Cassie Zeller

Bunz and the Stone

In response to Madeline Barkey’s “Bunz”

When I first met Bunz, I instantly knew I would like him. Something about his ears that always flopped in contrary directions told me that Bunz doesn’t take life too hard. His first day on the job, he sauntered over to me, a lit cigarette dangling between his lips, and shook my paw affably.

“Guess we’re working together! Name’s Bunz. They said you can show me the ropes?”

“Yes, sir! I’ll get you started on the chalk outlines today, and I’ll teach you the hammer and chisel tomorrow if you’re ready” I replied.

Bunz nodded and gestured for me to lead the way. I led him through the workshop, waving my hand in front of my face to clear the dust that always hung in the air, and introduced him to the few guys who were already at their benches. We settled at our bench and leaned over a slab while I showed him how to carve it. It wasn’t long before I realized that Bunz had a steadier paw than me, so the going was easy. At lunchtime, he let me take a sip out of his flask and chuckled when I nearly choked on the strong whiskey inside. At the end of the day, Bunz threw on a patchy overcoat and well-worn gloves before turning to me, giving a salute and a wink, and disappearing down the road.

Bunz dressed warm, but never fancy. On really cold days, he’d stuff his pants with straw and tie down the legs to his ankles so the straw wouldn’t fall out. Sometimes his shirts looked like they were sewn out of old curtains or blankets or something. Bunz didn’t ask me many questions, so I returned the favor.

When I introduced Bunz to the hammer and chisel, he took to it pretty well. Some guys get all cut up when they’re first learning, especially if they’re used to working with wood instead of stone. Bunz listened closely to my instructions and was better off for it.

“Kind of a morbid job,” I blurted out one day a couple weeks later, interrupting the steady ring as Bunz chipped away at a slab of stone.

He set down the hammer and lit up a cigarette. “I guess so,” he said before taking a long drag. “Everybody dies, someday. Better to remember them.” Something clouded over in Bunz’s eyes, unless it was just the smoke obscuring them from me. Whatever it was, it cleared up after Bunz half finished his cigarette and stamped it out on the floor. Before I had the nerve to say anything else, Bunz was back to chipping away at the tombstone.

One day, Bunz arrived looking really different. It took me a minute to figure out that he was wearing a different pair of pants and didn’t have a cigarette in his mouth. The pants were a little too big, and he kept hiking them up and fiddling with the waistband. He had a piece of paper clutched in his paw that he took directly to the foreman. They spoke for a minute. Then, still holding his paper, Bunz wound his way around the other benches where the guys were already roughing out new stones and sat down heavily at our bench.

He swallowed hard and handed me the paper, saying, “Foreman says this is what we’re chipping today.” He busied himself arranging the chalk and making sure the chisel was good and sharp. I opened the paper and read what was inside.

Robbi

Beloved Brother and Friend

We Will Remember

Bunz didn’t say much, but he sure did beautiful work on that stone. I thought with a pang of something like jealousy that he was already better than I was at cutting the tight corners. We worked together, trading off every so often when our paws would cramp up from the detail work.

The sun was nearly set and the workshop nearly empty by the time we finished. I helped Bunz carry the stone over to the water pump so we could wash off the dust and look at the final product. We stood there looking it up and down for what felt like an hour.

“Who was he?” I whispered.

“My brother.”

“What did he die from?”

Bunz furrowed his brow. “Something slow.”

Somehow I knew to ask my next question. “Will you be back tomorrow?”

He traced the delicate lettering on the slab before he answered. “No. This is what I needed. I knew it would happen eventually and–I wanted to remember.”

I think I said I was sorry. Bunz patted me on my shoulder and whispered a thanks. I watched as he reached into his pocket for a cigarette, lit it, and hoisted the stone onto his shoulder. He reached the door, gave a salute, and disappeared down the road.

Ayah Elsabeh

The Zeus pregnant with Dionysus was so ethereal. The leg with anatomy on the floating clouds and the peeled skin shows how fragile we are as humans. The white lines near the knees might suggest some power/pain going on. The artwork is very smooth and clean, giving a bright, ethereal vibe. The clouds are very soft and calm. Our perspective as viewers is from ground level, almost putting us in a place where we can follow this figure and witness its journey. I was initially drawn to this art piece because of this transparent, womb-like shape embedded in this thigh. The grapes in the womb are the same in the woman's hands and may be meant to symbolize fertility and change.

Harvest of Grief

In response to Lachelle Oglesby’s “Zeus pregnant with Dionysus”

There are women who carry and bear children. And there are women

who carry grief. For most of us, we carry both

When I lost her, I began to grow roots. They started inside of me

and spread to my hands. The large purple grapes followed

Almost as if the vines were bitter and painful, the grapes followed

with sweetness and help.

The child sleeps in the fruit

They burst through my skin

My steps echo in the sky

I walk above now, alone and full of grief.

There was nowhere else to go

My pain shadowed the clouds, thunder striking me.

If you look through the pain, you will see the pain in my knees.

You will know me and my pain when you, too, grow something inside of you.

Cole Wisneski

This piece was extremely vibrant and had amazing focus around the bloom. I think this piece has great symbolism in the sense that something so beautiful and so vibrant can grow in a dark, gloomy area.

Vibrant

After Hunter McCray’s "Ohi’a lehua - Hawaii Volcanoes National Park"

They say true beauty can be found in the most treacherous, colorless, and ugly places

A bright flower sits in an abyss of darkness

Seas of black swallow color, leaving no joy

How can something so beautiful grow shrouded and invisible

Red edges cut through the night

Dehydrated and waiting to quench its thirst in sunlight

Standing abandoned and alone, how can something so vibrant and alive float in the deep dark cascades

Bella Scarbrough

Buoyant

In response to Eliana Pettigrew’s “Hangers On”

Up, down. Side, side.

Her gaze drifts, a small duck,

ever afloat on a river of paint.

The rockbed of the canvas leaves scrapes and bruises to her line of sight,

texture permeating

the air between them.

She dodges a brilliant white rock

which juts from the peach-colored waves,

only to nearly deflect herself

into another, just as bright and piercing.

Lower and lower, she swims.

A third white rock,

resting comfortably on a red buoy. Bobbing gently.

Extends a feathered hand and hauls herself onto the icy surface.

The view from this height reveals the extent of the river.

Rouge-tinted seafoam covers the water.

The edge of the river is not far, a sheer drop extending out into the blackest abyss.

A patch of green sits comfortably, clinging to the river, lest it fall.

Return of the foliage, never wanted.

So dark it nearly fades into the void.

The white of the rocks still stand firm,

knowing without looking that the grass

has made its nest along its shores.

She swims towards it, drawn by the heavy breath as it pierces within.

Leaves snag on her feathers, when she tries to swim away,

she cannot escape

the snares that pull her back in.

A gentle sigh in her ear as it settles, chlorophyll seeping into her skin.

Her spine shoots straight, white rocks piercing her eyes, a buoy floating,

clusters of red seafoam trailing down her cheeks.

A patch of green hanging on.

Kyndy Bennett

To be more

In response to Zeke Walker’s “Zenyatta and Manti”

Gazing upon each other

You appear to be everything I am not

You are different but I am just like the rest

I have my pincers

I have my compound eyes

I have my wings

you have no mouth

you have a sensor system

you have a power supply

We stare at one another and your computer brain analyzes my being

I know that once you have gathered enough information

you will move onto the next being

Maybe another being of my kind with their own set of pincers,

compound eyes, and wings

Gazing upon each other,

You appear to be everything I am not

Francisco Korn Spinoso

Beauty of the Spill

After Julie Lambert’s “Chick”

The newly hatched chick is exposed to the world.

Its universe the black oblivion of unyielding eyelids.

The chick lays uncomfortably frozen,

spilled from its shell.

Contorted wings bent into itself and neck snapped back and

eyes unwaveringly shut give no indication it can ever flip its distorted self over.

Slick feathers reflect light it cannot yet see.

Bare patches of exposed skin below the beak

and at the corners of its joints

sprout tufts of newly formed feathers around

parts still uncovered,

embroidering hairless patches

with a dress of white and black.

Sunlight’s warmth detaches from

its prickling skin as

night’s breeze combs through and loosens its wetly clumped feathers.

It is alive and unmoving.

Mira Gonyon

Dead Flowers

Inspired by “Some Flowers” by Kate Henderson

Oh, my lover, you gave me a bouquet full of colors, a vibrant symphony.

Garnished with smaller flowers spilling outside of the vase.

Much like your words you speak to me, sweet like honey.

You ramble onto me, sweet little lies, promises you will never fulfill.

As time goes on, the flowers start to die, much like the love you seemed to have for me.

No more garnished deceitful words, no more beautiful bouquets, you want it your way and no other way.

You never cared how I felt, you never loved me, the flowers you gave me were nothing but bait.

I severed our ties, and started to move on, but before long you came back with a song.

A tune apologetic, seemingly sincere, I gave in and let you back in.

Again, your words were candied, your actions matching every statement.

Months went by, our conversations grew, then you turned your back on me, what was the reason? I haven’t got a clue.

It was never about the flowers; it was always about you.

It was then that I knew that beautiful looks can be deceiving.

Silvia Flores

Final Act

Inspired by Paige Allen’s “Fission”

The mothership prepared its armada to attack the third rock from the sun, their plans to eliminate the wretched human species were minutes away from completion. Such a shame really, these primitive apes held a lot of potential, but their penchant for war and unnecessary cruelty had sealed their fate.

As the general took her place in the captain’s chair, her authority seemed to permeate the bridge, adding weight to an already heavy mission. None of her crew envied the position she was in on this fateful day. She prepared to give the final orders when she noticed some movement on the screen. The crew had been dutifully checking and double checking the locations of all the receivers to ensure nothing would go awry. The final location was atop a mountain outside a major city in North America, the movement the general had noticed looked to be two humans trekking up the opposite side of the mountain. Rather than continue with the final countdown, the general decided to indulge in a bit of nature-watching. After today this planet and all its inhabitants would be nothing but space dust anyway, there was no rush to reach the finish line as the race, that is the human race, was decidedly over.

Back on Earth, Santiago and Valentina were enjoying one last picnic at their secret spot up on Dawson’s Peak. The sun seemed to shine just for them, as if it knew they would not be around to see the next rise. The air was warm with a gentle, cradling, breeze; not unlike the lingering touch of a loved one before a long departure. A winding trail led to a cliff’s edge encasing them like a cocoon among the majesty of the pine and the beasts therein. They were on top of the world in this place and somehow far removed from it. For a brief moment they could pretend there was going to be a tomorrow for them, for anybody.

No expense was spared on this lavish last meal (though the couple refused to think about that just part just yet). Charcuterie was spread out amongst other delicacies. Capicola, prosciutto, and Iberico ham lay beside warm brie and raclette. Grapes and fig jam were a must, for that touch of sweetness, paired perfectly with briney Beluga caviar. A perfectly chilled bottle of Dom Perignon was then opened with a resounding pop! A small preview of what was to be their just desserts.

While gazing absentmindedly at the bursting bubbles in her flute, Valentina couldn’t help but wish they had more time, not just for her and Santiago, but for their world. Her mind turned, unbidden, to all the innocent children who would never grow up, all those innocent dreams, unfulfilled. There was a sudden but familiar prickling in her ducts, she looked towards the ground, willing the salty secretions to cease. Santiago scooted closer to her as a brilliant light surrounded their hidden haven. Extending his arms, reaching for his childhood sweetheart, he cradled her in his love as gently as one handles crystal, for fear of it breaking. As the luminosity intensified, signaling their impending demise, Santiago put his finger under Valentina’s chin effortlessly tilting her face towards him. Cast in an angelic glow, his green eyes emeralds, beacons of hope in a hopeless situation. A final tear falling down her face, she heard his voice, “Chin up sweetheart, not everyone gets to see the end of the world.” He kissed her softly, savored the feel of their last breaths as they disintegrated into nothing, together.

Silvia Flores

In the Ether

Inspired by Makenna Russel’s “Amongst the Stars”

In the infinity of the cosmos, I am but an inconsequential traveler. Having lost communication with the space station eons ago, I try to count the light years that have passed but come up as empty as the expanse before me. Celestial bodies pirouette on their respective axes, nebulas swirl with ionized gases, and yet the silence is…deafening. The milky way in which I float toward my end is not lost on me. My sanity sucked into nothing, a black hole has formed where hope once made a home. Vestiges of my former life, the bulge of the galaxy of my mind, split like atoms into individual memories that fall and burn up in the atmosphere. Would that I too could combust into nothingness, or explode into heat and radiation in merciful fission. Life and death are in syzygy, inside of me. Accretion pulls at the fear and anger, a mass of despair expands in my lungs as the oxygen is depleted. An aphelion of one, I linger on the outer edge of reason as long as possible, hoping for a miracle that is just out of orbit. What craters will my absence leave, I wonder, as the air becomes colder and the darkness eclipses the light. The gravity of the situation falls heavily upon me, matter that no longer matters. Big bang? More like a small pop. The red shift becomes my crimson coffin as arcminutes become arcseconds in the final countdown. All of me is reduced to astronomy.