not anger. She knows, of course. “ I think you’re real ly cute when you pout l ike that .” She begins to apply the shampoo. “ I ’d l ike to join you.” “ I thought you were mad at me.” She seductively feigns consideration of what I want . “No,” she s l inks back under the water, “ I think taking this bath alone wil l be more relaxing.” We sit in s i lence for a while , me angry with her and furious at myself ,

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desperately desir ing her; she proud of the emotional toi l she has wrought . “ I love you, you know.” She and I both know that i t doesn’t matter i f that ’s true; I ’m hers . I turn away from her, to ascertain why leaves behind me are crunching. I t ’s an elderly couple a couple of yards behind me, walking a l i t t le faster than I am. I s low down to decrease the amount of t ime i t takes for them to pass me. As I watch them continue down the hal l , I can’t help but feel depressed. Looking around at the elderly people in the lobby, I can’t help but notice that a majority of them are s itt ing just staring into place . I ’m not sure i f they ’re seni le or depressed, l ikely both. I arrived only minutes before my fr iend’s shift ended, but she’s running late . After a period of t ime that felt l ike both an instant and an eternity, she approaches me. I laugh at myself that my f irst thought on seeing her is that I think she looks good in her scrubs. “Sorry I ’m late . Today was rough.” As we walk out of the lobby towards the parking lot , an elderly woman in a wheelchair grabs my hand. The fury in her eyes and on her face makes her look l ike a wild animal . “You took her, didn’t you? Where did you put her? You monster, she’s just an animal!” She pul ls me away and says , too forceful ly, “Mrs . Anderson, I told you already no one took Oggie from you. She’s been dead for quite a while . You have to learn to accept this .” The sadness of this entire scenario empties my being. I can no longer feel any connection to anything or anyone, even myself . I ’m barely aware of who I am. There is only sadness . As we get c loser to the car I pause and say, “You shouldn’t have treated her l ike that .” She pauses to consider her act ions. “ I know. I t just gets hard when you spend al l day c leaning shit of f of them. Can we please just go home?” I f inish walking to the car, stopping brief ly to take one last look at the trees . I get in and go home.

28

y u k o n h o Robin Dunn

They had driven al l night , but they were far north into Canada now and the l ight was a f ine shade of blue and they were moving s low, i t was an old car. “That ’s a beauti ful l ight ,” Ariadne said . Usual ly she went by Arrie . “Mmm hmm,” said her s ister Len, quiet ly. “Do you want me to drive?” Arrie asked. “No, I ’m al l r ight .” Both sisters were archaeologists . There was a hole in the ground in the Yukon and they had found one of those missing l inks; something to t ie homo erectus to homo sapiens , a 1250 cc brain (erectus had 1000 cubic centimeters of gray matter, we have 1500) , hal fway in between, only 100,000 years old , but the mil lennia are young inside the cold of Canada. The car rumbled because i t was old and because i t had an att i tude about this tr ip , an att i tude both women’s men had had as wel l—the Yukon? You don’t real ly want to go to the Yukon. But they were going to the Yukon, into the blue. Into the blue night . Ahead, the hi l ls seemed to grow even bluer, bluer l ike the family curse, of dementia , and an earl ier form of i t , not Alzheimer’s , but some unnamed twil l or root deep in the brain, one that changed the face l ike a stroke but made you angry, angry, angry. So far the s isters had avoided i t , though i t had taken their mother by this age and they would see her then, holding the kitchen knife , saying terrible things . Or waking them up in the night , crying loud enough to shake the walls . For what has not come to pass beneath these hi l ls? In Canada where madness is as common as i t is in Scandinavia , and suicide a next door neighbor at best , and at worst a kind of lover, one you cannot touch but who sleeps in your bed. The blue night of the Yukon and i ts blue hi l ls are a deep quandary for Man; when did we cross them, and why? Ariadne, who was two years older than Len, was a supporter of the theory that the last Ice Age had ended much sooner than had commonly been supposed, and so the last great migration of human beings south could have happened as early as 16,000 B.C. , perhaps not via the Bering Land Bridge but via boats , from the Aleutian is lands, winnowing their way through the sea, eastwards, down into the blue and fr ightening country that is eternal , for Canada means vi l lage, and i t wil l know your face , l ike in the vi l lage, you are known, and you are known, and you are known again, your brother and your s ister known, your ancestry burned into the l ines on your face and the words from your mouth. But the s isters were American and so they could af ford to see the backcountry of Canada as charming and beauti ful , great country for the archaeology of the First Peoples , and their cousins , our cousins , he who made f ire f irst , who came out of Africa f irst , who learned the way, and told us of i t , he told us al l the ways, a l l the many ways out of Africa , perhaps 10 mil l ion years ago, as much as that , our biped cousin who had f ire and a brain and a lust for wandering the Earth, including, apparently, to Canada, the f irst Man ashore, so long ago. “How many are at the dig already?” asked Len.

29

“About twelve. S ix graduate students . S ix professors .” “ Is Asshole there?” This was her former lover, Mr. El l iott Fleischbaum, and a man with a handsome face , mad eyes , and a l isp . “Yes , Asshole is there.” “Shit .” The blue hi l ls of Canada know our assholes , for we have eaten of i ts country and shat back onto i t , the work of mammals is to move around and shit , and does this comfort the archaeologist? To know that the land i tsel f expects us , i f only for our droppings? We are welcome here, too. With our teeth and stomachs and our assholes . In Los Angeles in Hol lywood the magic hour comes around seven o’c lock but i t is later in the Yukon, higher on the sextant , where the l ight is bluer, more refracted at that angle from the sun, though not as blue as Britain , and the magic hour is a powerful hour, for the word magic comes from an Indo-European root meaning power, to be able , and the magic hour is able , a l l r ight , i t holds you so t ight . I t holds you so t ight , not l ike a lover, and not l ike a fr iend, and not l ike a mother, even, not exact ly, perhaps l ike a long lost uncle , an uncle who has found you, and embraces you, and wil l not let you go, not yet , and you know that you must not let this uncle go, for he has come to you, and you are his , and he is yours , and his blue bygone years furrow into your consciousness l ike the stories of our s impler cousins with their l i ter-sized brains (we have a l i ter and a half ) , sett ing to root the tales of faraway places , so far from Africa , the Yukon, but beauti ful , and you can go there too, in your boat , fol lowing the stars . Don’t you think erectus could navigate? I know he could. As I know that you are navigating now, moving in your ship, the ship of your body, furl ing the sai l , steering into the current , and watching the wind, three knots , and when wil l madness take you? Wil l i t be l ike your mother? “I ’m looking forward to this dig ,” said Len. “Me too,” said Ariadne. Homo erectus on his great journey is our own. We are him and he is we and there is no meaningful separation: the cataloguing of human species is one of family relat ionships , not barriers and separations. We f led from Africa not once, not twice , but many t imes, in droves and droves of dozens, dozens, each one a Moses , with rel igious eyes , and strong legs , f i l led with a desire to see the next val ley, covered in blue and dream. And then we came back! And told a tale , and others went , again, again, again, again and again, whispering of the Yukon and al l these human places where we dug a hole and left our droppings and whispered to the trees of who we were, who we were becoming. Yukon means great r iver, as we are a great r iver moving, moving, never the same twice , with a thousand thousand thousand thousand names, cutt ing into the land and changing i t , burning with a desire for the sea.

30 ” h e r d e l i c a t e b e a u t y , ” j a c k s a v a g e

31

c u s h i o n e dD ylan Young

INT. PICK UP TRUCK – JUST BEFORE DAWN

THE DRIVER, a disheveled man with large bags under his eyes drives on a main suburban road in Los Angeles as the pre-dawn l ight breaks. He pul ls over on the s ide of the road where there is a worn leather couch. His old blue pickup truck coughs as i t is turned off .

EXT. SIDEWALK - CONTINUOUS

The Driver gets out of his car and walks around to look at the couch. The black leather is cracked in a few places . A SMOKING MAN drags on a c igarette s i tt ing on the front steps of the house the couch has been discarded near.

SMOKING MAN Fine couch.

The Driver looks up, noticing The Smoking Man for the f irst t ime. The Driver nods.

SMOKING MAN Wife and I got a new one. This one has a bit of wear and tear, but i ts st i l l good.

The Driver nods in agreement .

SMOKING MAN I can give you a hand gett ing i t in the back of your truck i f you’d l ike .

THE DRIVER S’alr ight .

The Driver grabs the cushions off of the couch, and throws them into the bed of the pick up. The Smoking Man takes a f inal drag of his c igarette before putt ing i t out on the steps . As the smoking man stands up, he notices the bed of the pick up is f i l led with the cushions from at least a dozen dif ferent couches.

SMOKING MAN Hey, are you planning on coming back for the rest of the couch?

The Driver walks around to the other s ide of the pick up truck and gets in .

SMOKING MAN Were you planning on coming back for any of those? Hey!

33

3234

The Smoking Man walks over to the truck and leans into the open passenger s ide window.

SMOKING MAN Look, i f you just take the cushions, no one is going to take the rest of the couch, and i t ’s going to s it here for a month unti l the big trash day.

The Driver buckles his seat belt and turns to The Smoking Man

THE DRIVER I know.

The Smoking Man takes a step back. The Driver starts up the pick up truck, which chugs to l i fe with ef fort .

SMOKING MAN (to himself ) Why would someone do that?

The Smoking Man is left wondering as the truck drives off .

EXT. Sidewalk - A few nights later

The old blue pick up truck comes to a s low stop next to an old brown sofa with the back facing the street . The Driver gets out and makes his way over to the sad t ired furniture, when a plume of smoke comes up from it .

SMOKING MAN I knew you’d f ind this one eventual ly.

The Smoking Man, rugged and red-eyed, previously lying down on the sofa s i ts up. The Driver just looks at him. The Smoking Man takes a drag of his c igarette .

SMOKING MAN Well?

THE DRIVER Would you move please?

SMOKING MAN That ’s i t? I wait by this couch for 3 days to f ind you and that ’s i t?

THE DRIVER You found me.

The Driver motions for the Smoking Man to get up, but he does not .

33

SMOKING MAN No. I ’m not lett ing you take these cushions unti l I know why.

THE DRIVER Why what?

SMOKING MAN Why do you take them?

The Driver s its down on the sofa next to the smoking man. He points to the cigarette .

THE DRIVER May I?

The Smoking man stares at him. After a moment he s ighs and passes him the cigarette , then pul ls out and l ights a new one for himself . The Driver takes one long pul l of the cigarette and holds i t for a moment before exhal ing.

THE DRIVER When I was about seven, I can remember there was a woman that used to l ive down the street . I say used to , because her house had burned down when I was about 3 .

He drags on the cigarette .

THE DRIVER This woman used to go through trashcans to f ind shoes. She would s leep somewhere during the day, and go out at night to f ind shoes. Sometimes going into backyards and taking them off porches; i f you left them there.


THE DRIVER In the morning she would walk up to the lot where her house used to be , arms ful l of shoes i f i t was a good night . She would stand at the edge of the s idewalk, never once stepping into the lot , and throw shoes at the remains of her house. And I would watch her.


THE DRIVER I used to lay awake at night , thinking about her. Why would she do that? Why shoes?

He f inishes the cigarette , and f l icks the butt to the s idewalk. He twists i t into the

34

ground with his foot as he stands up. The Smoking Man stands up with him.

SMOKING MAN So why did she do i t?

The Driver shrugs as he grabs the cushions off of the sofa and heads towards his truck. He throws the cushions into the back and starts the truck. As the sun begins to crest the sky, the old blue pickup truck rol ls away slowly, leaving The Smoking Man standing on the s idewalk with the brown old couch, devoid of cushions.

END.

“hav

alin

a,”

Laur

a Gr

eenw

ald

35

“ t h e l a k e ” a n d “ g r a n d f a t h e r t r e e ” ( o p p o s i t e p a g e ) , a l l i s o n a n n e b r o w n

37 “ c a m e r a p i l e ” a n d “ h o u s e p i l ” ( o p p o s i t e p a g e ) , m a t t h e w d i o m a t a r i s

39

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

s e t t l i n gBenjamin Blake

From the lookout , the l ights of the town bl ink to l i fe l ike miniature panes in the windows of dol l houses . A match f lares , burns out . The t ip of a fresh cigarette glows, soon carved into a f iery pyramid by the autumn wind. Hands stuffed deep into the pockets of his worn jacket , the man puffs on his smoke, and smiles . This was the place . The small town where he could sett le down: a house, a car, a job—hell , even a dog. And i f he was lucky enough, a girl . Some cute l i t t le waitress , perhaps. At f irst , he would be a stranger. But by the t ime that winter thawed to spring, he would be one of them. This was the place . The place where he could leave i t a l l behind. Forget the past . Start anew. Yes , this was the place .

m o s s r o s e sMatt Lowe

She wasn’t the f iery one, the one they al l thought of as the “character” of the family, the one who everyone had a funny story to tel l about . She was the quieter one—the peaceful , sett led soul . Whenever I vis ited Ti l l ie ’s house, that peacefulness was there. Especial ly in the smells : the moss roses she always kept in her garden, the di l l and other herbs she dried in her summer kitchen, the grease and oi l in her husband Henry ’s hands and clothes . But to remember her—to remember not just things about her home, but who she was as a person—I learned not just through eyes and nose but also by ear: the traces of Czech that accented her Engl ish; the way she cal led the chickens she and Henry raised her “babies;” her insistence that they sel l their cows and buy beef that someone else had butchered, because, she would say, “we don’t eat our fr iends.” Babies and fr iends: in the sounds of these words, I a lso hear now what I didn’t know to l isten for then, the sounds of the chi ldren they longed for but were never able to have. I t ’s in memory of those smells—and those sounds that I did and didn’t hear—that I grow moss roses in my garden every year.

40

“cou

chfi

re,”

sam

uel

augu

stin

e

41“ s e c u r i t y , ” k a t l a n s e r

42

f a r e w e l l sMax Gri f f in

Doing ninety going north on the 110, my thoughts began to wander. Not because I hadjust dropped off my SO at LAX, a lthough that in i tsel f would be a t idy story, about distance and the t ime i t takes to fal l in love with someone, culminating perhaps in a café , where she would tel l him that she loves his eyes , that melancholy look he gets , but that they can never be together, and each of them would board separate trains bound to far of f European countries , but not too wild or too Eastern, that story is the t idier one. Instead I was drawn to two separate memories , of years ago when I stood in a lecture hal l , discussing with a man who harnesses the power of a lgae to create fuel , about the condit ions over the Antarct ic , where chlorine and ozone are the antagonists , where you might summon some sort of succor over your own lack of drive , the one that leads you to that night years ago in your drug dealer ’s converted garage, you know the one who had a terrarium of black widows, black widows his girl fr iend would col lect , and you’re now hanging with the hoodratas , the laqueristas , denizens of the seventy two hour night , the two a .m. drive to San Fran, your car being fueled by derision and waxy f ly paper, just to cover the fact that long ago sugar began to rot out your intentions, which brought you to this room where nobody talks about saving the planet , or even themselves . I wanted to explain to her who l ike an oi l derrick dipped her head into the morass of my existence and drug me up against my own wil l , I wanted to tel l her that she made me cry harder than when I heard Rankine speak, about that black man arrested trying to f ind his own hideaway key, that she made me laugh harder that when I witnessed Lester, that wanton chi ld of god, prey on the high mountain folk , sandwiched in the pages of Appalachian f ict ion. When I drove away I s imply waved, one more t ime, mouthing words to her through the f i l th crowding the glass of my ninety s ix Camry, as the boisterous sun began to r ise before s ix a .m. at the end of a Cal i fornia summer.

g l a s s a n d s t e e lLara Lewis

There are three of them, s ide by s ide in a perfect row. Dul led and scratched glass prisms hold chunks of metal . The l ids have hinges that creak open and resist being moved. Rusted gears and cyl inders l ie inside, tarnished of their gleam. Only the third looks l ike i t ’s in any sort of shape to be used. They look broken, unusable . The f irst one has a l i t t le key. Turn i t . Do you hear the notes , the faint chiming? Do you feel how soft i t is? Can you hear how gentle and faint ly melancholy the tune is , l ight enough to be gentle , s low enough to ache? Do you l ike the song, even as your chest feels somehow heavier? I t stops when you let go of the key, and you close the l id . The second one sings as wel l . I t is brighter, just as faint to hear, but faster. What ’s this? Is that a smile tugging at your face? I t bounces , going from cheerful to devastating to somber to sweet . I t plays long after you let go of the key, but you shut the box. The third one twinkles a bit in the l ight . The third song’s key is on the bottom. I t creaks and winds up as you turn i t . I t resists . When you let go i t turns , and you see the gear moving, but hear nothing. A s ingle note plays , and then i t stops. The second box is st i l l playing, st i l l turning even when muff led by glass . The key on the third box does not turn, but i t moves, s lowly, with the t icking hand on the c lock.

43

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

c o n s t a n t v i g i l a n c eKr ysten Trindade

The memory is a tool that never forgets i ts purpose. You must remember, and so here i t is to help you. I t is there, a l l the t ime—remember, remember, remember—a whisper of my own weakness that I must never forget . I t is now chained to the physical device that never leaves my side, and i t cal ls to me. You could die at any t ime. You must be your own warrior. But how do you f ight yourself ? The memory of the attack i tsel f is a strange perspective , gained through a haze of medication and a low blood-oxygen level . After the attack, an anaphylactic reaction to an unknown st imulus , I was prescribed an epipen as a precaution. For a brief t ime, I thought of i t as a freak occurrence—my body just got confused. But then I saw a special ist for my al lergies and the now-constant anxiety burst forth from my l izard-brain with the knowledge that the confusion was what I should fear. My body was vulnerable . My epipen became an anchor, the focus of my awareness that my body could encounter just about any innocuous thing and become confused. I became conscious of the need to always have i t on my person; to never forget that my own body could betray me, attack me, and this small needle was my only protection. And so i t haunts me, a specter of my own mortal i ty, lurking in a c loak of anxiet ies aimed to preserve. Constant v igi lance ! I must never forget , must always be aware that there are things out there that my body could reject at the expense of i tsel f , and I have no way of knowing exactly what they are . I was tested, but the body changes, grows into and out of a l lergies l ike shedding a skin—peeling away one to reveal another. But the brain does not shed fears , does not forget the urge to preserve i tsel f and so the memory t ied to the epipen remains . The pen i tsel f s i ts in my wallet and every year i t is smaller, more compact , easier to disguise—while the st igma grows. I t feeds on my hindbrain, harvesting my f ight or f l ight response to keep me alert . I t fert i l izes the fear with the memory of choking, of f ighting, of a fr ightened family and a fr ightened girl and a body that martyred i tsel f . This memory is a tool , and i t is sharp.

44

t h e b o s t o n p r a y e rTess Walsh

Once there was a family with four redheaded chi ldren, a fat father, and a nervous mother. They l ived in a house with peel ing paint and air condit ioners in the windows that looked l ike cavit ies . The oldest chi ld took after her mother; she was nervous. She avoided the cracks in the s idewalk and said prayers every night , eyes shut t ight l ike the Hail Mar y was the bathwater she and her brother cupped in their hands, and al l of i t was trying to swim out her ears . She prayed for her fat father, who, most nights , sat at the stat ion in Brighton, a brick bui lding r ight next to the funeral home where her grandmother was laid out for the last t ime, and ate doughnuts . The father ate doughnuts because they f i l led up al l the holes inside him, and because they were the only thing he could keep down after the 911 cal l he responded to last month. Once upon a t ime there had been a man with a wife and two l i t t le girls . The f irst l i t t le girl got s ick al l the way down in her t iny bones and she was laid out in the same funeral home as the nervous girl ’s grandmother. The wife stopped talking and started ordering take-out , and one day, when the man came home, there were divorce papers next to the pizza box. The man kissed the second l i t t le girl , the one who didn’t get bone-sick , and he went down to the rai lroad stat ion. The 7:54 train was coming and the man looked at the funeral home, the one next to the stat ion, before he stepped off the platform as i f he were stepping down the stairs . He used to put the f irst l i t t le girl on his shoulders as he went down the stairs so she could touch the cei l ing , or scrape at the cobwebs in the corners with a rag . Most l i t t le girls were afraid of spiders , but not his . Not unti l she got bone-sick , because then the doctor showed her a picture and she said the inside of her bones looked l ike spider webs, l ike deadly cotton candy. I t seemed unfair, the man thought , that there were surely spider-webs with her now, in her coff in . And that was the last thought he had before the train came. The fat father of the four redheaded chi ldren and the one nervous girl was s itt ing in his stat ion when the man with the bone-sick daughter stepped out to hug the train . He was watching the bal l game, two-oh Sox, when the cal l came and he was the f irst one on the scene, the passengers off the train talking about the game, talking about Menino’s latest mumble, as the father looked at the corpse of someone who, f ive minutes ago, had been l ike him. “There’s no head,” he said . “Where’s the head?” The coroner pointed, and the father crouched down to inspect i t . He thought of hamburger meat , the kind his mother bought and slapped with her bare hands. He thought of the word f lesh . He thought of his f irst communion, when the priest told him he was now eating the body of Jesus Christ , and how he had started to cry, imagining himself to be chewing on the Messiah’s earlobe. He did not throw up unti l he came home that day, to his nervous wife and his four chi ldren, and his wife asked him to cut the roast beef . He looked at i t and he looked at her and then he vomited into the kitchen sink and the kids made medicine faces , yucky , and ran into the backyard. Since then, the father has eaten mostly doughnuts , and his nervous l i t t le girl

45

knows this , so she prays . Sometimes, when i t is late , she t ip-toes past her mother, who has fal len asleep in front of an infomercial again, and takes her father’s f irst pol ice shirt out of the c loset so she doesn’t feel so alone. She tugs i t on over her pajamas and i t drapes along the f loor as she t ip-toes back out , some sort of train for a princess who wears no crown but steals lone bul lets from the coin jar and once brought them to show-and-tel l only to get in trouble . The shirt is from 1990 and i t has white letters in a Microsoft Font , the emblem of the badge pressed onto the fabric above the heart . First in the Nation! First to Fight! I t says . Boston, so proud of i ts boys in blue. The girl is a lways shaken out of the pol ice shirt by morning, when her father comes home to make scrambled eggs and then put them in plast ic wrap to save for a meal he never eats . Sometimes the nervous daughter is up when he turns the key, and she sits at the kitchen table , swinging her legs , while her fat father l istens to sports radio and gives her the handcuffs . She l ikes to play with them. She thinks that bad guys wear handcuffs so that their hands are forced to pray. The father says , “ I need that shirt , s i l ly,” and the l i t t le girl wiggles out of her gown, gives i t to him. I t is usual ly f ive in the morning. He gives her a bit of the scrambled egg he has just made and not eaten. The nervous chi ld hates scrambled eggs because she thinks i t tastes l ike chunks of cut-up sponge, but she eats i t anyways. Once upon a t ime there was a nervous l i t t le girl with a chipped front tooth who never s lept and stole her father ’s pol ice shirts ; she took the bul lets from the coin jar into kindergarten and got into trouble because guns were bad. And she grew up, and they gave her green and white pi l ls to melt away those stripped nerves . The pi l ls looked l ike they would taste minty but they did not . She takes two every night before she tr ies to s leep. Most night , she doesn’t s leep at a l l . She didn’t s leep the night of the marathon, which happened in Apri l when she was almost grown-up but st i l l l iked to eat macaroni and cheese. When the father came home, the girl was wearing the old shirt she had so often stolen. I t was no longer a gown on her; she was too big . I t was f ive in the morning, and she was watching the news. She’d been watching the news al l day, and her nervous mother, who refused to take the pi l ls , kept rubbing her hands with a dish towel even when they were dry as she said , Turn i t of f , turn i t of f . The father was not so fat anymore. I t had been years s ince the days of the doughnuts; that era had ended when the Pepsi bott les in the fr idge stopped smell ing l ike Pepsi . He went straight to the kitchen, smell ing l ike leather and cold metal , smell ing l ike the stat ion which the nervous girl had sometimes played in as a chi ld , feeding pennies to the vending machine for je l ly-beans and pressing the fat buttons on the dashboard of her father ’s cruiser to turn on the s irens. The morning after the marathon, when a l i t t le boy died and several others lost pieces of themselves , f lesh or otherwise, my father made eggs , and this t ime he ate them. He’d picked f ingers out of the drains al l day, blood running down the gutter l ike sunscreen ran off in the water, and he’d thought about the man who had, once upon a t ime, hugged a train and lost his head. That man was not my father ’s f irst corpse, and the l imbs he picked up l ike broken Barbie parts al l over Boylston Street wil l not be the last bloodshed he sees , but they hurt him more than the others did , more than the others wil l . He does not say this . I don’t think

46

he ever wil l , but I a lso think he doesn’t have to , because we know and I know. I was not the f irst reason he went into this bloody business , but I am one of his four most important reasons for staying in i t .My father is not a saint . He has broken ribs , bloodied noses . He has scars from belts and bricks . He has scars from whiskey and wine, from me, from us . But when I was born, the nurse asked my father i f he wanted to cut the umbil ical cord. He said no. He said that his hands had touched criminals , and they would not be the f irst things that touched his chi ld . And when that same chi ld went away to col lege, her f irst night , 211 miles away from the house with the air condit ioners st icking out the windows l ike broken teeth, 226 miles north of the je l ly-bean and bul let stat ion next to the funeral home of her grandmother, of the bone-sick l i t t le girl , she wore her father ’s pol ice shirt and said the prayer on his badge: Sicut patribus s i t deus nobis . May god be with us as he was with our fathers .

“sum

mer

’s g

one,

” ka

t la

nser

48

“ a m o m e n t , ” r o n m e l i c k

49“ g e n t l e m a n b u c k ” a n d “ l a d y d o e ” ( o p p o s i t e p a g e ) , j e n n i f e r j a n e i r o

51

a r t i s t s p o t l i g h th iptr ip

When Lauren Godding got her first guitar from her parents when she was ten or eleven, she probably hadn’t even dreamed she’d someday be HipTrip, an emerging rapper in Boston with a brand new mixtape, Shot. She picked up playing bass in high school when she first started taking music seriously—motivated by an incredible high school band teacher, she learned to read sheet music and play big-band classical concerts, as well as jam in smaller

jazz bands. Music took a brief hiatus in college while she earned her Marketing degree from Emerson College until the end of junior year when her social circle was largely made up of

musicians of all ilks, and after a summer of live music and picking up pieces from anyone she could learn from, one close friend in particular took over as mentor and really pushed her to

start writing music.

W h a t w a s i t l i k e , s t a r t i n g o u t w r i t i n g y o u r o w n m u s i c a l o n g s i d e y o u r m e n t o r f r i e n d ? HipTrip: I t was so therapeutic , i t was exactly what I needed and exactly when I needed i t . He actual ly ended up moving out of town, and that ’s when I started learning to make my own beats instead of just writ ing verses , because he wasn’t there to make me beats or help me make them. Al l fa l l and al l winter, I real ly buckled down—I was using al l my spare t ime to work on my music , and actual ly had a decent amount of spare t ime once I graduated—and it fe lt so good. I was surrounded by teachers , you know? My fr iends would help me and l isten to my stuff and give suggestions—almost everything I ’ve learned so far about music production and song writ ing is shit that fr iends taught me. I ’ve been lucky.

W h a t d r e w y o u t o h i p h o p o v e r t h e s i n g e r / s o n g w r i t e r g e n r e s ? HipTrip: Hip Hop is i t , plain and simple . I t just feels the best .

Y o u r l y r i c s s h o w a p a r t i c u l a r a f f i n i t y t o w a r d p u n s . W o u l d y o u s a y y o u r h u m o r c o m e s o u t w h e n y o u ’ r e w r i t i n g ? HipTrip: I think that i t ’s real ly important not to take anything too seriously, and to laugh whenever possible . I think I ’m funny, or something—I think what I ’m doing is a l i t t le bit goofy by nature because I ’m goofy by nature. I ’m a spooky white chick sel f -producing Hip Hop mixtapes, you know? Some people are probably gonna giggle at that , and I ’m gonna giggle with them.

Y o u h a v e a s o r t o f s p o o k y / w i t c h y t h e m e t o S h o t —w h a t ’ s t h a t b o r n f r o m ? HipTrip: I real ly love spooky and dark themes. There’s something very empowering about the stereotypical witch—she’s a woman that is other-wordly,

52 a l l h i p t r i p p h o t o g r a p h y b y m a g g i e m a i n

54a r t i s t s p o t l i g h t

she doesn’t abide by our rules , she f loats above them, and doesn’t take shit from anyone. I love that . My ideal sel f is very witchy. Another part of i t : Bones and skul ls fascinate me, and I real ly l ike knowing that we al l have skeletons inside of us , ‘cause skeletons are considered spooky and scary. What a metaphor, r ight? We al l have something “scary ” or “gross” hiding beneath al l our other stuff . I ’m learning to stare at my skeleton. I t ’s important that we see each other and love each other al l the way through down to the bones.

W h a t i n s p i r e s y o u t o w r i t e ? W h i c h s o n g d i d y o u w r i t e f i r s t ? HipTrip: I wrote a lot of stuff that the public wil l never see , a lot of my early early f irst beginner stuff . I had some computer issues and lost a ton of music once. I started out writ ing love songs, because that ’s what I knew and I had been going through a lot of that type of stuff . That was good practice , in the beginning—“Zachary ” was the f irst song I started on Shot . Sometimes I focus on the sounds of the words to write my verses , and sometimes I focus more on meaning—I try to just let myself express my thoughts or feel ings and write down everything that comes out , and whitt le i t down, and go from there. I write a lot of typical hyped-up Hip Hop sel f -promotional shit because i t ’s absolutely fun as hel l . Everyone should do that . You tel l yourself you’re a badass spooky queen for long enough, you become one. At least in your own eyes , and those eyes should matter most to you anyways. Fuck real i ty, amirite?

W h a t i s “ Z a c h a r y ” a b o u t ? HipTrip: I t ’s the c losest thing to a love song that I ’ve written, because I think i t is about love—but i t ’s about how love fucks with you. I t ’s about real iz ing that love doesn’t conquer al l—it ’s real iz ing that you can love someone as much as you’ve ever loved anyone, they can even love you back, but that doesn’t mean the world is gonna stop spinning. Because we’ve got shit to do.

H o w h a s s e l f - p r o m o t i n g y o u r f i r s t r e l e a s e b e e n ? HipTrip: This has been quite the tr ip . Ever s ince I started making the mixtape, everything was so haphazard and slapped together and off-the-cuff that i t ’s been a real ly bumpy and bizarre road. For a while , I was making beats using Garage Band with headphones, typing the notes one by one because I couldn’t af ford a midi keyboard or speakers . My f irst midi keyboard was actual ly a graduation gi f t from two lovely fr iends. Al l of the vocal parts of Shot were recorded using a $40 USB microphone inside a sound booth made of cardboard and a faux-sheep skin rug to insulate sound. I played at a house show a few weeks before I dropped the mixtape, and I ’m playing at another house show next month in Lowell . I t feels very personal and very by-the-seat-of-my-pants—this whole project has felt that way. I ’ve just been doing what I do, with what I got , with the best people I know.

W h e n d i d y o u d e c i d e t o r e l e a s e y o u r m u s i c f r e e t o t h e p u b l i c ? HipTrip: Shit can get st icky when it ’s about making money. I am so grateful to

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be making art , and music isn’t my meal t icket , i ts my soul t icket—I do i t for me. I t ’s ki l ler that people want to l isten to my music . At this point , that ’s more than enough for me. This isn’t my job right now.

D o y o u h o p e t o s o m e d a y p u r s u e m u s i c f u l l - t i m e ? HipTrip: Sometimes I think about doing this ful l t ime, and then the art- is-not-for-everyone worries sneak in , and I think about how I ’m real ly not in the posit ion to pursue this ful l t ime, and then I start thinking about my car payments and student loans and rent , and by the end of the thought I ’m convinced I wil l never do this ful l t ime. But I don’t know—I wouldn’t have bel ieved I could do this even part-t ime three years ago, so who knows where this wil l go . This question is a tough one for me, i t makes me kind of sad. Sometimes this feels l ike loving someone I could never marry. But that ’s sel f ish of me—like I said , even the opportunity to make music part t ime is such a huge privi lege, and i t ’s l ike medicine, you know? So I ’m grateful to have the hobby no matter where i t goes .

W h a t d o e s t h e B o s t o n h i p h o p s c e n e n e e d ? HipTrip: The same thing that any other Boston music scene needs: support . We need people hitt ing up their local shows, supporting their local musicians and keeping the scene al ive . Church just c losed, you know, and that sucks; that was a t ight spot to catch tunes, and I ’ve seen dozens of local bands play there. I ’m not an expert , though—I’m not the best person to answer this question. I ’m real ly too new to the scene, you know? I ’ve barely started cal l ing myself a musician. But I hang with a lot of people who’ve been making i t or trying to make i t as professional musicians in Boston, and I think they ’d agree, that the support is the biggest need right now.

W h e r e d o y o u w r i t e ? W h e n d o y o u w r i t e ? W h a t ’ s y o u r p r o c e s s ? HipTrip: I write a lot of stuff when I ’m just out and about—my favorite thing to do is take a long walk , l isten to some random beats , and just jot down the things I freestyle in my head. Sometimes, i t ’s more calculated, and I ’m sitt ing there in my bed or at my desk real ly focusing on creating words. Sometimes I think about what I am trying to say, and then come up with the words to use—but sometimes, I pick words I want to use and f igure out a meaning from there. I ’m st i l l so young that I don’t even have a sol id process yet , I guess . I ’m just running around al l wide-eyed and bushy-tai led trying to learn as much as I can.

H o w d o y o u d r e a m u p s o u n d s c a p e s ? HipTrip: Usual ly I get some sort of small musical concept , l ike a l i t t le melody or a hook, and then just bui ld around that l i t t le concept . I work very systematical ly in that sense—I l ike to have a jumping off point , and then I go through the track section by section, adding and tweaking the sounds unti l i t feels r ight to me. A track changes a lot from beginning to end. I ’m constantly changing i t . Sometimes I let them “rest” and don’t even touch them for weeks. That way, when I come back to them, I ’ve got a fresh perspective . Sometimes I ’ l l f inish an entire beat in a few hours , sometimes they sort of just take on a mind of their own.

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Stream or download HipTrip’s new mixtape, Shot , free at soundcloud.com/hiptripmusic or

hiptrip.bandcamp.com and keep up with HipTrip happenings on facebook.com/hiptripmusic .

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57 “ b e a u t y , ” A u b r e e L e w i s

58“ i s s h e o r i s n ’ t s h e ? ” H a r l a n l o v e s t o n e

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e a s t c o a s t e v e n t s

Fall 2015

Atlanta Celebrates PhotographyThroughout October, Atlanta, GA

Atlanta Celebrates Photography aims to make Atlanta a leading center for the world’s fastest growing art form. By producing the largest annual community-oriented photo festival in the US, we provide

experiences that engage and educate diverse audiences through lens-based media. acpinfo.org

New York Comic ConOctober 8-11; Javits Center, NYNew York Comic Con is the East Coast’s biggest and most exciting popular culture convention. The Show Floor plays host to the latest and greatest in comics, graphic novels, anime, manga, video games, toys, movies and television. The panels and autograph sessions give fans a chance to interact with their favorite creators while screening rooms feature sneak peeks at films and television shows months before they hit either big or small screens. New York Comic Con is the second largest pop culture convention in America and the only one that takes place in the comic book, publishing, media, and licensing capital of the world—Gotham City. newyorkcomiccon.com

Anhinga Press 40th Anniversary Poetry FestivalOctober 9-11; Tampa, FL

To celebrate its 40th year in publishing, Anhinga Press is hosting a festival featuring readings by more than 25 poets whose books have been published by the Press, including David Kirby, Diane Wakoski, Erika

Meitner, Frank Gaspar, Lola Haskins, Don Morrill, and Sylvia Curbelo, and many others.

fall festival on ponceOctober 17-18; Atlanta, GAEnjoy the fall weather at this two-day outdoor arts and crafts festival, featuring over 125 booths to peruse with everything from fine arts and crafts, folk and “outsider art.” In addition to the fine arts, there will be a children’s area and local food and beverage. Attendance is free. festivalonponce.com

9: ViewPointsOctober 17-November 20; Atlanta, GA

Check out nine diverse Atlanta photographers in this eclectic photography exhibit. Subjects range from landscapes and portraits to abstract and architecture. Free admission. pbj-gallery.com

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boston book festivalOctober 23-24; Copley Square, Boston, MAThe Boston Book Festival celebrates the power of words to stimulate, agitate, unite, delight, and inspire by holding year-round events culminating in an annual, free festival that promotes a culture of reading and ideas and enhances the vibrancy of Boston. bostonbookfest.org

fotoweek dcNovember 7-15; Washington, D.C.

FotoDC’s mission is to provide a dynamic, evocative, engaging experience for photographers, cultural institutions, galleries, curators, schools, and area residents through photography and dynamic

programming. The annual FotoWeek DC festival presents exhibitions, programs, and events highlights world-class photography, and provides exposure for photographers working locally and worldwide.

fotodc.org

Boston International Antiquarian Book FairNovember 13-15; Boston, MAThis year’s Boston Book Fair features events by Executive Producer of the Antiques Road Show, Marsha Bemko; a panel discussion on starting your own collection; The Ticknor Society’s 14th annual roundtable; the invention of the modern dictionary; and free expert appraisals. bostonbookfair.com

Boston Book Print and Ephemera ShowNovember 14; Boston, MA

Explore hundreds of book-related prints and wares at this offshoot of Boston Rare Book Week (conveniently close to the Boston International Antiquarian Book Fair!). neantiqueshows.com

Miami Book FairNovember 15-22; Miami, FLAnd the readers and writers will follow, as they do by the hundreds of thousands every year for the Miami Book Fair International, an eight-day literary party in November. The fair, in its 32nd year, will open Sunday November 15th with the popular “Evenings With…” series, featuring six nights of readings and discussions with noted authors from the United States and around the world. During Street Fair weekend, more than 250 publishers and booksellers exhibit and sell books, with special features like the antiquarians, who showcase signed first editions, original manuscripts, and other collectibles. miamibookfair.com

Books at NoonEvery Wednesday; New York, NY

This ongoing book group gives you the chance to spend your lunch break discussing a new novel every week with authors and enthusiasts, instead of sitting on a bench by yourself. Upcoming authors for fall

include Richard Dawkins, Sloane Crosley, Yusef Komunyakaa, and Sarah Ruhl.

63 “ s e p t e m b e r 1 3 , 2 0 1 5 , s h a r i n g s c a r s , ” s a v a n n a h j a n e w o l f g r a m

64“ m a r g o t , ” s a r i n a m i t c h e l

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

n o . 4 i m p e r i a l l a n e

NO. 4 IMPERIAL LANEby Johnathan Weisman352pp. Twelve. $26.00Review by LAURA APPERSON

For most , a year abroad ends in a tearful goodbye to your new international fr iends and a promise to keep in touch, fol lowed by years of nostalgia of a l l the good t imes partying in London or travel ing across Europe. In No. 4 Imperial Lane , narrator David Hel ler decides to extend his year abroad in a very untradit ional way—to work as a quadriplegic ’s aid in Brighton, England. David’s plans to go home and f inish his degree in the States after being in England explode when he fal ls in love with a girl from Brighton—and his job as Hans Bromwell ’s aide is one way to keep him in the same city for just a bit longer. Although i t doesn’t look l ike much at f irst , David ends up learning more than he probably ever thought he would while l iving with the Bromwells , who also include Hans’ s ister, El izabeth, and her charming teenage daughter, Crist ina. Weisman sets the scene, with the backdrop as 1980s Brighton, at the outset of this new stage of David’s l i fe , when he only wants to spend t ime with his girl fr iend and is practical ly terri f ied of Hans, who is aged and, as David f irst describes him, “a corpse.” But in between his tasks and late into the evenings , David spends hours l istening to El izabeth tel l stories about her l i fe as a Portuguese doctor’s wife l iving in colonial Angola in the 1970s and learning about her and Hans’ upbringing as wealthy Engl ish royalty. Peppered with Shakespeare references (The Bard was El izabeth’s only education) , El izabeth’s stories transport David to an unfamil iar t ime and place where war rages not only in Angola , but in the Bromwell home. I t ’s astonishing how well Weisman weaves the stories of these characters together with such clarity. Switching from Brighton to Angola to Portugal to

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David’s Atlanta with ease, Weisman educates the reader about the wars and troubles of Portuguese-control led Africa while developing so acutely the personal it ies , histories , and feel ings of every character. David is touched by the El izabeth’s story, and he becomes connected to the Bromwell family in a way that he had never been able to with his own family. And what he discovers , as he decides whether to stay in Brighton or go home to his family on the other s ide of the pond, is , truly, how to tel l his own story.

With a reporter ’s eye and a novel ist ’s pen, Weisman has managed to write an intel l igent page-turner that expertly explores themes of love, family dysfunction, and the complexit ies of the human experience—all from the Bromwell home on No. 4 Imperial Lane.

“The bitterness over our entwined and ruined fates was just beginning to creep in ,” she admits .

“We were born with so much, and look at us now,” Hans sighs . “We destroyed each other.”

“ p e a c e , ” r e b e c c a h a r t m a n

67 “ m o u n t a i n m e m o r i e s , ” d o t t i e b r u c e

68“ s o u t h c a r o l i n a w o o d d u c k l i n g s , ” t i m o t h y c u n n i n g h a m

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“ a p o r t r a i t o f a m e m o r y o f d e a t h , ” k a t l a n s e r

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[ c o n t r i b u t o r s ]memory , fal l 2015

LAURA APPERSONLaura Apperson is a writer, editor, and musician from Atlanta, GA. Currently, she works as an editorial assistant at St . Martin’s Press, specializing in narrative nonfiction, memoir, and literary fiction. She lives in Brooklyn, NY. For more book reviews and other clippings, visit her website at lauracatherineapperson.com .

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

BENJAMIN BLAKEBenjamin Blake was born in July of 1985, in the small town of Eltham, New Zealand. His fiction and verse have appeared in numerous journals and magazines, including The Los Angeles Review of Los Angeles , Morpheus Tales , Black Petals and Danse Macabre . He was a contributor to the 2012 anthology A Feast of Frights from The Horror Zine . He is the author of the poetry and prose collections A Prayer for Late October , Southpaw Nights , and Reciting Shakespeare with the Dead . He currently lives in a cabin, somewhere in the New Zealand countryside. benjaminblake.com

TAYLOR BONDTaylor Bond is a 2014-2015 Lannan Fellow, a writer, and a freelance photographer. Her work has appeared, or is forthcoming, in various publications including Underwater New York and the Foundling Review . warrior-princess.wix.com/tbtb

MARCUS BOYDMarcus Boyd, Sr. is a photographer based in Riverdale, MD. He has a twenty-year background in Information Technology and is an Army Veteran. Before he started working on a computer he was photographing family events, school events, and activities at the neighborhood recreational center. Marcus studied photography during middle and high school. After five years in business, Marcus decided it was time for a change of scenery and moved his focus back to something of a greater passion… photography. mboydphotos.net

ALLISON ANNE BROWNAllison grew up in Greenville, SC where she developed an appreciation for art at a young age. She took private classes until high school, during which she attended the Fine Arts Center and the South Carolina Governor’s School for the Arts and Humanities. Both places were pivotal in her interest and development as an artist . After graduating from The University of South Carolina with a B.A. in Fine Art and spending a while traveling, including places like Seattle, Santa Fe, and Tainan, Taiwan, Allison moved back to her hometown to begin a career in the arts. She now works out of her private studio drawing and making sculptures, jewelry, and ceramic pottery in the old Taylors Mill. allisonannebrown.com

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DOTTIE BRUCEDottie finds being a mixed-media artist liberating; there are limitless products and objects available to incorporate into her artwork. Her studio is located in Cashiers, NC in the Nantahala National Forest . Just looking out the windows lends her plenty of inspiration—the forest , the river—even a black bear sometimes wanders by. Recently she has worked in a relatively new medium for fine art: alcohol inks. She loves the vibrant colors and the loose, spontaneous results she is able to achieve. mixedmediaacrylicartist .com

PJ CARMICHAELPJ Carmichael is a writer, philosopher, visionary, and artist from Wakefield, MA. His work is influenced by his experiences in the city of Boston, as well as his travels throughout the New England countryside. Through his work, he strives for a synthesis between the psychological and sociological, the individual and the environment. He edits the literary/arts zine High Tension , and his work has appeared in Route 2 , Black Sunday Magazine , and Infinite Scroll . pjcarmichael.tumblr.com

ALINE CARRIEREAline Carriere lives and writes in Massachusetts. Her poems and short fiction have appeared in The Poetry Peddler , Daily Science Fiction , Saturday Night Reader , Acidic Fiction , The Literary Hatchet , and in the anthology Elements of Horror . She was the first recipient of the Andrew Grossbardt Poetry Prize at Brandeis University, quite a long time ago. She is @jedlight on Twitter where she enjoys connecting with fellow writers and readers, and looking at pictures of cats.

TIMOTHY CUNNINGHAMTimothy’s love for music and fine arts has driven him since he was a child. Although born, raised, and deeply rooted in the South, he has always been well-traveled and enjoys many

cultures of art . He began as a muralist in his adolescence. As a Marine Corps war veteran, his audience will begin to see him display some of his clearest memories of those times. He loves to see pieces that show overjoyed, accomplished moments in time and works out of a private studio in Greenville, SC. His participation in local shows, galleries, consignment, teaching classes, and commissioned work keeps his gears turning. facebook.com/mymixedmediaarts

MATTHEW DIOMATARISMatthew R. Diomataris is a mixed-media and illustration artist whose work is based on inspiring images that reflect a sensation of imagination and contemplation. He works to create unique perspectives while communicating a sense of curiosity and gentle humor within each piece. Diomataris currently resides in Greenville, SC. [email protected]

ROBIN WYATT DUNNRobin Wyatt Dunn writes and teaches in Los Angeles. robindunn.com

KATHERINE GIBBELKatherine Gibbel grew up in Brooklyn, NY. Her writing has been featured previously in East Coast Ink magazine and on the website xoJane. A graduate of Wesleyan University, she now lives and works in North Carolina. @khgibbel

LAURA GREENWALDLaura Greenwald is an artist . She’s always loved art in its many forms. She sings and write songs. She paints. She takes photographs. This past year she crossed the U.S. twice in her 1998 Volvo wagon and became a traveler. She lives here, there, everywhere, and nowhere. You can see more of her work at peachesart .com .

MAX GRIFFINMax Griffin lives in the greater Los

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Angeles area. Currently studying creative writing at California University Northridge, he enjoys uploading pictures of his cats onto social media, as well as writing the occasional poem or story. He hopes to age gracefully, into first a bitter middle-aged novelist , and then later into the bearded man by the Santa Monica pier. Contact him for literally any reason, at [email protected] .

REBECCA HARTMANRebecca is a late bloomer; she graduated from college with a B.S. in Mechanical Engineering twelve years after high school. She worked as an engineer for 20 years, then opened a stained glass shop. She served on the board of directors of the American Glass Guild for four years as secretary and also as conference chairman for two years. After ten years in the stained glass business, her study of glass painting led back to painting with oils and pastels. Her experience encourages her to experiment with structure, shape, and color in her paintings.

KYLE HEMMINGSKyle Hemmings has art work in The Stray Branch , Euphenism , Uppagus , The Bitchin’ Kitsch , Black Market Lit , Red Bird Press , Snapping Twig , and Convergence . He loves pre-punk garage bands of the 60s, manga comics, and urban photography/art. He blogs at upatberggasse19.blogspot .com .

RYAN HIGGINBOTHAMRyan is a web developer in Atlanta who wishes he was a novelist . He enjoys meditation and celebrity gossip.

LARRY HOLLANDLarry Holland grew up on the outskirts of Boston and made his way to Atlanta in1992, now living and breathing in Decatur, GA. He practices many art disciplines, mostly concentrating on photography and mixed media, using his

own photos, wood, and found objects. He enjoys traveling, peanut butter, avoiding frostbite, and hanging out with his two small daughters. You can literally find his art hanging out all over Atlanta (as a participant of Free Art Fridays) and in various art shows/establishments. Find him on Instagram/Twitter @FISBN .

A.J. HUFFMANA.J. Huffman’s poetry, fiction, haiku, and photography have appeared in hundreds of national and international journals, including Labletter , The James Dickey Review , and Offerta Speciale , in which her work appeared in both English and Italian translation. She is also the founding editor of Kind of a Hurricane Press . kindofahurricanepress.com

STEPHEN JAMESStephen James has recently turned 24 and, even more recently, heard a song about turning 24. Doesn’t know the difference between writing plays and writing poems so never really says no to either these days. Bites off more than he can chew. Needs a proper job. folknwords.tumblr.com

JENNIFER JANEIROJennifer Janeiro is a fine artist who creates pen and ink drawings of modern elements, found objects, and skulls with a vintage feel. Utilizing cross-hatching and hard contrast , her drawings take on the appearance of old etchings. Her loved ones have always encouraged her creativity, and it was with her research into tattoo design that she realized her love of skulls and the detail found on their surfaces. She also enjoys crafting, traveling, and reading fantasy novels. Jennifer lives in Clemson, SC with her supportive boyfriend and two silly dogs. boneandink.com

STEVE KLEPETARSteve Klepetar’s work has appeared in

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the U.S. and eleven other countries. He has received several nominations for Best of the Net and the Pushcart Prize. Recent collections include My Son Writes a Report on the Warsaw Ghetto and Return of the Bride of Frankenstein .

KAT LANSERKat is an illustrator that has been published in the American Illustration Annual , and has exhibited work around the U.S. in places like San Francisco, New York, Raleigh, and Savannah. She focuses toward a younger female audience with themes of beauty, sadness, love, and feminism. Her current work is concentrated around the idea of portraying a girl who is very much an abstract embodiment of herself. She has been working a lot with text and “one liners,” doing compositions based off of sadness, or questions regarding a significant other. They are often tender, quiet , insecure, and sincere, like looking into an intimate moment of a girl wondering if “he loves me or he loves me not.” hatemailillustration.weebly.com

AUBREE LEWISAubree Lewis is a artist with a unique passion to bring art that invokes a smile, and joy to fill viewers. She is making strides to become a professional artist by showing and selling her work through small art shows, her Etsy shop, and her website. She recently placed second in a local 24-hour art challenge and now feels like her art can be recognized in the professional world. Scratchboard is her main medium and she loves how unique it is. She currently live in Greenville, SC and enjoys being a wife and mommy. scratchthedetail.com

LARA LEWISLara Lewis is a writer, but asking what she writes on will probably merit the response “paper.” She’s currently located in Savannah, GA, playing an elaborate game of hide and seek with

her education and career. She hopes you enjoyed reading her story, or maybe remembered something you’d forgotten from it . She can be found at linkedin.com/in/larascad , or emailed at [email protected] .

HARLAN LOVESTONEHarlan Lovestone is an award-winning visual artist and arts educator with several years of experience who has exhibited in various parts of the United States. He is also founder of Arthaus Greenville, an artist-run initiative for establishing a unique community art center in Greenville, SC and promoting sustainable lifestyles for artists and residents in local communities. arthausgreenville.com

MATT LOWEMatthew Forrest Lowe (Ph.D., McMaster Divinity College, Hamilton, Ontario) is a freelance writer, editor, and professor. His nonfiction work includes several articles and book chapters; his short fiction has previously appeared in Setting the Scene (Polar Expressions, 2012), and he is working on a science fiction novel. He blogs—less often than he should—at lonelyvocations.blogspot .com .

MAGGIE MAINMaggie is a recent graduate from Emerson College currently living in Boston working as a freelance photographer for her own company: MMPhotography. Growing up, she resided in more than 14 places across the globe. When she isn’t taking pictures or editing she can be found styling photos for her Instagram @maggiemainxx , strolling art museums and galleries, and making travel plans for her next adventure. She just returned from a month-long road trip. Currently, Maggie is developing a documentary about her adventure and curating a photography book about

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the modern wild west. You can follow along with her daily adventures on her personal website/ blog: maggie-main.com.

RON MELICKRon Melick was born in Columbus, OH, and began painting in childhood. He has continued to learn through self study and practice. He creates landscapes and life paintings in acrylics, on canvas or hardboard. His paintings have been included in many exhibits in Ohio and South Carolina, and are in private and public collections nationally. His paintings, prints, and giclees are available at the Art Cellar Gallery, in Greenville, SC. Since 2005, he has lived in Taylors, SC. ronmelick.com

SARINA MITCHELSarina Mitchel is a visual artist currently based in Providence, RI (the coolest small city around). Among many other things, she loves laughing (her sound waves may reach you at the other end of the hallway), learning things, dessert (especially cake!), numbers and math and shapes, active listening, bats and other cool animals, rainbows, life, 4-space and 4-cubes (a.k.a. tesseracts), drawing and erasing (but mostly erasing), sending letters, anything that she can research or memorize, and—of course—the myriad of lovely people who support her in her ongoing adventures in life and art . sarinamitchel.com

EMILY RANDALLEmily Randall, 26, lives north of metro Atlanta with her husband and three fur children. She spends her free time eating all the fancy chocolate she can get her hands on. @3milyjo

MARGARET MARY RILEYMargaret Mary Riley grew up in rural Georgia speaking Cajun French. She received a B.A. in Political Science from Agnes Scott College and has been published in Inpatient Press , Type House Magazine , and Corvus . She periodically

updates a blog in between working on bicycles and avoiding her roommate’s cats. rileymargaretmary.wordpress.com

JACK SAVAGEW. Jack Savage is a retired broadcaster and educator. He is the author of seven books including Imagination: The Art of W. Jack Savage (wjacksavage.com). Jack and his wife Kathy live in Monrovia, CA.

JILL SHASTANYJill Shastany is a writer from Holliston, MA (about which there is a campy horror series that is. . . a loose interpretation of what it’s like to live there). She enjoys most people (for better or worse), cooking things on the fly, entertaining, driving, and looking at water. She is in her last semester of the master’s in Professional Writing program at UMass Dartmouth, where she teaches Technical Communication to undergraduate students. @joppply.

KRYSTEN TRINDADEKrysten Trindade is not an artist , but she spends a lot of time with artists of every nature and occasionally pretends to be like them. She is a student of history who resides in New York, collecting books and experiences. [email protected]

TESS WALSHTess Walsh grew up in Massachusetts and is currently pursing an English degree at Saint Michael’s College in Vermont. She loves salt water and sunflowers. More of her work and musings can be found at misstesswalsh.wordpress.com/ .

SAVANNAH JANE WOLFGRAMSavannah Jane Wolfgram is a student studying Creative Writing at the University of Tennessee at Knoxville. She adores hearing people’s stories and sharing her own, whether it be out loud, through images, or through poetry. She would like to dedicate this entry to

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little mouse rat soon to be born, and the memories about to be made with her new life. @govikesgirl

DYLAN YOUNGDylan Young is a screenwriter living in Los Angeles, a city four times the size of his home state of Rhode Island. He likes long walks on the beach, writing about himself in the third person, and petting other people’s dogs without asking. When he’s not writing down weird stories, he can usually be found exploring his strange affinity for Power Points. Contact Dylan for literally any reason whatsoever. “I’m not lonely, I swear.” [email protected]

e a s t c o a s t i n k | i s s u e 0 0 8 | m e m o r y

east coast ink, issue 008: memory

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