ORACLE FINE ARTS REVIEW
UNIVERSITY OF SOUTH ALABAMA
Cover art
Transubstantlatlon
Micah Mermilliod
Silkscreen
Volume Xiii
ORACLE FINE ARTS REVIEW
2
2015
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/ ORACLE 2015 STAFF
SPECIAL THANKS
EDITOR-IN-CHEIF KARIE FUGETT
As always, we would like to remember Bobby Holmes who was a poet, a writer, and
ART DIRECTOR KEVIN BROUILLETTE II
a student at the University of South Alabama. In his memory, his friends and family,
ART CURATOR CHRISTINE ROGALIN
including Dr. Larry Holmes, Bobby’s father and a history professor at USA, established
ASSISTANT TO THE ART CURATOR ANTHONY ANDERSON
the Bobby Holmes Scholarship. Each year, the scholarship is awarded to the editor-in-
CONSULTING EDITOR & FICTION EDITOR RACHAEL FOWLER
chief of Oracle Fine Arts Review.
/ SPECIAL THANKS
ORACLE 2015 STAFF
ASSISTANT TO THE FICTION EDITOR JAMES CRAIG
NONFICTION EDITOR KIRAN AWAN
The 2015 staff extends a sincere thank you to every artist and writer who submitted
POETRY EDITOR RACHEL MCMULLEN
this year. Without you, we do not exist. We would also like to thank our advisors Ellen
Harrington and diane gibbs for their expertise, unwavering patience, and guidance. And
finally, thank you to past editors-in-chief Frank Ard, Rachael Fowler, Corey Harvard, and
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Joseph Kees — your wisdom has been invaluable.
Fiction
Nonfiction
Poetry
Aryn Bradley
Micaela Walley
Jonathan McMullen
Matthew Poirier
Paige Billington
Brandon Boykin
Jennifer Shelby
Michelle Loo
Katie Pope
Daniel Commander
Aryn Bradley
Morgan Gillum
Greg Gulbranson
Daniel Commander
Bradley Turner
Other thanks:
USA Student Government Association (SGA)
USA College of Arts and Sciences
Andrzej Wierzbicki, Dean, College of Arts and Sciences
Steven Trout, Chair, English Department
Jason Guynes, Chair, Visual Arts Department
Ellen Harrington, Faculty Advisor, English Department
diane gibbs, Faculty Advisor, Visual Arts Department
Sue Walker, Stokes Distinguished Professor of Creative Writing
Carolyn Haines, Creative Writing Faculty, English Department
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ORACLE FINE ARTS REVIEW
LITERATURE BOARDS
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/ EDITOR`S NOTE
ART DIRECTOR`S NOTE
This year’s Oracle was inspired by the human body, particularly bodies that have
I would like to thank everyone who submitted work to this year’s Oracle. Without your
experienced trauma and continue to thrive. I am intrigued by what the body is capable of
talent, this publication would not exist. I appreciate all of your hard work as artists and
and by its resiliency. We are complex systems which rely on countless parts to function
writers. I only wish I could include every submitted piece in the issue.
properly, yet even the most broken bodies can recover, sometimes ending up stronger
than they were before. Each of us have different relationships to our own bodies and
I would also like to thank everyone who worked on this issue. Both the editors and
to others’. I hoped to bring together different perspectives and weave them into their
designers worked together, by my side, throughout the entirety of the year to make this
own cohesive, yet unique body of work. Thanks to a record amount of submissions and
issue what I hope to be the best yet.
/ ART DIRECTOR`S NOTE
EDITOR`S NOTE
an incredibly talented staff, my expectations were exceeded, making this year’s edition
something I am truly proud of.
Most importantly, I would like to thank diane gibbs for her continued support, guidance,
and encouragement. Without these people, this book would not have the quality and
To find themed work, look for the small heart at the corner of the page.
appeal you see before you.
Do yourself a favor, however, and check out all of the work, themed or not. It’s all great.
Being a designer, I value quality above everything, and I obsess over my work until I
Enjoy,
believe it to be nothing less than the best. This issue is no exception, and I hope each and
Karie Fugett
every one of you enjoy the content as much as I enjoyed working on it.
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There are three responces to a piece of design–
Yes, No, and Wow!
Wow is the one to aim for.
–Milton Glaser
Kevin Brouillette II
Art Director
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ORACLE FINE ARTS REVIEW
Editor-in-chief
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/ TABLE OF CONTENTS
50 Fahrenheit 451, Kirsten Victoria Harper
100 Wish You Were Here, Stephanie Elstner
30 Aeromancy, Jennifer Clark-Grainger
FICTION
53 Life Stages, Adorable Monique
101 Pope Francis, Keith Castelin
54 Street Corner, Caroline Myers
102 Untitled, Hannan Gold-Vukson
31 Midnight Botanica: The Temple is Only Reachable by a Bridge, Maureen Alsop
57 Anthony Foster, 1973, Tim Rodriguez
62 Pine Needles 3, Kristi Beisecker
103 Cat God, Ashley Fiveash
64 Welcome to the Company, Lad,
Ryan Keller
63 Nutrice, Julia Linton
111 Ursula, Suzanne Sarver
73 Phantasma, Remy Nurse
91 Dead Awake, N.T. McQueen
74 Halfed Naked, Lydia Irene
112 The Final Frontier from a Snail’s Perspective, Justyn Phillips
104 proLIFEeration, Tyler Williams
75 Oh Koi, Sierra Fore
141 Red Tide, Julia Halprin-Jackson
76 Melancholy Water Elemental, Haley Franklin
FINE ART
2 Transubstantiation, Micah Mermilliod
11 Miserable, Haley Franklin
12 Synchronization, Micah Mermilliod
25 Prostreesis, Thadé
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32 Space Age, Justyn Phillips
33 Momento Mori: Self Portrait with Son, Joshua Parker
77 Shoot for the Moon, Ashley Pierce
81 Gator Tales, Leah Fox
134 Play Time, Kerrie Ellis
82 Opheliac, Jennifer Clark-Grainger
135 Curiosity, Jason Utesch
83 Inner Reflections, Adorable Monique
137 Aged Reflection, Caroline Myers
84 Regeneration, Micah Mermilliod
143 The Nature of Grieving, Haley Franklin
85 Caston and Paul, Amanda Youngblood
86 Vito, Amanda Youngblood
87 The Hunt, Kirsten Victoria Harper
99 Self Portrait, Hannan Gold-Vukson
49 High and Low, Cole Morris
124 The Dream Catcher, Marguerite Guzman Bouvard
80 Golden Eye, Hannah Kibby
41 Erect, Thomas Myers
48 Buried Coin, Elisha Ellington
121 Fallopian, Thomas Myers
79 LV-426, John Pickering
88 People Are Animals Too, Suzanne Sarver
116 Still Life, Danielle Fryer
120 Cleve, Amanda Youngblood
78 Strange Vessel, Erin Walters
42 The Anxious Heart, Christine LaGrassa Rogalin
115 Parisian Portrait, Lydia Irene
POETRY
10 How Sculpted Arms and Legs Became the World, Glen Armstrong
27 Caput Mortuum, Sue Brannan Walker
51 Borders, Marguerite Guzman Bouvard
55 Word Problems for Ferlinghetti,
Michael Bassett
61 Light Verse, Richard Hillyer
89 Today I Ate the Flesh of an Animal, Franklin Ard
114 Mestasis, Kerri Waites
122 Consolation, Corey Harvard
136 Cartography, W.F. Lantry
138 Body Declension, Julianza Shavin
NON-FICTION
13 Fetishizing Lack, Becky McLaughlin
34 Until, Michelle Chikaonda
43 Purge, Averie Collier
117 Mikie, Stephanie Feather
125 What Took You So Long, Libby Atwater
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ORACLE FINE ARTS REVIEW
26 Broken and Empty, Jennifer Clark-
Grainger
113 Thanks Llyndze, Leah Fox
40 IV., Anonymous
/ TABLE OF CONTENTS
CONTENTS
9
/ GLEN ARMSTRONG
/ HALEY FRANKLIN
HOW SCULPTED ARMS AND LEGS BECAME THE WORLD
GLEN ARMSTRONG
—after Rilke
and crawl away
from the torso
is a story that has fallen
out of favor,
is a story of a sky full
of gods too tired
to intervene,
a story young lovers
still intuit, unfurling
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under the sun,
a river dividing
MISERABLE
Haley Franklin
them from the stern
faces of workers
at the halogen lamp factory.
Graphite
Haley Franklin, a jack-of-all trades and recent USA graduate, sells her art at the
monthly LODA artwalk and is working on setting up her own printmaking studio.
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their own bodies
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/ MICAH MERMILLIOD
BECKY MCLAUGHLIN
INVITED
/ BECKY MCLAUGHLIN
FETISHIZING LACK: CLAUSTROPHOBIA AND THE DESIRING BODY
OF THE AMPUTEE WANNABE
It is certain that the spirit becomes crippled in a misshapen body.
—­­­Victor Hugo, The Hunchback of Notre Dame
For man­y of us, the mere thought of having our testicles removed, undergoing a
mastectomy, or losing a limb is the height of horror. But what about those men and
women who actually want to have a body part removed, a healthy body part? What
about those men and women who cannot see themselves as “whole” as long as they
have intact the usual set of bodily accouterments—ten fingers and toes, two arms and
legs—and who believe with absolute certainty that their life and self-image would be
improved tenfold if they could have an arm chopped off at the elbow, a foot removed,
or both legs replaced with stumps? What do we make of the seventy-nine-year-old man
from New York who died of gangrene in a motel in San Diego, having traveled to Tijuana
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Or the man from Milwaukee who cut off his arm with a homemade guillotine and told
SYNCHRONIZATION
Micah Mermilliod
Silkscreen
Micah Mermilliod is currently enrolled as a photography major at the University of
the surgeons that he would cut it off again if they re-attached it? Or the woman from
South Alabama. His work often combines aspects of photography and printmaking
California who tied off her legs with tourniquets and packed them in ice, hoping this
to create dream-like montages reminiscent of sci-fi fantasies. The integration of
technology with humanity is a central theme in much of Micah’s work.
action would necessitate amputation?
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to get a black-market leg amputation that cost him $10,000 and, ultimately, his life?
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/ BECKY MCLAUGHLIN
The amputee wannabe’s wish to “amp” the body is not just a wish for amputation but
Money labeled them in 1977) sound like the stuff of fiction, but as Carl Elliott assures us
for amplification, a means of giving voice to the pain of living inside a misbegotten body.
in “A New Way to Be Mad,” they exist in real life, and they’re not as crazy as they may
In amping the body, the amputee wannabe is attempting to author(ize) his or her own
seem at first glance. Using the disorder of agnosia, in which a body part that normally
body, to revise it where necessary, just as a writer crosses out an extraneous word or
belongs to one’s body image goes unrecognized, phenomenologist Maurice Merleau-
phrase. This body is thus a Barthesian textual body, the writerly text as site of production
Ponty demonstrates that our experiences are not organized by real objects and relations
rather than consumption, for the amputee wannabe “manhandles” his or her own bodily
but by a “‘fictional’ or fantasmatic construction of the body outside of or beyond its
tutor text, breaking and interrupting its “natural” divisions and thereby undercutting, as
neurological structure” (Grosz 89). According to Merleau-Ponty, traditional psychology
it were, the notion of totality. Like Barthes’s deconstruction of Balzac’s “Sarrasine,” the
and physiology posit a passive body, while he argues that the body is active “insofar as
amputee wannabe recognizes and embraces lack rather than hiding it with the neurotic’s
it gives form and sense to its own component parts and to its relations with objects in
fantasy of wholeness. Crazy? Yes, crazy like a fox.
A body with two arms is as
much a fictional construction
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the world. The phantom limb and agnosia indicate
that our experiences are organized not by real
Although the psychiatric community has labeled apotemnophilia a “pathology” and given
objects and relations but by the expectations and
it a clinical designation of Body Integrity Identity Disorder or BIID, questions concerning
meanings objects have for the body’s movements
diagnosis and treatment continue to be fraught with difficulty as the ownership of the
and capacities” (Grosz 89). It would seem, then, that one of the central themes of
body and the medico-ethical limits of self-modification are interrogated, challenged,
apotemnophilia is the fictional or phantasmatic underpinnings of body image. For
and debated. According to Elizabeth Loeb, who has written about bodily integrity and
the amputee wannabe, a body with two arms is as much a fictional construction as a
identity disorders as understood by United States law, the courts take the body for
body with one arm. Given this, perhaps a connection can be drawn between thinking
granted as a “static or reified set of closed boundaries” rather than “as a contested and
outside the usual shape and dimensions of the body and thinking outside the box, as
shifting landscape within physical and psychic experience,” and thus legal and cultural
experimental musician John Cage did with the prepared piano. Perhaps the body is
permission for body modification “holds steady only so long as [one’s] choices map
capable of thinking differently when it is altered in the radical and/or experimental ways
onto the landscape of normative and [normalizing] physical [conceptions] of race, sex,
suggested by amputation. A case in point is John Fitch, for “at the moment the steam
and gender” (44). During the last decade of the 20th century, the body loomed large
engine first burst forth into [his] imagination, he was, by his own account, limping”
as an object of study, for a number of books were published on what Joan Copjec lists
(Scarry 283). His body’s usual rhythm having been interrupted by the limp, Fitch was
able to think in different rhythms as well.
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as a body with one arm.
/ BECKY MCLAUGHLIN
These amputee wannabes (or “apotemnophiles,” as Johns Hopkins psychologist John
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/ BECKY MCLAUGHLIN
form. It is not an either/or but a both/and proposition.) More generally, however, I would
tattooed, peeled open layer by layer, armored, fitted up with prostheses, weighted down
like to answer the question Copjec asks in a special issue of Umbr(a) devoted to the drive:
by adornments and protective gear, scarred by accident or war, ravaged by disease,
“What’s the matter with bodies? Why do they seem to suppurate […] so much trouble
withered by age, pumped up with steroids, emaciated by hunger, anorexic, bulimic
for themselves?” (12). (Again, the quick answer is because we speak. Because we are
and above all, sexed” (12). It is not surprising, therefore, that the amputee wannabe would
speaking beings, our bodies ooze trouble.) Although
have come out of the closet in the year 2000 with the publication of Elliot’s startling
the amputee wannabe offers a variety of reasons
article, published in the December issue of the Atlantic Monthly. What is surprising
for desiring an amputation—for example, to gain
is that more than a decade later the courts remain intransigent in their essentialist
sympathy from others, to cope heroically, or to find
understanding of the human body.
new ways of doing old tasks—from a psychoanalytic
…is the central issue one of
sexual desire, as the suffix
“philia” suggests, or one of
body image?
/ BECKY MCLAUGHLIN
almost poetically but certainly exhaustively as “the body zoned, fragmented, pierced,
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wannabe’s response to his or her body, and it is this structural explanation that I hope to
psychoanalytic perspective, but, then, as New Lacanian Bruce Fink points out, modern
articulate through a discussion of the claustrophobic body.
psychiatry takes a “syndrome-by-syndrome, symptom-by-symptom approach[,]” having
abandoned “the notion of ‘deeper’ structures with which psychoanalytic investigation
When we think of the fetish from a Freudian standpoint, we think of an object such as a
began” (116). My aim in this paper is to provide a corrective to the psychiatric community’s
high-heeled shoe or a piece of woman’s lingerie, which stands in for the missing maternal
approach by translating into psychoanalytic terms the ethical and diagnostic questions
penis and allows us to defend against the threat of castration. “To put it plainly,” says
surrounding apotemnophilia1. That is, I would like to use psychoanalysis to address some
Freud, “the fetish is a substitute for the woman’s (mother’s) phallus which the little boy
of the questions Elliott raises in his article: is the desire to have a limb amputated any more
once believed in and does not wish to forego [. . .]” (215). More broadly, literary and
pathological than a desire to have breast-reduction surgery? (The quick answer is no; it’s
cultural criticism of a Lacanian inclination has been interested in how Freud’s ideas of
simply explained by a different structural phenomenon, one being a perverse or primary
fetishism draw attention to the way existent things come to stand in for non-existent
desire and the other a neurotic or secondary one.) Is “apotemnophilia” a misnomer? In
things to veil an intolerable lack. With the amputee wannabe, however, the fetish appears
other words, is the central issue one of sexual desire, as the suffix “philia” suggests, or
to operate rather differently. Here, the function of the fetish appears to be inverted. The
one of body image? (The answer is yes, which is to say that the question takes the wrong
fetish of the amputee wannabe allows what I would call the “claustrophobic body” to
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standpoint, there is a discoverable underlying structural explanation for the amputee
Surprising, too, is the fact that few if any have attempted to understand BIID from a
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/ BECKY MCLAUGHLIN
While the father’s law, or the “No,” is fully operant in neurosis and fully non-operant
against too much presence by creating a delusional absence). Instead of functioning as
in psychosis, the father’s law is only partially operant in perversion, and thus the child
a defense against the threat of castration, the amputee wannabe’s fetish functions as a
undergoes alienation (i.e., primal repression or the division that creates a split between
defense against the threat of too much jouissance . The desire to have a limb amputated
the conscious and the unconscious) but not separation. The father, whose role it is to
is a resistance to live burial, an attempt to eliminate the suffocating presence of the
separate the child from its mother, fails to do so and, further, fails to name the mother’s
2
mOther , its alien presence too big to be comfortably borne by the amputee wannabe.
desire, which means that the child will be treated to her anxiety-provoking demand. Until
In his re-reading of Freud’s work, Jacques Lacan maintains that while belief in the so-
the mOther’s desire is named, “there is no lack; the child is submerged in the mOther as
called maternal penis is not irrelevant to understanding the fetishist, what is more central
demand and cannot adopt a stance of his own.
3
/ BECKY MCLAUGHLIN
defend against too much presence by fetishizing lack itself (in other words, to defend
18
law” (Fink 170). “To return to phantasy,” says Lacan, “let us say that the pervert imagines
[…]. The child here is confronted with what we can refer to as a lack of lack” (Fink
himself to be the Other in order to ensure his jouissance, and that it is what the neurotic
177). What this means for the perverse subject is that the pound of flesh has not been
reveals when he imagines himself to be a pervert—in his case, to assure himself of the
exacted, that castration has never been completed—hence the perverse subject’s need
existence of the Other” (Lacan 322). Fink nicely paraphrases Lacan’s statement in the
to stage or reenact castration understood, here, as the registration of a lack that allows
following passage:
space for the subject’s emergence, development, and growth. There is thus a useful link
[…] the apparent contradiction inherent in disavowal can […] be described
to be drawn between Lacan’s scenario and the uncanny feeling of incompleteness that
as follows: “I know full well that my father hasn’t forced me to give up my
the amputee wannabe reports vis-à-vis his or her unamputated body. “I will never feel
mother and the jouissance I take in her presence (real and/or imagined in
truly whole with legs,” says one woman in her early forties. “My body image has always
fantasy), hasn’t exacted the ‘pound of flesh,’ but I’m going to stage such an
been as a woman who has lost both her legs,” says another (Elliott Better Than Well 213).
exaction or forcing with someone who stands in for him; I’ll make that person
pronounce the law.” (Fink 170)
We can argue, then, that the amputee wannabe’s desire for amputation is a desire for the
castrating gesture that has never quite come. Or, to put it in slightly different terms, we
can argue that it is a desire for the dialectical comings and goings of the fort/da game,
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in the mechanism of disavowal is “the father’s desire, the father’s name, and the father’s
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/ BECKY MCLAUGHLIN
toddler first encounters its mirror image, it is still uncoordinated, unsteady on its feet,
thus making it go “away” is a means of getting the fort to operate. In the hands of the
and in need of support by either a parent or a walker. Although the parent generally
amputee wannabe, little Ernst’s cotton reel, which stands in for a mother who comes and
assures the toddler that the mirror image belongs to him, there nevertheless remains an
goes, represents the part of the self that has been colonized by a mother who comes
incongruity between the toddler’s lived experience of its body and the well-put-together
but never goes, a part of the self that the amputee wannabe wishes to toss away in
image it sees in the mirror. I would speculate that this moment of recognition does not
order to create breathing space in a claustrophobic psychic scenario. If the father fails
occur for the amputee wannabe as the parent fails to register the toddler’s identification
This desperate desire for
space explains why the
need to amputate can be so
imperative…
as representative of the (always absent) phallus
with its mirror image, and so the amputee wannabe continues to experience his or her
(i.e., the law- and thus space-maker), then the
body as fragmented, never fully identifying with his or her “superior” mirror image.
amputee wannabe becomes his or her own law-
Having a perverse structure already in place and a body experienced as fragmented
or space-maker. The amputee wannabe gestures
makes it possible for the amputee wannabe to cathect to the image of an amputee, and
toward the father’s failure by drawing attention to
thus the profoundly important moment of mirroring, which allows for social development,
it in a violent and hyperbolic enactment of castration. For example, amputee wannabes
/ BECKY MCLAUGHLIN
of which only one term has been properly articulated. Perhaps amputating a limb and
occurs not with one’s mirror image but with the body of the amputated other.
who are rejected for surgery place themselves on the railroad tracks or make use of a
log-splitter in an attempt to bring about the desired lack. This desperate desire for space
For some, it might seem troubling to place apotemnophilia in the clinical and structural
explains why the need to amputate can be so imperative that amputee wannabes are
category of perversion, but from a Lacanian standpoint, there is no moral judgment
willing to go to such dramatic and physically traumatizing lengths to achieve it.
attached to this designation. In fact, one of Freud’s most far-reaching claims, introduced
20
According to Elliott, “Most wannabes trace their desire to become amputees back to
while what we call “normal” sexuality is secondary. Although perversion is generally
before the age of six or seven, and some will say that they cannot remember a time
understood to be a deviation from the natural or instinctual, “normal” sexuality is the
when they didn’t have the desire,” many recounting early childhood and “life-changing”
true deviation since it entails learned practices that take shape only after the erotic field
experiences with amputees (Elliott Better Than Well 213). Like the failure of the castrating
of what Freud called the “polymorphously perverse” body has been segregated into
gesture, what Elliott’s comments suggest is that the mirror stage goes awry for the
erogenous zones. Jonathan Dollimore nicely articulates Freud’s theory of sexuality and
amputee wannabe. As Lacan theorizes in his discussion of the mirror stage, when the
civilization in this way:
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in Three Essays on Sexuality, was that perversion in its sexological sense is primary
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/ BECKY MCLAUGHLIN
Perhaps one day it will become possible to view apotemnophilia not as cause for disgust
nature. Indeed, sexual normality is precariously achieved and precariously
or revulsion but as a possible recourse against normative notions regarding the “proper”
maintained: the process whereby the perversions are sublimated can never
contours of the human body. In saying this, I am not advertising apotemnophilia as a
be guaranteed to work; it has to be reenacted in the case of each individual
strategy to take up against normative life but calling attention to the role it plays as part
subject and is an arduous and conflictual process […]. Sometimes it doesn’t
of our cultural text. It is a symptom, and thus a signifier, of the necessity of the cut (i.e.,
work; sometimes it appears to, only to fail at a later date. (1)
of absence, castration, the fort in the fort/da game) in the formation of identity. There is
“Freud,” Dollimore notes, “attributes to the perversions an extraordinary disruptive
no meaning-making without the cut of differentiation that both links and separates same
power,” for in their “‘multiplicity and strangeness’ (1.346), the perversions constitute a
and other.
/ BECKY MCLAUGHLIN
[…] it is sexual perversion, not sexual “normality,” which is the given in human
threatening excess of difference originating from within the same” (12). Via Freud, says
Dollimore, we can see that “what a culture designates as alien, utterly other and different,
is never so. That culture exists in a relationship of difference with the alien, which is also a
relationship of fundamental, antagonistic interdependence” (12). What is most disturbing
2 The word jouissance often remains untranslated in English texts, but a useful working definition is the oxymoronic
“terrible enjoyment.”
3 This is how Bruce Fink signifies the conjunction of the Big Other and the Mother function. Here, he is following
And thus we can conclude that what causes the normative subject to view the amputee
Lacan’s statement that the mother is the first to occupy the position of the Other vis-à-vis the child since she must
wannabe is actually more same than other. For the fantasy of the whole body is just
that: a fantasy that masks the reality of the body’s brokenness and fragmentation.
interpret and respond to his or her inarticulate cries: “It is in the interval between these two signifiers that resides the
desire offered to the mapping of the subject in the experience of the discourse of the Other, of the first Other he has to
deal with, let us say, by way of illustration, the mother.” Jacques Lacan, The Four Fundamental Concepts of PsychoAnalysis, trans. Alan Sheridan (New York: W. W. Norton & Company, 1977), 218.
Of necessity, it would seem, bodies suppurate trouble for themselves because of the
Works Cited
abiding gap between the imaginary and the real, between fantasy and reality—a gap the
Copjec, Joan. “Montage of the Drives.” Umbr(a): A Journal of the Unconscious. No. 1 (1997): 11-13. Print.
amputee wannabe recognizes and wishes to acknowledge but that the normative subject
Elliott, Carl. “A New Way to Be Mad.” Atlantic Monthly (December 2000): 72-84. Print.
wishes to disavow.
Better Than Well: American Medicine Meets the American Dream. New York: W. W. Norton, 2003. Print.
Fink, Bruce. A Clinical Introduction to Lacanian Psychoanalysis: Theory and Technique. Cambridge: Harvard UP, 1997. Print.
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1 Apotemnophilia appears as an entry in the fifth edition of the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders.
about perversion is that “it originates internally to just those things it threatens” (4).
wannabe with such revulsion is his or her unconscious knowledge that the amputee
22
Endnotes
23
/ BECKY MCLAUGHLIN
/ THADÉ
Freud, Sigmund. Sexuality and the Psychology of Love. New York: Macmillan Publishing Company, 1963. Print.
Grosz, Elizabeth. Volatile Bodies: Toward a Corporeal Feminism. Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1994. Print.
Lacan, Jacques. Écrits: A Selection. Trans. Alan Sheridan. New York: W. W. Norton, 1977. Print.
Loeb, Elizabeth. “Cutting It Off: Bodily Integrity, Identity Disorders, and the Sovereign Stakes of Corporeal Desire in
U. S. Law.” Women’s Studies Quarterly 36 (2008): 4 63. Print.
Scarry, Elaine. The Body in Pain: The Making and Unmaking of the World. Oxford: Oxford UP, 1985. Print.
[Note: this paper was delivered at the Seventh Annual Social Theory Forum in Boston, April 7–8, 2010.
A fully developed article, “Gothicizing Apotemnophilia: Live Burial, Secret Desire, and the Uncanny Body of the
PROSTREESIS
Thadé
Ink
Thadé is a French artist based in Lille, France. After his studies of graphism,
illustration, and visuals arts, he focused on Chinese ink. He bases the heart of his
work around rhizomatics, plants, and the “Be.” Rhizomes are plants that ground
anarchically and spontaneously with no sense of hierarchy. They proliferate, linking
with other plants, and create new specimens of rhizomes.With an incorporation
of human anatomy, Thadé brings forward an equal and universal link, despite our
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Amputee Wannabe,” was published in Word and Text: A Journal of Literary Studies and Linguistics in 2013.]
differences, in order to create unity. He works on the representation of the “Be.” Be
24
in all forms, under what is around us, under that which composes us: atoms, organic
materials, the earth, the universe, the microcosm and the macrocosm. All these
forms are placed on the same plane to create a universal entity.
25
/ JENNIFER CLARK-GRAINGER
SUE BRANNAN WALKER
Invited
—
1. I am trying to feel the bumps on Death’s Head that’s shaped like an onion.
/ SUE BRANNAN WALKER
CAPUT MORTUUM
Last night I heard the owl call my name. “Who Who?” It said I am a “waste of humanity,”
a worthless remnant — an alchemical operation, distillation, sublimation. Behind my
ears are mounds of anxiety and ire. I am my own enemy. See: www.occultopedia.com/c/
caput_mortuum.htm.
But and nevertheless and such and so on …
2. As a child I spoke as a child ahead of her time — and she came upon Mark 6: 22–28.
22
And when the daughter of the said Herodias came in, and danced, and pleased Herod and them that
sat with him, the king said unto the damsel, Ask of me whatsoever thou wilt, and I will give it thee.
24
And she went forth, and said unto her mother, What shall I ask? And she said,
The head of John the Baptist.
25
And she came in straightway with haste unto the king, and asked, saying, I will that thou give
27
And immediately the king sent an executioner, and commanded his head to be brought: and he
went and beheaded him in the prison,
BROKEN AND EMPTY
Jennifer Clark-Grainger
Photography
Jennifer Clark-Grainger is an aspiring visual anthropologist studying here at South
Alabama. This Louisiana transplant has had a passion for photography dating back
28
And brought his head in a charger, and gave it to the damsel: and the damsel
gave it to her mother.
to childhood. This magic began with the invention of strange, fictional characters
3. My desire is to get ahead, to succeed, so I twist my head around — turn it this way
and then moved on to landscapes and eventually macro photography, of which
and that to see, to understand how John with his severed head inspired Oscar Wilde’s
some have been featured in local galleries. Having recently becoming a film snob,
she hopes to use her education to make photojournalistic bodies of work depicting
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ORACLE FINE ARTS REVIEW
me by and by in a charger the head of John the Baptist.
American culture and cultures of the south, including her own Acadian roots.
26
27
/ SUE BRANNAN WALKER
overdetermination of the Symbolic function ; indeed “ there will always be an excluded
executioner brings Salome his pate upon a platter, she fondles it, caresses it, and says:
letter, the caput mortuum of the signifier, that is to say an unusable residue whose
“Well,” I will kiss it now. I will bite it with my teeth as one bites a ripe fruit.” And Herod
contour is continuously repeated. . . . We have here the Freudian drive that always turns
says to his wife: “She is monstrous, thy daughter …altogether monstrous.” And would you
around the object that it simultaneously excludes and includes”: (http://return.jls.missouri.
see this severance? The word “revenge” blackens my tongue — but play me, sing me. Call
edu/Lacan/Members/NFFvol4no12/NFF412_Robert_Samuels.pdf)
me Salome; take note:
/ SUE BRANNAN WALKER
Salome (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/42704/42704-h/42704-h.htm) And when the
7. The doctor said it’s all in my head. No it’s not. Maybe it’s in his head, not mine and is
called transference. I am lying on a couch. Black. My hands are behind my head. He says
he wants me to be happy. I recite Poe: “Mid dark thought of the grey tomb-stone.” I say
the weather is capricious. Psychotherapy’s not cheap.
4. And the child, her grandson, a right and proper lad, hit his sister in the head with a
croquet mallet. And indeed, there is a lesson in that croquet balls are live hedgehogs, and
And no, hell, he may not get inside my pretty head.
the mallets live flamingos, although the “Queen had only one way of settling difficulties,
great or small. “Off with his head!” she said, without even looking round.”
5. I nod my head: ah, those off rhymes — Hegel: bagel, metal, mettle, shekel, stinging
nettles, precious metal: If God be the abstract supersensible Being, outside whom
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mere caput mortuum. https://www.marxists.org/reference/archive/hegel/works/sl/
slessenc.htm
6. And in the end — there — in the beginning, I am dressed in my Freudian slip.
Perhaps my head is off its rocker, — but trust me on this — how Lacan formalizes the
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therefore lies all difference and all specific character, [s]he is only a bare name, a
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/ JENNIFER CLARK-GRAINGER
JENNIFER CLARK-GRAINGER
MIDNIGHT BOTONICA:
THE TEMPLE IS ONLY REACHABLE BY A BRIDGE
MAUREEN ALSOP
We are photographs:
montages created by the sun,
The night, as in sun dead — father. All black the blackening has been. Like mourning.
filtered through the silver — gelatin clouds.
The faces of light along the road, once with your reflection, turn hardwood for stone.
/ MAUREEN ALSOP
AEROMANCY
Quiet my privations as early breath, as water. Still the living move through us.
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A slow glacier in the lung, as blue is.
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31
/ JUSTYN PHILLIPS
Digital Illustration
Justyn Phillips is a graphic designer who has a passion for illustration, surrealism,
and conceptualization. She makes her best works when she’s able to cling to a
particular idea as a singular restraint and then let the rest of the artwork be free
MOMENTO MORI: SELF PORTRAIT WITH SON
Joshua Parker, a Pensacola native, is an aspiring graphic design
Joshua Parker
major. He is desperately working on a mid-life career change
Ink
with hopes that he will, at last, find his niche in life. When not
from limitation. Whatever is possible, she will try to do; experimentation is key to
working, attending class, or frantically finishing a project, he
her. The abstract element of art is what appeals to Justyn the most. Allowing room
enjoys experiencing the small moments of life with his family.
for personal interpretation in all of her works is something that she loves creating.
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/ JOSHUA PARKER
32
SPACE AGE
Justyn Phillips
33
/ MICHELLE CHIKAONDA
Except that Until turned out to be the last Thursday in August, one of few Thursdays
MICHELLE CHIKAONDA
I am able to remember with this clarity, a peculiarly warm day, for Newfoundland is
placed well to the north of the earth, exactly halfway between the Tropic of Cancer and
We said goodbye on a Thursday. It was sunny and peculiarly warm, sky the color of the
the Arctic Circle, and the city of St. John’s is next to the sea, a cold sea that even on
pool at Wedgewood Park, air barely moving, impossible to scream into and have our
normal summer days will suck the warmth out of the air. The moment of rupture itself
voices disappear the way they would when the weather was high and we were playing at
was rushed, too quick, almost missed, blinding in the shock of it. I was so busy folding
the top of the schoolyard hill, and the grass behind us was long and wild with dandelions
box flaps, writing addresses onto luggage labels, picking the toys to take with us—only
and buttercups, the flowers whose petals we used to pluck for love or not, for she was,
two boxes allowed—and telling the other toys how sorry I was we had to leave them,
then, the love of my life, and I, hers. We were ten years old, but we had already planned
that it had nothing to do with love, only space and time, and to be good and brave until
our lives together; we were going to study in French together, in high school, in the
we came back—we never would, but I didn’t know that then—that in all those final hours
French Immersion program at the school off Torbay Road, and we were going to go to
we never got the time to say a true goodbye.
university together, the one on Confederation Drive past the Aquamarina, and we were
For my mother and father really did need my
going to live in apartments next door to each other, downtown by the harbor, and her
help getting the house departure-ready, as
children would call me Auntie, and my children would call her Auntie, too.
my brother and sister were too young to be
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…St. John’s is next to the sea,
a cold sea that even on normal
summer days will suck the
warmth out of the air.
We envisioned the age at which this all would finally come to completion to be forty-
to get in the way of the mess, did not bring her over until five minutes before we sped
nine, for what reason I don’t know, except perhaps that forty-nine connotes a kind of
away from our house in a chaotic, tardy clatter, parents’ faces hamstrung with anxiety,
forever from the vantage point of ten–year–olds, an age at which it would seem things
siblings giggling in nervous excitement, me draped in numerous souvenir purses full of
must at last stay permanent. It may as well have been one hundred, though, for we
last-minute knick-knacks I had thought for some reason were important to secret away in
yet thought about the reality of becoming old. There were no men envisioned in this
my last moments in my bedroom. We were incredibly late, in that frantic moment of our
plan then, but not for lack of boys to crush on or to dream of marrying in our parents’
leaving, but could not miss that flight, as we had already missed the first two flights we
backyards; only that she and I were such a complete and self-contained unit, that any
had been booked on, and the 4:35 was the last flight we could board from St. John’s that
menfolk involved with either of us could only, necessarily, play tangential roles to our
would still allow us to meet our connecting itinerary at Pearson. Hence only a sweeping,
purposes in the universe, one purpose, really, which was simply to remain inseparable
until, well, Until.
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of meaningful use; so her mother, not wanting
/ MICHELLE CHIKAONDA
UNTIL
35
/ MICHELLE CHIKAONDA
I turned to face her; it felt as though I was dragging myself through the shift. And then
before I finally and firmly closed my bedroom door, charged up the basement stairs to
I froze. It was the briefest of moments, and I don’t know why I stopped, except perhaps
our front landing, and pushed open the screen door.
as preparation for the next; I remember, for some reason, noticing the late afternoon sun
just past her head, falling like a big gold autumn leaf towards the hills of the city’s west
I came out of the house and found her standing on the steps leading to the driveway.
end. And then the stillness broke, and we threw our arms around each other, frantically,
Her hair was in a ponytail, that ponytail I knew so well, that she always tightened by
furiously, shoulders slamming into shoulders, hands slapping hard and loud into each
separating the tail in two and yanking each fistful to opposite sides of her head. I had
others’ backs. I don’t think we even looked at each other in that moment; I don’t think we
never understood how that worked; I’d had short hair for most of the time we had known
could have, and even if we did, I do not now remember her face in that series of seconds.
/ MICHELLE CHIKAONDA
haphazard glance of my eyes and hands as final inventory of needed transitional objects,
each other, and when my hair had been longer, my mother would style it in two tight
puffs at the sides of my head that I never deigned to fuss with. She was jittery as I had
In the course of our friendship, we had never really been in the business of hugging each
never seen her before, and she was at loss for words, something I had also never before
other—we were one person, after all, and who hugs themselves?—so that final moment
seen in her, with her being rambunctious and energetic where I was studied and calm,
was, in fact, somewhat awkward, very in fact, because our bodies did not really know
preferring even in those days to write things rather than speak them. One of our last
how to hug, not each other’s bodies at least. So we just kind of cluttered ourselves
pictures together as children testifies to this; we stand next to each other each with one
into ourselves, as tightly as possible, all knees and elbows and bones, for we were both
arm loosely draped over the other, but my eyes focus dead into the center of the camera
already tall and gawky for our ages, and then we continued to grip each other for as long
lens and I am barely cracking a smile, whereas her smile is wide and toothy, comical for
as we were allowed, fingers desperate in their finalities of contact, until her mother gently
she was never about being serious, and her eyes are squinted in crescent–moon smiles,
said it was time to go. She was driving our family to the airport.
36
have said. One day your face will end up frozen like a monkey’s. She always thought her
mother talked too much. Gab le gab du gab la gab, she used to say her mother’s motto
must be, for all her talking. And yet, here we were now in this moment with nothing to
say. I don’t know what could possibly have been said, though. What was goodbye, after
all, when until then we’d been one and not two?
“Bye, Julie,” I managed to sputter out, still holding her tightly in my arms.
“Bye, Michelle,” she said, echoing my sputter; she did not let go either. Perhaps we were
holding each other that desperately to make up for all the time we did not have to say
goodbye—how do you end a life in five minutes?—perhaps we pressed so hard into each
other because we imagined if we pressed insistently enough we could have flattened the
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nearly shut for the effort of their beaming. Stop clowning around, her mother would
37
/ MICHELLE CHIKAONDA
month before we had exchanged our birthstone rings that we had bought together at
forty-nine. But there was no stopping it, and her mother said that it really was time to
a flea market on a foggy April Sunday, so I had hers, emerald for the month of May, and
go, and so as quickly as we had thrown our arms around each other, we uncluttered
she, mine, alexandrite for the month of June. And a small gold charm, but with no chain
ourselves, and I ran to the car and threw myself in without looking back. It was finished.
yet, that she had given me just over a week before, one of our last playtimes; one half
As we drove away, I kept my head facing forward through the windshield, on the trees far
of a heart, crafted such that each half fit the other but had the appearance of being
into the distance lining Newfoundland Drive—I did not look at the house again. And just
broken, that read “ST/ ENDS” on two lines. She had the BE/ FRI. But there were no
like that we died; gone as the last of snapped buttercup petals, loves you, always loves
appearances in this place, in the biting air of that cramped cabin, and it was only when
38
you, for buttercups always have five petals, always
the Boeing 737 turned the final corner of the runway, switching into high gear to fly into
five fingers of a desperate hand. Years later, I
that terribly blue sky, that the proportion of what had just happened made contact and
would eventually awaken to the understanding that
splintered like a collapsing house into the heart of everything I had understood until that
forever would in fact never come back to be ours
moment. Something inside me crumpled, something I had been working assiduously to
once more; year after year of return plans made and then dependably delayed, constant
hold upright since writing the very first baggage tag early that morning, learning then
assertions spoken and then broken that we would any moment now be reversing our
our new address. Thus, it was only in that moment, secured inside that space in time,
transition. Though in dreams my desperation incessantly resurrected itself, and I would
deafening cavity climbing at five hundred miles an hour to thirty-seven thousand feet
see her there in front of me in the nights—in my eyes, in my ears, in my hands a terrible
past the end that I, concealing my face in the seat window, finally folded, and began,
hope projected backward through time that we had, in fact, never come to part.
noiselessly, to cry.
As Air Canada flight number 114 to Toronto taxied away from the gate at St. John’s
International Airport, I clutched in my fist one of the several purses I had left the house
draped in; it was the most valuable of all the purses and the most carefully prepared,
for it was the one containing the totems of our fiefdom, the things marking the nowformer truth, that we were meant for, well, Until. Her birthstone ring, because nearly a
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And just like that we died;
gone as the last of snapped
buttercup petals…
/ MICHELLE CHIKAONDA
moment, made it longer, silenced the truth of the time, made it last, until we were
39
/ ANONYMOUS
/ THOMAS MYERS
IV.
ANONYMOUS
—for Cameron
When I kiss all of the bees
on your face (esp. the prickly
ones right under your nose),
there is the greatest infinitesimal
phenomena working between us.
It’s there when I work my lips
around the curve of your jaw,
or when you pinch my sides
with your mandible hands,
and every hair on our chitinous
bodies feels the other as we wrestle
40
forever between the mane of bangs
tickling eyelashes forced
together when we emit–one, two, three–
a fuzzy buzz (and maybe a moan).
You let go, fall back, and I come out whole,
wet, and visibly shaken: the spasms subsiding.
A few minutes pass, and we become
smaller and softer than we were before.
ERECT
Thomas Myers
Photography
Thomas Myers is a native of Mobile, Alabama and is an executive with a local
healthcare information technology company. His black and white photography
focuses on abstract qualities of natural and Southern themes.
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ORACLE FINE ARTS REVIEW
and bite down side by side
41
/ CHRISTINE LAGRASSA ROGALIN
AVERIE COLLIER
As I pushed through the screen door and into the cool night air, I felt instant relief.
/ AVERIE COLLIER
PURGE
The soothing sound of the waves was a welcomed change from my loud family and the
obnoxious pastel décor of the beach house. Walking down the pier toward the beach,
I pulled my hood over my head and my sleeves over my hands. Hunching my shoulders,
I folded my arms over my stomach and hugged myself tight against the assaulting ocean wind.
I had been out of the eating disorder treatment center for four days, and I was struggling.
I had never been so uncomfortable with my body. My weight was up from an unsettling
110 pounds to a healthier 125. My 5'9" frame looked dramatically different, and my clothes
actually fit. I felt gross and angry. I was angry at my friends for abandoning me when
I left for the center two months ago. I was angry at my parents for being angry that I
needed help. But I was mostly angry at myself for needing help. I felt out of control, like
Walking along the edge of the water, my thoughts raced. They were crashing into each
other and melding until all that was left were words like “fat” and “failure,” words that
THE ANXIOUS HEART
Christine Rogalin is a transfer student from Rock Valley College in Rockford,
Christine LaGrassa Rogalin
Illinois and a Coast Guard wife. She is pursuing a BFA in Graphic Design and
Fused Glass
Interdisciplinary Studies and plans to graduate May 2015. As a fresh Graphic
Invited
echoed through my whole body and stuck in my chest. I felt panicked, and the faster my
heartbeat grew, the faster my steps fell, until I was running, trying to outrun the memory
Designer, she will focus on freelancing, building her own brand and relocating to a
of what got me into the treatment center. My mind has blocked most of that night out
new part of the country. In her free time, Christine enjoys making handmade items
but, sometimes, I remember moments of it.
for her Etsy shop and LoDa Art Walk, bringing creativity into her kitchen, never
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ORACLE FINE ARTS REVIEW
everything around me was spinning, and all I could do was stand in the middle.
repeating a recipe twice, and spending time with loved ones.
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43
/ AVERIE COLLIER
Being on the couch barely able to move, I hadn’t eaten in seven days. On autopilot, I got
I don’t know how long I remained there getting weaker, alone. I tried calling my friends,
up and grabbed a serving size of almonds. I ate them, carefully counting each one to
but no one answered, proof of my failures. The metallic smell of my own blood filling my
make sure I didn’t have over twelve. It didn’t take long for the panic to set in. What have I
nose, I heard a loud thud that shook the pictures on the wall. My little brother’s room was
just done? I thought as I snuck to the bathroom to purge.
next to the bathroom. He was a wild sleeper and sometimes kicked the wall in his sleep.
/ AVERIE COLLIER
I remember the cold of the bathroom floor as I lay there, the skin on my hips shredded.
Suddenly, all I could think about was my little brother finding me here. I grabbed towels
It was more difficult this time. Standing over the toilet, I forced my fingers down my throat.
and tried to clean up the floor, but I was having difficulty getting up; I was slipping in the
I gagged, but nothing came up. I turned the sink water on and waited for it to get hot.
hot, sticky red that covered the ground. Panicking, I grabbed everything I could find and
The pressure on my face
from trying to vomit was
making my eyes water and
my jaw muscles shake.
Once it was warm, I drank it from my cupped hands
threw it on the floor to clean up the mess. Hysterical and disoriented, I finally made it to
then returned to my position over the toilet. The hot
bed. For my brother’s sake, I agreed to go to the center the next morning.
water came up easily but did not bring the almonds
with it. Frustrated, I kneeled over and pressed firmly
Out of treatment and on the beach, I stopped running. My hands on my knees and
on my stomach. Nothing. The pressure on my face
breathing heavily, I saw a shell and picked it up. As I ran my finger along its scalloped
from trying to vomit was making my eyes water and my jaw muscles shake. My knuckles
edge, my mind traveled back to Brent, the yoga instructor from the center. He was a
were bleeding from hitting against my teeth, but I kept trying.
small man and everything about him was meek. His voice was soft and, because of
44
and the other girls in the center that the therapists never did. On our first day, he told
aching, I made my way to the couch and lay there for hours, hating myself. I was tired of
us his brother was severely anorexic. He said he didn’t understand what we were going
living this way, but I saw no way out. It felt hopeless. I grabbed the box cutter, just as I
through but hoped we would teach him. Brent tried to learn about how we felt in order
did every time I ate, and went back to the bathroom to punish myself. But this time it was
to make us more comfortable.
different: I had no plans of coming back out.
On a particularly rough day, he cancelled yoga and took us on a walk on the trails in
the woods behind the hospital. He told us to focus, to feel each footstep hit the ground
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ORACLE FINE ARTS REVIEW
Brent’s gentle nature, I doubt it was ever raised. Brent had a way of understanding me
Finally, the almonds came up followed by acidic bile. My throat burning and my body
45
/ AVERIE COLLIER
therapy sessions that went on for hours, putting on weight until I would be considered
singing above us. We obliged, walking in silence until we reached a bridge over a pond.
healthy, and confronting people who had hurt me. For six weeks, I had done the heavy
Brent stooped down and picked up pebbles which he handed to each of us.
lifting. Now, I just needed to maintain everything I had already done.
He instructed in his quiet, soothing voice, “Put the pebble in your hand; hold it out.
I held the shell out in front of me. It did not take long for the weight of my problems to
Visualize that all your problems are in that pebble. Feel that tiny pebble get heavier.
make my arm tired. I screamed and threw the shell into the waves. I watched for it to hit
When you can no longer take the weight of your problems, throw them into the pond
the surface, but because of the darkness and the rough water, there were no calming
and watch the ripples.”
ripples to watch. I felt cheated. I grabbed at the sand as if it was going to stop me from
falling over the cliff’s edge I had been backing myself into for years now. Shells, pieces
Normally Brent’s meditation exercises were met with looks and mumbles of doubt, but
of trash, handfuls of sand, all were thrown as far as I could make them go, but the wind
today we were desperate for relief. Without hesitation, we all held out our hands and
changed direction. The sand came back at me, stinging my face and getting in my eyes.
Tears building, I closed my
fist and threw the rock as far
into the pond as a could.
stared at the tiny rocks in them. I thought of how
/ AVERIE COLLIER
and connect with the Earth. He urged us to listen to the wind in the trees and the birds
I fell to the ground and began to laugh.
my family was mad at me and how lonely I felt.
I thought about the way my body shape was
changing and how disgusting it made me feel.
After a few minutes, my arm began to ache and my chest felt hollow. Tears building, I
closed my fist and threw the rock as far into the pond as I could. Brent silently walked up
46
We watched the ripples together.
Walking down the beach, I realized I had been so stupid. After all I had overcome, I knew
I could get through this. I was strong, even though I needed help. I realized needing help
was not a sign of weakness and asking for it was one of the strongest things I could
have ever done, because it made me vulnerable. I had done the hard work in treatment:
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behind me and put his hand on my shoulder.
47
Elisha Ellington graduated from the University of South Alabama in the spring of
HIGH AND LOW
2013 with a BFA in photography. She is currently living in Acworth, GA and is going
Cole Morris
Photography
into marketing while she works on getting into the wedding photography business.
Charcoal
Cole Morris is an anthropology major with an interest in art.
His work mainly consists of drawings.
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ORACLE FINE ARTS REVIEW
/ ELISHA ELLINGTON
/ COLE MORRIS
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BURIED COIN
Elisha Ellington
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/ KIRSTEN VICTORIA HARPER
MARGUERITE GUZMAN BOUVARD
Morning, sloughed off dreams,
buzz saws through my open window
alternating with the chatter of birds,
/ MARGUERITE GUZMAN BOUVARD
BORDERS
the quiet journey of clouds writing
their messages of what’s to come,
with their dark undersides. Shadows
entering my room with the calligraphy
of light. The border between night
and day, and the border between
FAHRENHEIT 451
Kirsten Victoria Harper
Digital Illustration
Kirsten Victoria Harper is a freelance illustrator currently residing in North Carolina.
immigrants streaming in from Guatemala,
Honduras and el Salvador, women and children
Finding beauty in all aspects of the world, she tries to capture emotion and the
complexities of the imaginative mind as well as apply the chaotic throws of life in
her work with a realistic flare. Comprised of mostly digital media, she attempts to
who want safety from violent gangs,
create realms and worlds filled with magic and ferocious beasts. Though mostly
who carry hope
a self taught artist she went through a short 3 month mentorship lead by fantasy
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ORACLE FINE ARTS REVIEW
Southern Texas and Mexico;
illustrator Todd Lockwood through the SmART school program. There she got to
50
work with art director Matthew Kalamidas for a mock book cover of Farenheit 451 as
well as shadow Dan Dos Santos’ class.
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/ MARGUERITE GUZMAN BOUVARD
for a reunited family, for a place
to live, to walk into tomorrow,
on our unfamiliar streets
where the air is not divided
and our doors have no borders.
LIFE STAGES
Adorable Monique
Acrylic
Adorable Monique received art instruction abroad in fine arts where she was given
merit awards and the opportunity to exhibit solo and collectively, which has offered
new opportunities and irreplaceable experiences. Growing up surrounded by
different cultures has enriched her overall view of life. She is continuously pursuing
success in personal, professional, and artistic endeavors as well as in artistic
education and the artistic experience itself.
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in their empty hands,
/ ADORABLE MONIQUE
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53
/ CAROLINE MYERS
MICHAEL BASSETT
If mad cocks (Goya’s or Tashi’s) scratch
/ MICHAEL BASSETT
WORD PROBLEMS FOR FERLINGHETTI
and peck scattered seed from the exploded fruit
of the American dream deferred
loans students cannot pay
days come and go while kismet remains
waiting for apocalyptic rain like redemption,
then let average annual accumulation equal
the embattled generation, abandoning
all the weapons of the Renaissance.
Assume the universe is red under the skin.
Did Jack and Jill keep their apples to themselves?
Obfuscation is the new Emperor
54
The devouring engines are airborne now,
not mach speed like the Blue Angels come
STREET CORNER
Caroline Myers
Photography
Caroline Myers is a sophomore at St. Pauls Episcopal School in Mobile, Alabama. She
to thrill and terrify the local population,
is an honors student whose interests include art and photography.
a patriotic paroxysm, war eagle death spasm,
but rather digital, the joyous, murderous
electronic backstab. The new superhighway
ORACLE FINE ARTS REVIEW
ORACLE FINE ARTS REVIEW
clothed in irony and the fear of not getting it.
55
/ MICHAEL BASSETT
ANTHONY FOSTER, 1973
distraction and disaster but also crowded
TIM RODRIGUEZ
with “Resist Consumerism” buttons
and t-shirts that read, “Let Go of Attachment.”
The day held the promise of a newly minted coin, the head-side of which lay in the sun,
If a Max Ernst dreamscape leaves
just like our faces.
/ TIM RODRIGUEZ
is still littered with fragments of desire, distress,
the station of imagination
at a speed of 247 brush strokes headed
As it turned out, we had more than enough players. Twenty-two kids of varying colors,
from here to eternity to be driven
sizes and ages converged on Craven ball field, the diamond below the hospital. There
into the ground of being,
wasn’t any summons, any organization that planned a game. It was a sunny Saturday and
and graffiti on all the banks proclaims,
kids just showed up carrying their gloves on their bats like a hobo his bindle.
“There is no street art, only art.”
The poets are gathered ‘round the image,
In keeping with the serendipity was the effortless way we chose sides. For no apparent
the neon escapades tattooed
reason other than my age, I captained one and the stocky Stan Crutchfield the other.
on the bruised visage of the city,
then solve for x.
I didn’t choose because of race or perceived athleticism. I picked guys who looked eager.
For instance, Calvin Hendricks kept smacking his fist in his glove; Rochester Warren and
56
classmates with whom I scarcely shared a word while in school. In the corridors between
classes, they didn’t so much as nod at me, much less smile.
To make the game a little more interesting, we dispensed with a pitcher and a catcher.
We fielded eleven men. The idea was to have the hitter toss the ball up and swing.
You would think that getting a hit would have been easy, what with every toss being a
virtual meatball. But such wasn’t the case. Getting on base, let alone scoring, while quite
ORACLE FINE ARTS REVIEW
ORACLE FINE ARTS REVIEW
Jesse Pulley adorned themselves with expansive smiles. All of these boys were black and
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/ TIM RODRIGUEZ
amazement, though, some guys actually whiffed a couple of times, and a small black boy
were chicken-bone slim and always in flux. Even an unexpected shot to the opposite field
called Peewee almost struck out; the bat was too heavy.
proved unproductive.
During the third inning, Peewee swung mightily. The result was a bunt. He arrived at first
By the same token, you would have assumed that, with so many fielders, any ball hit
long before the ball. A couple of batters later, it dawned on me: that was the way to get on
would have been a can of corn, but sometimes a fielder had to flash some real leather
base. Now the infielders had to play in which created gaps to drill a line drive or zing a pea
to make the play. The batters, at first, went for the long ball, but no one could reach
between bases. We were the first on the scoreboard with a two-run inning. Stan’s team
the fence. The next strategy was the tried–and-true—Texas leaguers, frozen ropes and
employed the same strategy with even more success; eight batters came to the plate and
seeing-eye singles. But they proved extraordinarily challenging to accomplish.
five crossed the dish. Now it was 5-to-2.
Before we started, the guys warmed up with a game of pepper. I suggested it, because
The game became far more interesting with base runners. Speed became the operative
…sometimes a fielder had to
flash some real leather to
make the play.
I wanted all my guys to get a feel for their
word, both for runners and fielders. Now guys were talking, calling out predictions on
teammates, many of whom they had never played
what the batter planned to do. Such claptrap actually got in the heads of some kids.
with or seen before. I positioned six men in the
They became flummoxed and dribbled the ball right into the glove of a smiling fielder.
/ TIM RODRIGUEZ
conceivable, was damn near impossible. There were so few gaps, and those that existed
outfield, altering between deep and shallow; a
man on every base and one in between. It was a fortress, even if you were aiming the ball.
At the top of the seventh, with the score 11-to-9 in our favor, four older boys including
58
Before we tossed a coin to see who batted first, we agreed that the first one to twenty-
knew right away they wouldn’t try to kick us off the field. At first, they made fun of our
one would win. We didn’t think it would take too long. We won the toss and quickly
arrangement, saying such things as Whazza matter, don’t no one know how to pitch?
learned how stiff the defense was. There were no alleys. Even though we managed to
Their catcalls died away after an inning when they saw how difficult the game actually
get two base runners, we couldn’t bring them in. I kind of smiled to myself while on deck
was. They hung around for two more innings.
because there was no chin music. Coaxing the batter with bubble-gum chatter to swing
was silly. Of course, he was going to swing, and for sure he was going to hit it. To my
ORACLE FINE ARTS REVIEW
ORACLE FINE ARTS REVIEW
Melvin Proffitt, a kid Calvin said was trouble, arrived. They didn’t carry gloves, so we
59
/ TIM RODRIGUEZ
LIGHT VERSE
score was tied at 19. Stan’s team was at bat. The bases were loaded with one out.
RICHARD HILLYER
A hit could have very well ended the game. A black boy named Snooky lashed a shot
between short and second. Rochester gobbled it up, threw to Calvin who touched the
Shining through vertical blinds, the moon
bag and threw a dart to first—double play.
barcodes the opposite wall;
/ RICHARD HILLYER
We were into our fourth hour and fifteenth inning when the real contest started. The
shining through horizontal, the sun
As we came off, there were the celebratory high-fives, and black and white alike patted
decks out their shadows with blooms.
Rochester and Calvin on the back. We only managed to garner one run although
No one felt any shame in
losing. We had played hard
but came up short.
five guys went to the plate. Back in the field
we struggled, making error after error. Stan’s
team quickly loaded up the bases with no outs.
Throughout the game, Stan always went for the
moon shot, and this time was no exception. He was the first and only one to hit a dinger.
No one felt any shame in losing. We had played hard but came up short. We shook hands
and patted each other on the back, all of us winners for no other reason than we had such
60
I didn’t.
That night the Halifax ghetto went up in riotous flames. By Sunday morning, National
Guard tanks patrolled Hinton Street and the surrounding area.
ORACLE FINE ARTS REVIEW
ORACLE FINE ARTS REVIEW
a great time. I said to Rochester, Calvin and Jesse I would see them Monday in school.
61
Kristi Beisecker is an artist who lives and works as a freelance graphic designer
Kristi Beisecker
in Massachusetts. In her spare time she creates photograms using electricity and
Photography
organic materials with analog darkroom processing. She also reads and writes about
science and spirituality, composes and performs music and gives spiritual guidance
through her psychic ability.
NUTRICE
Julia Linton has a background in many different art forms, both sculptural and
Julia Linton
2D. She has worked with a multitude of sculptural media including metal, clay,
Plaster Sculpture
plaster, and wood. Currently, Julia is finishing her BA at the University of South
Alabama while apprenticing in fine woodworking.
ORACLE FINE ARTS REVIEW
ORACLE FINE ARTS REVIEW
/ KRISTI BEISECKER
/ JULIA LINTON
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PINE NEEDLES 3
63
/ RYAN KELLER
The interviewee is nervous. “Sir, don’t they numb me first?”
RYAN KELLER
The Director is stern. He puts his hand up and the saw stops.
“Son, do you not want this position?”
“Well then, are you ready to give your Vastus Lateralis for the company?” The middle-
“Oh, yes! Yes, sir. I do.”
aged, overweight Director of Operations speaks from behind an absurdly long desk. His
“Wonderful,” he smiles. “Then let’s begin.”
forest-green suit and arrogant smile match the office’s dark walls and pretentious art.
The young interviewee looks confused. “Give what, sir?”
He is upset that he doesn’t know this part of the interview. He starts shaking in his
starched white shirt and tie.
“Your Vastus Lateralis. It’s located in the thigh. It’s required of all new recruits to the
company. Don’t worry, it should be nothing compared to your college experience. I see
here,” he flips over a page in front of him, “you gave five and a half pints of blood to be
spilled at the alter of currency. Impressive.”
The interviewee perks up like a proud child. “Yes, sir! And I would’ve given more had I not
almost died.”
64
As the Director speaks, a team of three masked doctors roll in surgical equipment around
the interviewee’s chair.
The Director motions to the doctors and smiles at the interviewee.
The saw buzzes and the interviewee chokes down a scream as the doctors cut through
pressed pants, freshly showered flesh, and toned muscle.
The Director’s leather chair mechanically moves him around the long desk and the
interviewee can see that the Director has no legs, only nubs that stop at his upper thigh.
The saw stops and the Director chuckles. “See, easy as pie.”
The doctors scurry away as the Director rolls closer to the interviewee and sticks his
hand out.
The interviewee, now amputee, controls his heavy breathing and reaches a blood-soaked
hand out to shake the Director’s.
“Welcome to the company, lad.”
There’s a knock on the heavy door. The Director’s electronic chair turns him around to
face his desk. “Come in, I’m ready.”
“You called for me.” “It only takes a moment.”
A surgical saw starts buzzing.
The interviewee, now employee, steps timidly into the dark office.
“Yes, please come sit.”
ORACLE FINE ARTS REVIEW
ORACLE FINE ARTS REVIEW
“Good. That shows initiative.” / RYAN KELLER
WELCOME TO THE COMPANY, LAD
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/ RYAN KELLER
familiar chair and sits. “Is everything ok, sir?”
The Director sighs. “You may not be aware but today is the six month mark of your
career here.”
“Sir, I do, I just—“
“Continue.” The director motions to the doctors and they carelessly slice into the
employee’s thighs, removing strips of muscle and separating them from frayed work pants.
/ RYAN KELLER
The employee limps across the import rug, stained with the blood of new recruits, to the
Tears stream down the employee’s face as he presses his lips together, suppressing any
The employee smiles proudly.
protesting sounds.
The Director slides a piece of paper across the long desk, which only makes it halfway
The saw ceases and the doctors pack up the surgical equipment. As they exit, one pats
across, forcing the employee to have to stand to see the contents.
the employee on the shoulder leaving a dark red handprint on his white button up.
“Your performance review says that you are doing good work.”
The Director smiles. “You’re going to go far with us, son.”
The employee grins. “Well that’s excellent news, sir. I’m happy to-“
“Good is not good enough, son. We want great here at the company.”
The employee sits, gravely. “Oh, I see.”
The Director pauses, then sits back. “I have high hopes for you, boy. That’s why I’m going
to let you give us your Gracilis and Semimembranosus.”
“Pardon me, sir?”
“From both legs this time.”
66
they reach the employee.
The employee becomes frightened. “I, uh, sir?”
The Director motions to the doctors. “Gracilis and Semimembranosus.”
“Wait!” The employee puts an arm up.
The doctors are angry.
The Director huffs. “Do you not want this job?”
braces before taking a deep breath and knocking on the thick door.
“Come in, yes.” The Director is in a good mood.
The employee slowly enters the office. It’s now oppressively bright and all of the office’s
features are tinted in an ominous green.
“Fluorescents,” The Director says. “I just had them installed. So much better than those
dim halogens. They were so emotional and warming. This is so much better, more stark
and work inducing. Please sit.”
The employee sits. In the new light, he can see how vast the spread of dried blood is
across the expensive rug. The blood has hardened to the point where it crackles under
his work shoes.
ORACLE FINE ARTS REVIEW
ORACLE FINE ARTS REVIEW
As he speaks, the team of masked doctors rush into the room. The saw starts up before
The employee stands outside the Director’s office. He adjusts his pants over his leg
67
/ RYAN KELLER
The employee starts to stand but the braces on his legs bend and he falls back into the chair.
“Today is your one year mark, son.”
“Wait, no. I—I don’t know if I-“
The Director rolls his electronic leather chair around the desk and nearer to the
The Director cuts him off. “Oh, relax. This time we’re taking the whole legs. Isn’t that
employee. He rests an arm on the side of the desk and the employee notices that The
wonderful?”
Director seems to have more leg than he did before.
The Director grins, tilting his head in a condescending nod to the employee. “I think it’s
time we got you promoted, don’t you?”
Sparks fly as the saw reaches the metal braces and the operating doctor stops.
“Whoops,” he says and motions for the other doctors to remove the attachments.
The doctors rip off the braces and the saw master begins again. He pushes hard into the
The two stare at each other.
employee’s leg.
The operating doctor stops and reaches into his pocket. He produces a cell phone and
checks a text message before returning the phone to his scrub’s pocket and starting up
“Yes, sir. I do, sir.”
the saw once more.
The Director repeats the line with more enthusiasm. “DO YOU WISH TO SOMEDAY BE
The employee cries and convulses in pain.
The Director points at one of the doctors and yells over the sound of the saw. “I got
“Yes, sir!”
thirty-K on the Broncos for Sunday, Chet, and I’m telling you, I’m going to double out.”
“Well, you’re on the right track. I’m going to promote you to General Manager of Supply
The doctor responds from behind his mask, laughing. “Hell, no you won’t Director! My
Chain Engineers and Efficiency Officers. How does that sound?”
boys are gonna take yours down.”
The employee pauses. “Good.”
The saw stops and the operating doctor begins yanking at its handle.
“Excellent!” The Director slaps the desk and the masked doctor zooms in, the surgical
“Awe, it’s stuck in the bone.” He sighs heavily. “We’re going to have to make a run. It’s
saw buzzing.
going to cut into our strip club time.”
ORACLE FINE ARTS REVIEW
ORACLE FINE ARTS REVIEW
and the doctors shake their heads, irritated.
“Yes, indeed.”
THE DIRECTOR OF OPERATIONS, SON?”
68
The employee is unable to respond as the saw is plunged into his leg. He screams in pain
“Yes, sir.”
The Director is still. “Do you wish to someday be the Director of Operations, son?”
/ RYAN KELLER
“Yes, sir?”
69
/ RYAN KELLER
The Director rolls his eyes. “You all are never prepared.” He backs his leather chair and
reaches to a side drawer in his desk.
Deputy Instructor of Low-level Manufacturing Provisions, donated: left-side Rhomboid
Field Overseer for Sales Forecasting, donated: right arm Deltoid Personnel
Team Building Supervisor Deputy Director, donated: 2/3 Thoraco-lumbar Fascia
Deputy of Deputy Relations Management Operator, donated: one testicle.
/ RYAN KELLER
The doctors wail in unison. “Awe.”
“Here, just use this.” He holds up an old wood-cutting saw and hands it to the operating doctor.
“Awesome.” The doctor starts pulling at the electric saw, attempting to dislodge it.
The employee’s eyes roll back in his head and his tremors lighten.
With cuts, some unhealed, riddling the employee’s body, he sits staring at a memo before
him from the Director of Operations, which simply reads, “See me in my office.”
After some time, he rolls his mechanical, plastic chair slowly down the dreary halls of the
Another doctor speaks. “Awe, he’s gonna crash. We’ll have to take him to the first-aid room.”
office building and to the thick, familiar door. He reaches up to knock but his hand fails
“Alright, let’s get him.” The operating doctor is annoyed. “I’ll get his arms. You get his
and he presses a button on his chair, which bumps him into the door.
legs, or what’s left of them.”
“Come in.”
The men callously lift the employee from the chair and begin waddling their way toward
He rolls into the bright office and parks his permanent office-seat vehicle next to his
the door. As they leave, The Director smiles and waves.
bloody interview chair. “You wanted to see me, sir?”
“Congratulations, lad. You’re on your way to the top!”
The employee sits in his own office behind his own desk, which is similar, but much
smaller than The Director’s. The bright fluorescent lights shine against pretentious art on
70
His face is melancholy and pale. His hands tremble constantly.
“Son, today is a grand day. I’m going to retire some time in the future, so I am going to
make you the Deputy to the Director.”
The employee is silent.
A line of plaques hang on the wall next to his office door. They display his promotions
The Director springs up from behind his desk, pushing the leather chair backward.
and achievements:
The employee looks confused. He stares at The Director’s legs.
The Director yells. “Look at all the good you’ve done! These legs are perfect for me.
ORACLE FINE ARTS REVIEW
ORACLE FINE ARTS REVIEW
dark walls. There is no window.
“Yes, indeed.” The Director is energetic in his leather chair.
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/ RYAN KELLER
/ REMY NURSE
Now’s not the time to be having second thoughts. Just take the position and be proud.”
The employee stares at the legs that were once his. He wants to feel pain and
resentment, but has forgotten those feelings. His eyes slowly move up to the Director’s
face and he finally responds.
“Ok.”
PHANTASMA
Remy Nurse recently graduated from Falmouth University and is now a freelance
Remy Nurse
illustrator based in the UK. Her artwork usually evolves from ideas and sketches
Acrylic
that are inspired by things that evoke an intrigue, be it scientific mishaps, human
anatomy, strange psychology, rare diseases, abstract lyrics, tattooing or dark stories.
She is fascinated by the structure and inner workings of the human body and mind
and enjoys using anatomy in interpreting abstract ideas and difficult subjects. Remy
ORACLE FINE ARTS REVIEW
ORACLE FINE ARTS REVIEW
The Director claps. “Excellent! Now, this promotion comes with a price.”
is also a big fan of good old fashioned hand rendered typography and sign painting.
72
Working traditionally with acrylic paint and tiny brushes, she loves to hide details
and objects in surreal and captivating images.
73
/ LYDIA IRENE
Lydia Irene
Oil
Lydia Irene is currently a senior at South Alabama. She will be graduating with
honors in December 2015 with her BFA in painting and a minor equivalent in
Russian language. Her use of color and surrealistic content are intended to evoke an
emotional response to social and personal issues from viewers. The focus of many of
her paintings is what is being felt by the audience rather than what is said or seen.
OH KOI
Sierra Fore
Ceramics
Sierra Fore is a senior at the University of South Alabama majoring in graphic design
with a minor in ceramics. This piece was constructed with the sgraffito method.
The inspiration behind the piece was a mixture of imagery and texture.
ORACLE FINE ARTS REVIEW
ORACLE FINE ARTS REVIEW
/ SIERRA FORE
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HALFED NAKED
75
/ HALEY FRANKLIN
Haley Franklin
Silkscreen
Haley Franklin, a jack-of-all trades and recent USA graduate, sells her art at the
monthly LODA artwalk and is working on setting up her own printmaking studio.
SHOOT FOR THE MOON
Ashley Pierce
Silkscreen
Ashley Pierce is a graphic design major at the University of South Alabama with
a secondary concentration in printmaking. She loves all forms of printmaking but
works mostly with silkscreen. She typically finds inspiration in song lyrics and
quotes, and loves to mix imagery with hand-drawn type. She also loves the outdoors
and being in the sun. Ashley hopes to become an illustrator and visual development
artist after graduation.
ORACLE FINE ARTS REVIEW
ORACLE FINE ARTS REVIEW
/ ASHLEY PIERCE
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MELANCHOLY WATER ELEMENTAL
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/ ERIN WALTERS
Erin Walters
Digital Illustration
Erin Walters is a native of Mobile, Alabama. She is a senior at USA, pursuing a BFA in
Graphic Design. She has also studied painting and printmaking.
LV-426
John Pickering
Silkscreen
John Pickering is a graphic design major with a passion for printmaking, specifically
silkscreen print. Much of his work is influenced by movies and other forms of entertainment.
After graduating, he hopes to pursue a career in web design.
ORACLE FINE ARTS REVIEW
ORACLE FINE ARTS REVIEW
/ JOHN PICKERING
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STRANGE VESSEL
79
/ HANNAH KIBBY
Hannah Kibby is a sophomore information technology major at the University of
GATOR TALES
South Alabama. Her favorite mediums to work with are photography, pencil and
Leah Fox
her time enjoying life with her family and friends. She has been working with glass,
Glass
both blowing and kiln form, for almost two years now and loves every minute of it.
Photography
paper, watercolor, and digital art.
She loves how glass creates a translucency and how placing a piece of glass on top
of the next can create different colors.
ORACLE FINE ARTS REVIEW
ORACLE FINE ARTS REVIEW
/ LEAH FOX
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Leah Fox is currently studying glass at the University of South Alabama. She spends
GOLDEN EYE
Hannah Kibby
81
Photography
Jennifer Clark-Grainger is an aspiring visual anthropologist studying here at South
Alabama. This Louisiana transplant has had a passion for photography dating back
to childhood. This magic began with the invention of strange, fictional characters
INNER REFLECTIONS
Adorable Monique
Oil
Adorable Monique received art instruction abroad in fine arts where she was given
merit awards and the opportunity to exhibit solo and collectively, which has offered
new opportunities and irreplaceable experiences. Growing up surrounded by
and then moved on to landscapes and eventually macro photography, of which
different cultures has enriched her overall view of life. She is continuously pursuing
some have been featured in local galleries. Having recently becoming a film snob,
success in personal, professional, and artistic endeavors as well as in artistic
she hopes to use her education to make photojournalistic bodies of work depicting
education and the artistic experience itself.
ORACLE FINE ARTS REVIEW
ORACLE FINE ARTS REVIEW
/ JENNIFER CLARK-GRAINGER
/ ADORABLE MONIQUE
OPHELIAC
Jennifer Clark–Grainger
American culture and cultures of the south, including her own Acadian roots.
82
83
/ MICAH MERMILLIOD
Silkscreen
Micah Mermilliod is currently enrolled as a photography major at the University of
South Alabama. His work often combines aspects of photography and printmaking
to create dream-like montages reminiscent of sci-fi fantasies. The integration of
technology with humanity is a central theme in much of Micah’s work.
CASTON AND PAUL
Amanda Youngblood graduated from the University of South Alabama with a BFA
Amanda Youngblood
in Painting and Silk Screen. Since graduation, she has had two solo shows and has
Colored pencil
been accepted into several juried exhibitions, even winning a few awards. Some of
her work has been featured at the Mobile County Courthouse and published in Mobile
Bay Monthly. Much of her work heavily concentrates on the figure and portraiture. She
prefers to paint subjects that show a lot of expression and emotion. Her portrait work
ORACLE FINE ARTS REVIEW
ORACLE FINE ARTS REVIEW
/ AMANDA YOUNGBLOOD
REGENERATION
Micah Mermilliod
tends be be a cropped and close-up view of the subject. To her, a person’s face tells a
84
story, especially their eyes. They are a map to where one has been and where one is
going. She likes to find these stories and tell them through paint.
85
Amanda Youngblood graduated from the University of South Alabama with a BFA
THE HUNT
in Painting and Silk Screen. Since graduation, she has had two solo shows and has
Kirsten Victoria Harper
Colored pencil
been accepted into several juried exhibitions, even winning a few awards. Some of
Digital Illustration
Kirsten Victoria Harper is a freelance illustrator currently residing in North Carolina.
Finding beauty in all aspects of the world, she tries to capture emotion and the
complexities of the imaginative mind as well as apply the chaotic throws of life in
her work has been featured at the Mobile County Courthouse and published in Mobile
her work with a realistic flare. Comprised of mostly digital media, she attempts to
Bay Monthly. Much of her work heavily concentrates on the figure and portraiture. She
create realms and worlds filled with magic and ferocious beasts. Though mostly
prefers to paint subjects that show a lot of expression and emotion. Her portrait work
a self taught artist she went through a short 3 month mentorship lead by fantasy
tends be be a cropped and close-up view of the subject. To her, a person’s face tells a
illustrator Todd Lockwood through the SmART school program. There she got to
story, especially their eyes. They are a map to where one has been and where one is
work with art director Matthew Kalamidas for a mock book cover of Farenheit 451 as
going. She likes to find these stories and tell them through paint.
well as shadow Dan Dos Santos’ class.
ORACLE FINE ARTS REVIEW
ORACLE FINE ARTS REVIEW
/ AMANDA YOUNGBLOOD
/ KIRSTEN VICTORIA HARPER
86
VITO
Amanda Youngblood
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/ SUZANNE SARVER
FRANKLIN ARD
today i ate the flesh of an animal
and my
/ FRANKLIN ARD
TODAY I ATE THE FLESH OF AN ANIMAL
gut gorged
with butterfat
daydreams
a grease canal dripping
sinewsick acres
of nonstick skyscrapers
ceramic houses slick with ligaments
the school i attended at twelve
years of age
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the roasted smell
of earth
PEOPLE ARE ANIMALS TOO
Suzanne Sarver
Mixed media
Suzanne Sarver is a student at the University of South Alabama pursuing her BFA in
Graphic Design.
i dreamed of a delicatessen’s
cleaver splitting ribs
poppop
ORACLE FINE ARTS REVIEW
ORACLE FINE ARTS REVIEW
butchered
89
/ FRANKLIN ARD
DEAD AWAKE
parks and walking trails forested
N.T. MCQUEEN
with leftover bones
whatever happened to the face
Our parents bought sand-colored plastic guns, marketed as Desert Storm sniper rifles,
and the snout that could smell
enhanced with sound effects and scopes. One for each of us. Hunkered down in an
everything
inset planter box, huddled to the trunk within, I scanned the green, manicured terrain,
/ N.T. MCQUEEN
bloodless
checking each tree’s box, waiting, attune to movement. Then her head would peak above
i chewed the potholed muscle
the wood and I would fire. A spurt of furious spittle retaliated. The burst ended, and I
slurped the sticky tang
sprung from the box, dragging my torso on elbows to the next, diving for cover closer to
of whole nations
the creek. We fought for hours. We died for hours. No ramifications or circumstance. No
and thought it should taste
remorse. We just wanted to shoot each other.
so much better.
Maybe they did also. Waiting for a war that continued without them as they sat under
tan canopies, baking from the Kuwaiti sun. All four-hundred-sixty-four estimated. Twohundred-ninety-four Americans confirmed killed. The majority from friendly fire—itchy
trigger fingers eager to squeeze off a few rounds. These figures were only numbers
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gun powder burning my sinuses. Reveling in the weight of the power, the sheen of
the mahogany stock. Still numbers after the cooling trophies of blue jays, jack rabbits,
and doves. Rattlesnakes and a holocaust of blue-bellies. Two turkey vultures. A rabid
skunk. The deer. The orchard my battleground, powdery dust and green pods of shaken
branches scattered across the earth. Silent until the thunder of the barrel, my barrel,
disrupted nature, and I stole what could not be returned. A thief in the dusk, somewhere
ORACLE FINE ARTS REVIEW
ORACLE FINE ARTS REVIEW
the first time I fired my twenty gauge at a plastic milk carton, bruising my shoulder,
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/ N.T. MCQUEEN
For my tenth Christmas, an oblong present leaned between the tree and the
the East Coast, the Atlantic. The same boys now John McClains, John Rambos, Neos.
entertainment center. I didn’t notice until Dad pointed to the corner. Heart racing, I
Boys stealing birds, squirrels, and lizards with their Daisys and Red Riders before the
snatched the present with both hands and dismantled the paper, revealing my initiation.
Remingtons sought larger prey. Murder by thumbs for hours until the index finger
The embossed Daisy trademark, scope, aluminum barrel, CO2 or air pump action. My
wrapped around Mossbergs flat against the dunes, supine upon the hills of desolation,
own death scythe. Mom, against her maternity, smiled at my excitement, but I knew she
foreign tongued targets holding their guns for their own dogma. Or the makeshift
only saw me as Ralphie. A soon to be one-eyed Ralphie. Dad went down the hall to his
explosives and black market automatics that vomited the hallways and classrooms back
office and came back, carrying something black. “Let’s go on the deck and try it out,”
on that 20th of April, 1999. More theft, more murder by fingers. Just numbers. A score.
he said. I scurried after him, the butt nestled under my arm. From the covering of our
Another level achieved.
wrap-around porch, the expanse of grey sky hung above the sprawling city miles below,
/ N.T. MCQUEEN
between sun and moon. The same thunder rumbling across the Sierras to the Midwest,
turning the lake mute. Dad held a black milk carton in his hand, opened the triangular
I watched it all around me, but I never saw it. Vibrant. Subtle. Comedic. Animated. Ursula
mouth. “You put the BB’s in here,” he instructed, pointing to a small opening underneath
impaled. Gaston falling from the rooftops. Mufasa trampled and Scar mauled by his own
the side of the barrel. He dipped the carton, every other copper ball bouncing off the
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side and clattering onto the redwood below us. I scrambled for the rest, catching them
Bambi’s mother, for the love of God! I would
before they fell through the gaps between the planks. Dad closed the hatch, shook the
glance up at the wall of National Video,
gun now sounding like a maraca. We walked off the deck, surrounded by seventeen acres
scanning the images. Arnold. Sylvester.
of our own mountain. “Wait right here,” he said and ran into the garage behind us. He
Bruce. Clint. Jean Claude. Harbingers of the end, so iconic and cool, reapers gripping
emerged holding an empty can of Dr. Pepper and set it atop a boulder. “Now, first, you
their automated death scythes and me holding the thick rectangular packaging toward
never shoot at metal. It could ricochet and hit you in the eye. Also, never shoot at the
Dad with an alacritous tremble asking, “Can I get this one?”
house or cars.” “And people.” “Yes, and people,” he said. “BB guns can be dangerous.” I
nodded, shifting on the edge of my feet. He stood, watching, waiting. I raised the barrel
The screens on which I watched death with vicarious interest changed. No longer a
like the movies told me, leering down the scope, and squeezed, the vicarious image of
spectator but participant. I would kill everything for hours with only my thumbs and be
my hunched adolescent frame covered in fatigues and a necklace of bullets.
infuriated if death would befall me, the controller clanging against the opposite wall if the
body count didn’t rise.
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ORACLE FINE ARTS REVIEW
More theft, more murder by
fingers. Just numbers. A score.
Another level achieved.
machinations. Wyle E. Coyote as Sisyphus.
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/ N.T. MCQUEEN
Goliath outlined, and my thin fingers gripping a colored pencil, making sure I made the
Mel Gibson charged forward, followed by a mad horde of raging Scotsmen, fascinated
marks within the lines of the stone, the nine inch nail, the crushed bodies at Jericho.
me. The carnage, the gore, the decapitation of the English general, kept me affixed to
Make sure the blood is the right hue then hand it in to my Sunday School teacher. God
the couch in utter ecstasy, marveling, soaking it in. The outlet for the innate desire to
murdered all in the flood, Sodom and Gomorrah to ash, his only son subjected to the
fight and destroy. Violence as humanity. I watched that movie till I knew the lines before
finest torture the Romans had to offer. The stories told and retold until they became
they were spoken. I knew when Gennaro gets eaten off the toilet by the Tyrannosaur and
just stories. Necessary deaths, immortalized
new of Muldoon’s demise at the ambush of the Velociraptor. The anxiety before the alien
in print to bolster my faith and numb my
erupted from Kane’s chest at the dinner table aboard the Nostromo.
sensibilities. Laudation when Samson pushed
the pillars, crushing himself and the Philistines.
/ N.T. MCQUEEN
Images are memory, but can images not be mine? The Battle of Sterling Bridge where
Make sure the blood is the
right hue then hand it in to my
Sunday School teacher.
When Russel Crowe received so many bullets from Denzel Washington, his computer
Saul punished for sparing the king and livestock of the Amalekites, even though he
generated form began leaking blue, fruit-snack colored blood spilled from his mouth. My
slaughtered everything else. My little brain thinking, He should have killed them all.
friend and I chewed our Gushers to puree at lunch. I’m Crowe, then he’s Crowe. These scenes
Shame on you, Saul. Where’s David? He’ll do the job. No life left to live under the hand of
all so vivid, satisfying nostalgia but lingering within me, urging me to watch Hugh Grant flop
a man after God’s own heart. Old Testament faith as violence, vindication. Eye for an eye.
around, mumbling witty epigrams. Maybe A Charlie Brown Christmas absolution.
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Absolution. Yes, penance. Forgiveness on the metal pews, shades of grey, flesh, and
settling in to how weak we really were. How our macho, killer instinct remained on the
brown for hobby. The paunchy preacher waving an emphatic finger excoriating all
screen with who we thought we had become. The twelve gauges slack in our hands,
but his own sins. Absconding of life to hell. But, the models of my morality, they echo
tramping through the walnut orchard. The sound—the rustle—came from behind the
what harbors within me, the culture. The ancient stories told and retold from Genesis
old, empty shed. Our furtive steps, diligent, avoiding the green pods until one of our
to Revelation. Sodom and Gomorroah, the stone that slew Goliath. Moses implanting a
soles crushed the shell, sending the bounding, slender frame in front of us. Instinct fired,
rock into that Egyptian’s head. The third chapter and we have Cain stealing Abel’s life.
adrenaline burst, and the body fell, bone thin hoofs kicking. Blood rushed through me
John’s head on a silver platter. Staples of my faith, saturated in the blood of saints and
from the gaping, scattered hole in its ribs. “Dude, it’s still alive,” I said. Josh crept closer
me, so saturated in another blood, viewed the images as only images. The colorless page,
to it. The legs writhing and spastic. My legs shook, eyes wanting to turn from this. “We
ORACLE FINE ARTS REVIEW
ORACLE FINE ARTS REVIEW
The eyes are all I recall. Black, empty orbs we both couldn’t bear to meet. The reality
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/ N.T. MCQUEEN
Her mouth sagged down to the corners of her chin, stoic. A brief moment altered the air
our warm guns in our limp hands. I faced the doe, raised the gun. He turned his head
before she said in a flat, unfamiliar tone, “I’m sorry to tell you this, but your Grandpa Ray
before the thunder came. The body shuddered, chest still. My ears echoed on and on,
passed away today.” I looked at Brittany and Sarah, who exclaimed a deep, brief moan
the blast infinite and caroming inside my skull. “It jumped out of nowhere. I just fired and
from their slackjaws. A sound of gasp and bereavement in one awful tone. My mouth
there it was.” “I know!” Silence. “What do we do with it?” I scan around. “Let’s drag it over
mimicked theirs, yet my voice stayed within me. I watched them, rankled at my own
to the brush over there and throw it in the bushes.” “How do we get it over there?” “Pick
vacancy. Real death had come, but my eyes remained dry. A witness to my own grief.
it up by the legs.” Josh grabbed one leg, his lips arched and brow pointed. “Oh, man, it’s
Grandma Berta led us into the principal’s office and shut the door. I sat in a wooden chair
heavy.” “Come on, hurry up.” I grabbed the hindlegs and we pulled it across the hard dirt.
across from the three of them, each cradled in the crook of Grandma’s arms, sobbing
The flaccid head bounced and dragged across the terrain. Those black eyes dead but
tears into the floral cushions. The screen still held me. Bruce and Arnold and Sylvester
haunting, watching. “Oh, man, it keeps looking at me,” Josh moaned. “Don’t look at it.”
held my heart at the end of their bayonets. A humid musk seemed trapped in that space,
“Ugh, it’s like it’s still alive. Like it’s mad at me.” He closed his eyes as we pulled, crouching
inescapable. My eyes drifted along the papered walls, the mud brown molding. The
along the eternal fifty yards. My eyes unable to not look. To not absorb the shame from
others spoke of what they would miss about him. I listened, despondent but dry, alone.
/ N.T. MCQUEEN
need to put it out of its misery.” “Who’s gonna do it?” We looked at each other, holding
those pupils. Or not able to view my own shame. At the brush, we swung the body like a
pendulum and three’d the weight forward, hearing the crash and snap as it disappeared
Grandma asked me what I would miss. Her face back at mine, startling my mind to work.
into the arms of the brush, rolling down the hill, awaking all creation to our act. Josh and
Me? What would I miss? I walked through their mobile home, L.A. Gears following the
I gazed into the brush, slack shouldered. The grey, swirling sky dampened upon us.
moss green carpet, faux wood paneled walls, then to the kitchen, standing on the yellow
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Josh broke the moment. “I can still see it looking at me.” “Me too.” Silence. “Let’s go
nasal overwhelmed with his aftershave. The dancing woman on his forearm. The cheap
back,” I suggested. “Ok.”
candies. And then red licorice. In the clear Costco gallon container I could never get the
lid off of. The taste seeped from my cerebrum to my tongue, dripping further down,
My pen followed the patterns of the wood desk until the aid stuck her head in the door
and said I needed to come to the office, along with my sister and cousin. Glad to leave
class, glad I finished my spelling and fractions. Brittany and I left our classroom, relieving
laughter came when we saw Sarah. Down the stairs, around the cinderblock wall and into
the office, at Grandma Berta’s secretarial. Solemn hazel eyes greeted us.
down until the sob came, stifling my words, and then the elusive, beautiful tears.
ORACLE FINE ARTS REVIEW
ORACLE FINE ARTS REVIEW
laminate, his square jaw and tobacco stained teeth smiling in his balling blue vest. My
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/ N.T. MCQUEEN
/ HANNAN GOLD-VUKSON
And even when I heard Mom come into my room, I clung to sleep. “A plane crashed into
one of the buildings in New York.” Even until first period, when I sat in my assigned seat,
facing the 19" tube television where people died between blinks. The windowless room
almost unoccupied, bodies without sound or breath, gaping wide-eyed at the defining
moment of our almost legal lives. Mr. Nunes’ arms crossed, reclining at his desk, blonde,
Wham! mullet and suave eyebrows, glued to the screen. Behind a cloudless, blue sky,
smoke bellowed from one of the higher floors. Replays of the scene showed infinitesimal
silhouettes dropping from the windows and out of view. I sat in the middle, watching
both buildings penetrated and burning, office debris floating down around to the streets.
…bodies without sound or breath,
gaping wide-eyed at the defining
moment of our almost legal lives.
They showed the second plane strike the second
building over and over. Rewind and forward.
Varying angles. Then the first building dropped
like receiving a mortal gunshot, sinking into an
eruption of dust, ash, and life. My heart skipped with the communal gasp. The reporter’s
disbelief was impulsive, disregarding objective journalism. An exclamation of the tragic
now. He may have swore or uttered some blasphemy, I’m not sure. No one cared. I
watched, the countless scenes of artificial death played on a similar screen held no
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stirred within me. No longer numbers, but each a Grandpa Ray or black eyed doe. Faces
to the figures fell drip by drip from the towers, from the bullets of their peers’ automatics,
from friendly fire in the dunes across the Atlantic. The numbers morphing to names.
Eyes opened, seeing what the Trenchcoat Mafia could or would not see, what the Taliban
refused. My new eyes fell to my desk before the second tower followed, keeping fixated
on the patterns in the wood, fighting the tears I fought to have.
SELF PORTRAIT
Hannan Gold-Vukson
Plaster Casting
Hannan Gold-Vukson was born in Lafayette, Indiana in 1985. He holds a double
primary in photography and glass art, but uses silk screening and other various
techniques to combine the mediums. He is a recent graduate from the University of
South Alabama where he earned his degrees.
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ORACLE FINE ARTS REVIEW
comparison. The numbers became real, tangible, so intimate the thought of their passing
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/ STEPHANIE ELSTNER
Stephanie Elstner
Silkscreen
Stephanie Elstner is a senior at the University of South Alabama pursuing a BFA in
graphic design. She enjoys the transition from screen to studio in terms of design
and printmaking, and she is always testing limits to learn new techniques. She hopes
to find success as a freelance designer after graduation.
POPE FRANCIS
Keith Castelin is a Mobile native studying graphic design. He draws inspiration from
Keith Castelin
his Catholic faith and his experiences living on the Gulf Coast. He believes that
Fired Clay
artists are creators of beauty and that each artist is given the gift to imitate God, the
sole creator of all things, in this unique way.
ORACLE FINE ARTS REVIEW
ORACLE FINE ARTS REVIEW
/ KEITH CASTELIN
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WISH YOU WERE HERE
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/ HANNAN GOLD-VUKSON
Clay
Hannan Gold-Vukson was born in Lafayette, Indiana in 1985. He holds a BFA in both
photography and glass art, but uses silk screening and other various techniques
to combine the mediums. He is a recent graduate from the University of South
Alabama where he earned his degrees.
Cat God
Ashley Fiveash
Digital Illustration
Ashley Fiveash primarily works with a digital medium but has experience in
everything from watercolor to collage. She draws inspiration from other digital
illustrators, those that work within and outside of the entertainment industry,
animators, painters, character designers for games and movies, and other graphic
designers. She is interested in a wide birth of careers, including visual character
development and visual storytelling. Ashley is pursuing a BFA with a focus in
ORACLE FINE ARTS REVIEW
ORACLE FINE ARTS REVIEW
/ ASHLEY FIVEASH
UNTITLED
Hannan Gold-Vukson
graphic design with a secondary in painting.
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/ TYLER WILLIAMS
I’ve got it: Mrs. Balloo will finish her lecture on commas, the class will participate in some
TYLER WILLIAMS
activity to prove that we understand, a couple of idiots will still not get the idea so she’ll
go back to the lecture, next, and this is key, she’ll pass out a test and emphasize the
I am two years old.
The world is making sense. I’m aware. I can understand space and time. Phrases turn
to sentences. I prefer straws to nipples. I no longer just react, but I feel. Shame, pride,
embarrassment, guilt, anger, envy—each one distinct and painful in its own way.
Navigating through the multiple mysteries of each day, I continue to grow. One day, I’ll
grow up.
is when I get recognized, this is when I start a new life, as everyone is unassuming and
concentrating I’ll yell out “Zibby Zooby Zazabadoo” like a white Ella Fitzgerald and then
look back at my paper like nothing happened. Brilliant, right? The whole class will turn
and laugh, and Mrs. Balloo will be forced to admonish me. Everything goes to plan, and I
release a yell as loud as my courage will let me. Only thing is, no one moves. Not a single
person notices. Zunellda doesn’t even flinch. I truly am invisible to these people.
I accidently step on my teacher’s foot during our reading group. She could ignore it, but
I am thirteen years old.
over my pasty, fat-cheeked face. My butthole is clenched for the rest of the day. Now, I
understand fear. I will never step on a woman’s toe again.
This mall theatre is surely months from closing. The carpet reeks of stale butter and
sweat. Chairs are broken, curtains are ripped, and the screen looks dull. Everything
screams neglect, so I neglect it. I don’t care that we are on a church trip. I don’t care that
I am ten years old.
it is a highly rated animated feature about the struggle of aquatic handicaps. I am only
School has become boring. I’m the quiet, shy, straight-a’s chunk sitting in the back. I’m
focused on her. My first real girlfriend. We’ve already been through the awkward dance of
playing life too safe, I need a little danger. Zunellda sits next to me, and she’s pretty
hand-holding, so now I am ready to turn things mature. To shake of the PG life and head
rough, maybe I can use her. Asking for help is out of the question, she only talks to me
for a hard R. I fidget for forty-five minutes, think of every excuse to look her way. Finally,
when she wants to borrow my glue or chap stick. I always tell her she can keep the chap
I go in for a whisper and switch it up to a kiss at the last minute. I kiss a girl. On the lips.
stick. But if I do anything out of the ordinary, surely she’ll react. To get recognized as the
And we’re not talking a “Hey, haven’t seen you in a while” peck, I participate in a smooch.
new bad boy, something needs to happen that’ll get everyone’s attention. Something
And, you know what, tongue, although brief, is included. I float on a cloud of love for the
surprising, maybe even shocking. I survey the class like a general at the battleground.
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ORACLE FINE ARTS REVIEW
start working on the questions, the room will be dead silent, this is when I strike, this
I am six years old.
she doesn’t. Instead, she morphs into a giant–breasted volcano, spewing saliva lava all
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importance of being quiet, she’ll take a seat at her desk and everyone will immediately
/ TYLER WILLIAMS
proLIFEeration
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/ TYLER WILLIAMS
wrath from my parents will not match the hell this guy is trapping me in. I wait another
soon discover pornography.
thirty minutes for my sister to come get me and decide to become a writer.
I am sixteen years old.
I am twenty-three years old.
I remember your hand on my thigh and the brush of stubble. I’ll never know if it was real.
I just am.
I’ll never know what it meant.
I am twenty years old.
is beside the toilet, overflowed with paper and shit. The white paint on the walls has
chest and running down my torso, I can smell the gun powder, hear the gurgling of a
been chipped from people scratching the time by, and the room smells of alcohol and
body that no longer has its control center. Last week, a public execution missed me by
weed. My friend and I are the youngest here. Everyone else shares stories and bashes the
ten seconds. Had I got dressed faster, took a quicker shit, or skipped breakfast, I would’ve
police, but we sit and stare. Not talking to each other or looking away from our selected
been the paint and not the canvas. The masked murderer fainted at his creation and I
spots on the dust covered floor. Obnoxious old men boast about their balls and younger
wandered mindlessly, involuntarily toward the milk aisle.
I am thirty years old.
bitchy guard shuts the doors and withdraws phone privileges. I’m not fazed. I’m not
I leave the funeral home confused, humbled, and, practically, pretty excited. I received
planning on calling anyone, not yet.
notice earlier this month that I am in the will of Gerald Hernandez III and am receiving
two million dollars. After failing at a teaching career, writing career, stand-up career,
Hour after hour people either post bail or know they can’t make it and are escorted to
acting career, husband career, and parent career, this call makes life a little sweeter.
the prison cells. By five, all that is left is me, my friend, and a man outrageously high.
Honestly, I don’t know the guy. I was never even near him. I believe that they contacted
He keeps screaming about his gang and how he needs water, but he believes only true
the wrong Tyler Williams, but one lie turned into another and here I am. Oh well, don’t
gangsters call water agua. His effectiveness as a gang member is highly doubtful. I listen
judge me too hard, English majors make shit.
to him scream “AGUA!” and punch the walls for an hour before I finally give in. I know any
ORACLE FINE ARTS REVIEW
ORACLE FINE ARTS REVIEW
I haven’t slept in four days. Any time I close my eyes, I can see the chunks of brain flying
towards my face like wet dog food, I can feel the blood and pieces of skull hitting my
to a size that gets more rambunctious and loud. Eventually, the under-paid and overly
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I am twenty-six years old.
The holding cell is apparently overcrowded every Saturday night. The only place to sit
thugs throw threats at anyone who will listen. As midnight approaches, the group grows
/ TYLER WILLIAMS
next twenty-four hours until getting the atomic text bomb of “It’s over.” Needless to say, I
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/ TYLER WILLIAMS
I am fifty-five years old.
The third Great War is in full effect. I missed the draft by two years, I don’t know if
I finally spoke to a Zarxusonian today. When they first made contact seven years ago,
I’ve ever been happier. I don’t think that I’m a coward, but I’m very afraid. Entire cities
I was in a basement dying from infection and being monitored by a scavenger whose
in Western Europe are incinerated within a moment’s notice. Five million people are
entire medical experience was based off the idea of taking things apart to figure out how
reported dead, but not one body has been found. Some people are saying that all this
they work. But we were saved. Earth was spared. The aliens admitted to watching our
nuclear activity is going to disrupt the earth’s cycle. That should terrify me, not the idea
planet for entertainment since the 1600s. The elite Zarxus community would gather at
of fighting, but I feel completely desensitized. Maybe after what started all this, maybe
someone’s house with a quantum galaxical telescope and observe our daily lives.
we deserve to die. Maybe we’ve reached our moment of extinction.
I am forty-two years old.
I haven’t seen the color green in almost six years. Everything has stopped growing.
Once it was apparent that we had magnificently fucked ourselves, their government
made the decision to send fleets in order to help us rebuild. Their only stipulation was
that our world would be ruled by their government. But Zarxus has never seen a war,
a famine, a plague, or a recession. They are basically humans, but intelligent. Most of
their customs are different from ours, but they steal our ideas of holidays and yearly
I am forty-seven years old.
celebrations. March 22nd is now known as “Birth Day.” The Zarxusonians are known for
I place the rope around my neck, cut my wrists with a rusty nail I found behind a cheap
being quiet, but talking to one leads to the most delightful conversations. I met an older
painting, and step off the third story bannister. I think it will be quicker, less painful. I
female named Bluinesse Vinziktok ZIzqa. I won’t do her the injustice of a description,
don’t expect to be this cognizant. An overdose or hole through the brain is preferred,
but I have never encountered anyone more alive. Her passion has rekindled the life in my
but commodities like pills and bullets can’t be found anymore. I swing back and forth
veins and I soon find myself excited to exist. On our fifth meeting, we talk briefly about
like a yo-yo that wants to climb back up the string but doesn’t have the momentum. I
things I’ll never remember, and then we make love, Zarxusonian style, and for the first
notice my wrists aren’t bleeding like they should before the railing gives out and I crash
time in my life I have multiple ejaculatory orgasms.
on the hardwood floor. I turn my head to find my left foot staring back at me and begin a
I am sixty-one years old.
discussion about the more proper methods of suicide as I drift into hysteria and madness.
My days have become simple, happy. Being united with an elite Zarxusonian gives me
greater creature comforts than most citizens of New Zarxus. I spend my mornings
ORACLE FINE ARTS REVIEW
ORACLE FINE ARTS REVIEW
Everyone is dying.
/ TYLER WILLIAMS
I am thirty-five years old.
rewriting our history to meet the Council of Existence’s requirements. Blu recommended
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109
/ TYLER WILLIAMS
/ SUZANNE SARVER
me for the job after patiently listening to me babble about the dreams of my youth.
Now, as head writer for the “Unquestionable Truth” department, Uruguay won the first
world war, Japan discovered America, Shakespeare is the son of God (those aliens love
Hamlet), George Washington was the biggest terrorist in the world, and Isaac Newton
is renowned as the greatest idiom for creating the laws of gravity to keep earthlings
from joining other galactic civilizations. My afternoons are spent in relaxation listening to
stories about planetary travel and life outside the Milky Way. I’ve found purpose. After all
this life, I’m finally starting to live.
I am sixty-eight years old.
Blu died this morning. I knew that the Zarxusonians had shorter life spans, but for some
reason, I thought she’d be the exception. We were never able to conceive a mixedspecies baby, but I’m probably better off not having a reminder of her to look at every
day. By custom, her body will be taken back to Zarxus for their burial rituals. I knew she
was dead, but I kissed her anyway. Her lips were still warm. I sat beside her and held
her hand until the ambulance arrived. Letting go of those slender, violet fingers was the
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I am eighty years old.
It’s over, and I’m happy. The doctors agree that it should be sometime this week. Funny
thing, as much as those Zarxusonians helped us, they couldn’t cure cancer, either. But
that’s ok — immortality is a young man’s game. So, if I don’t die today, it will happen the
next or the next. But when it does decide to come, I’ll be ready. I’ve got a chair by my bed
and a coffee pot that I keep full just in case It wants to hear a story or two before I go.
URSULA
Suzanne Sarver
Graphite
Suzanne Sarver is a student at the University of South Alabama pursuing her BFA in
Graphic Design.
ORACLE FINE ARTS REVIEW
ORACLE FINE ARTS REVIEW
hardest thing I’ve yet to live through.
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/ JUSTYN PHILLIPS
Justyn Phillips
Digital Illustration
Justyn Phillips is a graphic designer who has a passion for illustration, surrealism,
and conceptualization. She makes her best works when she’s able to cling to a
particular idea as a singular restraint and then let the rest of the artwork be free
THANKS LLYNDZE
Leah Fox is currently studying glass at the University of South Alabama. She spends
Leah Fox
her time enjoying life with her family and friends. She has been working with glass,
Fused Glass
both blowing and kiln form, for almost two years now and loves every minute of it.
from limitation. Whatever is possible, she will try to do; experimentation is key to
She loves how glass creates a translucency and how placing a piece of glass on top
her. The abstract element of art is what appeals to Justyn the most. Allowing room
of the next can create different colors.
for personal interpretation in all of her works is something that she loves creating.
ORACLE FINE ARTS REVIEW
ORACLE FINE ARTS REVIEW
/ LEAH FOX
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THE FINAL FRONTIER
FROM A SNAIL`S PERSPECTIVE
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/ KERRI WAITES
/ LYDIA IRENE
MESTASIS
KERRI WAITES
My hair is falling:
fine filament drifting in the light.
It gathers at my feet
like so much floss.
Embroidery thread,
lacking luster or tensile strength.
No string strong enough to stitch me together.
Delicate doll of rags
stuffed with toxic fill:
internally fighting fibers.
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the toxic doll.
Souvenir of my body.
PARISIAN PORTRAIT
Lydia Irene
Oil
Lydia Irene is currently a senior at South Alabama. She will be graduating with
honors in December 2015 with her BFA in painting and a minor equivalent in
Russian language. Her use of color and surrealistic content are intended to evoke an
emotional response to social and personal issues from viewers. The focus of many of
her paintings is what is being felt by the audience rather than what is said or seen.
ORACLE FINE ARTS REVIEW
ORACLE FINE ARTS REVIEW
I wait to see who wins the prize of this stacked game:
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/ DANIELLE FRYER
STEPHANIE FEATHER
My family consists of three older brothers: Mikie, Shane, and Dave. There’s little more
than a year difference from one to the next, and all the boys share a room. I get a small
/ STEPHANIE FEATHER
MIKIE
room next to Mama and Daddy’s.
Mikie is the oldest and almost five years older than me, but he’ll always be my little
brother. He’ll never grow up like the rest of us. See, when he was a baby, Mama went off
the road and wrecked the car. Mikie still had a soft head and was hurt real bad.
We live in a small town outside Louisville. We have one school that houses all grades one
through twelve. On the way home, I like to take a special way through the fields. It’s longer,
but I’m never in a hurry to get home fast anyway. Mikie follows me, because the other boys
are too rough, and he gets hurt playing with them, although he’d never admit that.
didn’t even give a glance my way, just kept on kicking. “Come on we need to hurry, I told
Mama I’d stop by the store before home.”
STILL LIFE
Danielle Fryer
Oil
Danielle Fryer is a graphic design major that is in her fourth year of school and
plans to graduate in the spring of 2016. Danielle discovered her love for the arts
“Fine,” Mikie said as he bent down to pick up a purple weed next to the rock he finally
when she drew for fun in elementary school. Throughout her twenty-one years, she
was encouraged by her teachers and her own desire to hone her skills into what
stopped kicking. “The purple flowers are the best tasting ones.”
they are today. She is very passionate about the arts. Her mediums include pencil,
“I know they are.” I bent down to get one for myself.
charcoal, pen, color pencil, and creative writing. Recently—during the 2014 summer
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“Mikie, stop kicking that rock, you’re gonna break that damn toe clean off,” I said, but he
semester— she discovered the joys of using oil paint as well, and it has quickly
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become one of her favorite mediums to use to create still-life works.
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/ STEPHANIE FEATHER
him and me up before Daddy came home to find us in a bloody mess. In the bathroom, I
I turned back toward the direction I thought it came from. There were five kids, most of
dabbed Mikie’s forehead with a wet washcloth and put bandaids on the scratches on his
them much bigger than us, standing on the other side of the path we were on.
arms. After I scraped the blood out from under my fingernails, I leaned down to kiss Mikie’s
“The hell threw that?” I asked, though I already knew: Chad Willicks, that redneck who’s
always bullying kids around. I looked him square in the eyes, “Piss off!”
head. He grinned at me. I grabbed his face between my hands and looked him in his eyes.
/ STEPHANIE FEATHER
As we tasted the honey from the flower, I felt something sharp hit the back of my head.
“Nobody messes with my brother.”
“It’s a free country,” his freckle-faced, ginger friend Gus said.
“Not when you’re out throwin’ rocks at people, pencil dick,” I spat back.
“What did you call me?” Gus snarled. He reached down and grabbed a rock that was
almost bigger than his hand.
“Run Mikie!” I shouted, grabbing his hand. We took off running in the direction of our
As we tasted the honey from the
flower, I felt something sharp hit
the back of my head.
house. We had become good runners; these
bullies trained us well. Suddenly, I heard Mikie
take a loud, sharp breath. He stumbled to the
ground, jerking me with him. With all the strength in me, I tried pulling him to his feet.
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the side of his neck. “Those motherfuckers!”
I got to my feet and ran back in the direction of Chad and Gus and the others. My eyes
were bloodshot with rage, blurring my rationality. Everything went black.
The first thing I remember after seeing Mikie’s blood was Mama screaming at me to clean
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“Mikie, we have to go, we have t…” I stopped when I saw a trickle of blood running down
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/ AMANDA YOUNGBLOOD
Amanda Youngblood graduated from the University of South Alabama with a BFA
FALLOPIAN
in Painting and Silk Screen. Since graduation, she has had two solo shows and has
Thomas Myers
Colored Pencil
been accepted into several juried exhibitions, even winning a few awards. Some of
Photography
her work has been featured at the Mobile County Courthouse and published in Mobile
Bay Monthly. Much of her work heavily concentrates on the figure and portraiture. She
prefers to paint subjects that show a lot of expression and emotion. Her portrait work
Thomas Myers is a native of Mobile, Alabama and is an executive with a local
healthcare information technology company. His black and white photography
focuses on abstract qualities of natural and Southern themes.
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/ THOMAS MYERS
CLEVE
Amanda Youngblood
tends be be a cropped and close-up view of the subject. To her, a person’s face tells a
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story, especially their eyes. They are a map to where one has been and where one is
going. She likes to find these stories and tell them through paint.
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/ COREY HARVARD
a wilderness
COREY HARVARD
with him,
His love
it will not have
will never sanctuary,
the wildness
never
of ours.
/ COREY HARVARD
CONSOLATION
pull hallelujah
from your lips,
but if it does,
it won’t carnival
your eyes,
grin you a campfire,
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it cannot fathom —
not even a bit —
the wilderness we grew
from nothing.
And should you grow
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and even if it could,
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/ MARGUERITE GUZMAN BOUVARD
LIBBY ATWATER
I entered the world one Sunday afternoon in mid-February 1948, the firstborn child of an
/ LIBBY ATWATER
WHAT TOOK YOU SO LONG
unwed fifteen-year-old. Her Catholic parents were surprised by my arrival. So, says my
mother, was she. It was the age of secrets, and my mother’s family kept many. As a result,
my grandmother hadn’t bothered to tell my mother the facts of life. When she and my
grandfather saw my mother’s stomach swelling, they assumed she had been eating too
much pasta. Imagine how shocked they were when I appeared.
As first-generation Italian immigrants, they were ashamed that their daughter had given
birth out of wedlock. I’m told that when my mother asked to hold me, the nurse replied,
“No, this baby’s going to be adopted.” And so I was. The family practice of omerta (Italian
for keeping a secret until death) began that day and continued for nearly fifty-seven years.
The day my secret was revealed in 2004, I learned that my grandfather, Giovanni Batista
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was well connected. He quickly arranged for a local doctor to find me a good home,
despite the objections of my grandmother, Rose, and two aunts. Aunt Fran, the wife of
THE DREAM CATCHER
Marguerite Guzman Bouvard
Photography
Marguerite Guzman Bouvard is the author of eight poetry books. Her first book
my mother’s brother, Joe, asked to keep me. She and Uncle Joe had rushed my mother
won the Quarterly Rview of Literature Prize, her seventh the MassBook Award for
to the hospital that Sunday afternoon when my mother’s labor began. Aunt Carmella, my
Poetry. Her work has been widely anthologized and published in literary magazines
such as Louisiana Literature, the Hawaii Pacific Review, Confrontation, the Midwest
mother’s older sister who lived in New York, did not learn of my birth until after I’d been
Quarterly, and many others.
sent away. She was married with children and said she would have taken me, too. My
grandmother suggested they pretend I was their late-in-life baby. To all of these requests,
my grandfather adamantly replied, “No. She will bring shame on our family.”
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(John the Baptist) Scaglione, the oldest of eleven children from a family in Bari, Italy,
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/ LIBBY ATWATER
My early adolescence and teen years were filled with loss and trauma. When I was
home to their house in Newark, New Jersey, only a few miles from the hospital where I
twelve, we had to sell our home and most of its contents to pay off my father’s gambling
They named me Libby, which
means ‘an oath of God’ in Hebrew.
was born and the family who had given me life,
debts. My parents separated after the house sold, and my mother, sister, and I moved
thanks to their family doctor. They named me
to California to be near my mother’s brother. My father went to live with his father, our
Libby, which means “an oath of God” in Hebrew.
Zayde (Yiddish for grandfather) in Philadelphia. Ten months later, Daddy died of a heart
They already had a four-year-old girl named Blanche, who’d also been adopted and
attack. Shortly after we arrived in California, my seventeen-year-old sister decided to
was thrilled to have a baby sister at first. Ruth’s stepfather, Morris Dickstein, a widower,
return to New Jersey on her own. My mother and I remained in California where she took
moved in with them after her mother died. My sister and I called him Poppy.
a series of menial jobs to support us until she suffered a heart attack. She recovered and
/ LIBBY ATWATER
Ruth and Harry Berger, an Orthodox Jewish couple of Russian descent, brought me
returned to work only to die in her sleep of a massive heart attack when I was fifteen. I
My adoption was finalized two years after I was born, and that is when I was first told. I
arrived home one day from babysitting and found her.
sat on one of the twin beds in the room Blanche and I shared asking, “Adopted? What
does that mean?”
Shortly before my mother died, I began going through a box of papers I found in her
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“It means we’re not really theirs,” Blanche replied. “Someone gave us away, and Mommy
birth mother’s name as Angela Scaglione. I memorized the name but said nothing about
and Daddy took us home, but we don’t really belong to them.”
my discovery.
“Oh,” I said and continued as if nothing had changed. I was too young to understand
Twenty years later, when I was in my mid-thirties, I grew curious about my roots after
what my sister meant.
reading a “Dear Abby” column on adoption. Abby gave a resource for connecting
adopted children with their birth parents—but each one had to be searching. I filled out
Sometime during my childhood, I forgot that I was adopted. Blanche never did. As far
a form and mailed my donation to the group Abby mentioned. Nothing happened.
as I was concerned, I was Ruth and Harry Berger’s younger daughter. They were my
mommy and daddy. Blanche was my older sister by four years. Poppy was our grandpa,
In my early fifties, I developed a rare bleeding disorder that caused me to have numerous
and we were a family. I forgot that conversation sometime during my childhood and
endoscopies and iron infusions. By the time I was fifty-six, I grew tired of these
never thought that I belonged to any other family.
procedures and decided it was time to find my birth family and my health history.
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closet while she was at work. Among them was my original birth certificate, listing my
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/ LIBBY ATWATER
for a number of reasons. I have had some health problems that may have
I sent out six identical e-mails before lunch after using Google’s search engine:
biological links, and I have two grown sons who share my heredity. It would
also be very nice to meet my birth family if, and only if, they feel the same
I am a personal historian seeking information on Angela Scaglione, who lived
way. I hope the information I have provided will not shock or upset you. I
in Irvington or Newark, New Jersey, in the late 1940s. I found your name
would really appreciate your help.
/ LIBBY ATWATER
On September 27, 2004, the ninety-eighth anniversary of my adoptive mother’s birth,
through the Google search engine and thought you might help me with this
project. If you have any information that might help my search, please reply
via e-mail or telephone me at the number listed below. Thank you.
Within an hour, I received a reply:
I know this person. What kind of information are you looking for? For whom
The reply came back within minutes:
Yes, it is a little shocking, and I am investigating this with a few family
members. I will get back to you ASAP.
Take care,
Jerry
and why?
Thanks, Jerry Scaglione
After this reply, I became nervous—afraid I would not hear from Jerry again. Through
another e-mail to Jerry, I volunteered some additional information. I heard nothing for the
I wrote back immediately:
Thank you for responding to my query. The reason I am seeking this
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Hospital on February 15, 1948, and my birth mother is listed as Angela
Scaglione. I was given up for adoption shortly after my birth, and I have
always wondered about my birth mother. My adoptive parents, Ruth and
Harry Berger of Hillside, New Jersey, died in 1962 and 1963, when I was a
teenager. I was afraid to seek my birth mother and family for many years,
unsure of what I would find. However, I would really like to know my history
Jerry was waiting:
You are definitely a member of our family. The circumstances of your birth are
a little different from what you were told — except for the Italian part. I am
your first cousin. My father, your uncle, will talk to his sister today and ask her
if she’d like to meet you. Please send me a phone number and the times you
can be reached, and I’ll call you later. Whether or not she wants to talk to you,
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information is for my own personal history. I was born in Irvington General
remainder of the day. The next morning, I opened my e-mail immediately. A note from
you have a right to know.
129
/ LIBBY ATWATER
was in business meetings all day, and my sons and daughter-in-law were at work.
I couldn’t leave the house, afraid I’d miss Jerry’s call. It came at 5:30 that evening.
“You have a mother, a brother, and a sister who all want to meet you” he announced.
“Unfortunately, your father died thirteen months ago, but the rest of your family is alive
and very happy that you found them. Here are their phone numbers.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t get to meet him, too. What was he like?”
“Oh, he was such a happy guy. Loved music. From the moment he got up in the morning,
that radio was on. Towards the end, he had problems — mini-strokes. He began to
wander, and I had to lock him in the house when I went out.”
/ LIBBY ATWATER
I was so excited I felt I could fly, and no one was around to share my news. My husband
Quite a while later, Angela said, “This call must be costing you a lot of money.”
I dialed the phone and listened as it began to ring — once, twice, a third time. Finally, a
woman picked up. “Hello,” she said.
“Is this Angela? I’m Libby, your daughter.”
“It’s all right. I’ve waited too many years to make it.”
I never dreamed I’d meet my birth mother. Now, two weeks after we first spoke,
“How are you?” she asked with a thick New Jersey accent. “I always wondered what
I disembarked a flight from Los Angeles to Newark and walked slowly toward a group of
happened to you. It’s been more than fifty-six years.”
three. I suspected they were the family I’d been waiting all my life to meet. My mother,
brother, and sister stood just outside security at Newark Liberty Airport searching the
“I’m fine. I’m really fine, thank you. I’ve wondered about you all my life.”
crowd for someone they’d only seen in photos
exchanged online the past two weeks.
“Have you had a good life?”
I recognized them immediately from the photos
I recognized them
immediately from the photos
my brother had sent.
130
used to having a brother after only two weeks’ time. My mother, an olive-skinned, petite
doing fine.”
Italian woman with black hair worn in a shag and long dangling earrings stood between
him and my sister, a petite, pretty blond with the same haircut. My brother smiled, ready
“I’m so sorry you didn’t find me sooner,” she said. “Your father would have loved to meet
to jump in to meet the sister he had just begun to know after long daily phone calls. His
you. He died last year. I miss him terribly.”
white hair was striking, although he was seventeen months younger than I, and his huge,
dark brown eyes sparkled.
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my brother had sent. At fifty-six, I was still getting
“I have a very good life. There have been some ups and downs along the way, but I’m
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/ LIBBY ATWATER
“I know,” I responded. “I’m sorry I missed him. If only I’d looked for you sooner, but I
hugged in my life. She held on for several minutes before saying, “I always wondered
wasn’t ready.”
what happened to you. It’s been a long time.” Then she hugged me again.
My brother grabbed my suitcase from the carousel, and we went out to the parking lot
“Fifty-six years,” I answered, trying to catch my breath.
/ LIBBY ATWATER
As I approached, my mother stepped forward and hugged me harder than I’d ever been
in the cool October evening. He loaded us into the car when I said, “I’ve got to call Don. I
promised I’d call once I found you.”
“What took you so long?” she asked.
I took out my cell phone and dialed my husband in Ventura, California. “Hello,” he
Before I could answer, my brother and sister embraced me in a three-way hug. Passersby
answered on the second ring.
watched our small group huddle with curiosity. None knew what a life-changing moment
they were observing.
“Hi, Don. I’m here in the car with my mother, brother, and sister. They just picked me up at
Newark Airport.”
“Are you hungry?” my mother asked. “Let’s get your suitcase and head home. I bought
turkey and sliced cheese for sandwiches.”
Don didn’t respond. I waited and asked, “Are you still there?” Then I heard him sobbing.
My husband of thirty-five years, who rarely showed emotion, was overcome. “Honey, are
“That sounds great,” I answered. “I still have my apple I brought all the way from Ventura
you okay?” I asked.
this morning.”
132
“I love them and try to eat one every day.”
“Your father loved apples,” she said. “He ate one every day, too. Ya’ know, you look a lot
like him — tall and blond with light eyes. Oh, he would have loved to meet you.”
law for the first time in my life?”
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Finally he answered “Yes. I was just overwhelmed. Do you realize I now have a mother-in“Do you like apples?” my mother asked.
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/ KERRIE ELLIS
Intaglio
Kerrie Ellis is a junior majoring in graphic design. She is also studying printmaking. She
earned her associates degree in 2010 and has returned to school to further her education.
Aside from school and work, she also enjoys photography, painting, and drawing.
CURIOSITY
Jason Utesch was born in Portsmouth, Virginia and moved to Alabama where he
Jason Utesch
attended and graduated from Theodore High school. After serving four years in
Colored Pencil
the Navy, he is currently pursuing a degree in computer engineering. He has been
drawing ever since he could remember, and in his spare time, he enjoys painting and
drawing for relaxation.
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/ JASON UTESCH
134
PLAY TIME
Kerrie Ellis
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/ W.F. LANTRY
/ CAROLINE MYERS
CARTOGRAPHY
W.F. LANTRY
The isobars, if drawn, would indicate
an open wave mid-latitude cyclone
approaching from the west, the isotherms
would signify to any casual
map reader, winter coming on to merge
with this harsh continent producing snow.
I know such systems redistribute heat
through wind, I know their cause may be at times
small as a bird’s wing in Siberia,
or lover turning from the forest’s edge
and drawing close around her neck a shawl
136
I even know a strong wind from the south
presages ice storms in a day or two
or windless nights, when her cold becomes mine
and sparrows huddle close in leafless shrubs,
but am still shocked that isotherms could draw
so close together on this sun warmed earth.
AGED REFLECTION
Caroline Myers
Mixed Media
Caroline Myers is a sophomore at St. Pauls Episcopal School in Mobile, Alabama.
She is an honors student whose interests include art and photography.
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against November’s cold and her own loss.
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/ JULIANZA SHAVIN
trees trilling their still-green glorias,
JULIANZA SHAVIN
the tremendous welcome accusation
of light seeping through cracks in worn seals?
A fullness peels from the walls,
engages. Oh yes.
This healthy ship!
The problem is, a healthy body
One day out of seven, revved
wants and wants.
like a reverse God.
/ JULIANZA SHAVIN
BODY DECLENSION
Six days it rested, rests, must rest,
Such a bloody summer, this,
pitiable thing in declension:
rife with sunsets,
inactive verb, moribund & tearsome.
snazzy syncopated bumps of breeze,
bluster of rain off the deck.
That man, long ago.
Said I’d kill him
Rain, falling—steam, rising.
on one of those one-of-seven days,
Something about this intrudes:
which happened, but not in that way.
my father all these decades,
Thing is, he wanted to go,
still a What in the grave.
whole walls falling off
138
Lassitude threatens through a side door,
roof and foundation
some tired messiah: quick crucifixion.
a warped triangle of studs.
Even the land was running away
Oh, how to convey exuberant,
this lazy smiling tooth of day,
on leggy weeds of night.
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his pathetic house,
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/ JULIANZA SHAVIN
RED TIDE
is so terrifying, said a friend who is.
JULIA HALPRIN-JACKSON
On a day like this I could be my own,
this one day of seven, four of twenty eight
The letter
and onward, the mercurial march of math.
On your way out you say, write me a letter. I watch until your car is a white speck on
the horizon. Monday is lousy with rain; I let the drops fall on the page. Tuesday the trees
Glorious mansion of flesh!
are dewy with blossoms, so I squish some in the envelope. Wednesday a squirrel leaves
An emptiness peels from this mast of face,
footprints on the paper. Thursday I want to fit the rest of the world in, but there aren’t
a smile replaces,
enough words. When Friday comes, you are here again, your books on my desk, your
even as morning leaks from the god of tomorrow.
smell in my room. You say, don’t worry, baby, this is what I meant.
/ JULIA HALPRIN-JACKSON
The thought of being someone’s savior
Heartbreak
She has a heart but all it pumps is blood. She can’t fall in love. One night an infomercial
changes everything. There it is: a love machine. It arrives two days later, this small
contraption that slips in her bra, as close to the atrium as she can get it. She wears it on her
next date, and immediately Craig is more attractive, more wonderful. Months pass. Craig
proposes. She has never been happier. But she forgot to read the fine print. The machine
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Crunchy
He’s synesthetic. He’s macrobiotic. He’s vegan. Al eats only raw food that, when written
down, appears yellow, green, or brown — colors of the earth. His body is so pure, so
unadulterated, that if you stared down his throat, you could see the Crocs pattern on the
sole of his shoe. His body is a wind tunnel. When winter turns to spring, you can spot him
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short-circuits on her wedding day. As she walks down the aisle, her heart races, bursts.
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/ JULIA HALPRIN-JACKSON
/ HALEY FRANKLIN
out west of town, shooting through the fields like a kite. I found him once, tangled up in
my cherry tree, and asked, Why? Al’s smile was beatific. Because it’s wonderful, he said,
being raw.
On the lookout
I hear them at night — high, looping trills that echo across the courtyard. I wander
out onto our balcony and scan the patios of neighboring complexes. Maybe on some
opposite balcony there’s a girl like me, sitting out in the dusk with her bird, waiting for
that moment when we’re both out on our patios together. Maybe we could string up
tin cans or wave flags of different colors. The sounds persist, starting after sundown
and lasting until I lie down on my bed at night, but my neighbors rarely stay on their
balconies long enough to send a signal.
Red tide
Asa takes me to witness the red tide. The beach emits sparks as long as the tunnel waves
exploding out of dark water. When his feet touch sand, the ground blanches, white jets
light up the black earth. The sea is a photograph’s negative. We sit at the intersection
of two glowing tides. The water leaks into the heavens: long, black, fluid, star-like waves
142
hair its own Milky Way. Asa stargazes my freckles. When I brush my hair, he sees shooting
comets. I glow.
THE NATURE OF GREIVING
Haley Franklin
Silkscreen
Haley Franklin, a jack-of-all trades and recent USA graduate, sells her art at the
monthly LODA artwalk and is working on setting up her own printmaking studio.
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extend skyward. I stay here until I, too, am bioluminescent. My freckles become stars, my
143
/ CONTRIBUTORS
Maureen Alsop
Poetry
31
Glen Armstrong
Poetry
Maureen Alsop, Ph.D. is the author of several collections of
10
poetry including: Later, Knives & Trees, Mantic, Apparition
Glen Armstrong holds an MFA in English from the University
of Massachusetts, Amherst and teaches writing at Oakland
University in Rochester, Michigan. He also edits a poetry
journal called Cruel Garters. His work has appeared in Poetry
Wren, and Mirror Inside Coffin (forthcoming).
/ CONTRIBUTORS
CONTRIBUTORS
Northwest, Conduit and Cloudbank.
www.maureenalsop.com
Anonymous
Poetry
40
The author is a naturist, Radical Faerie, and University of
South Alabama alumnus. They’ve drawn most of their
inspiration from the erotic works of E. E. Cummings,
Adrienne Rich, and W. H. Auden. Their previous work has
appeared in the online literary journal The Dirty Napkin.
With their poetry, they aim to dismantle heteronormativity and
destroy the evils of heterosexism.
Frank Ard
Poetry
144
Libby Atwater began telling people’s stories in 1989. As a
Nonfiction
journalist, teacher, and personal historian, she has written
125
for individuals, families, businesses, nonprofits, educational
institutions, magazines, and community newspapers. In addition
to writing books and recording people’s stories on CD, she
chaired the Oral History Program for the Museum of Ventura
County. Tales from her life have been published in several
anthologies, and her first memoir, What Lies Within, was
published in 2013. It won First Place in the 2014 Royal Dragonfly
Frank Ard is a graduate of the Stonecoast MFA program at the
University of Southern Maine and Clarion West Writers Workshop.
His work has been featured in Superficial Flesh, Suspense
Magazine, Ideomancer, Kaleidotrope, The Future Fire, and other
fine journals. He’s currently working on a short story collection
about wild animals and a novel about disaffected superheroes.
Awards genre of Biography/Memoir and tied for First Place in
the genre Other Nonfiction. Atwater is currently writing several
sequels: Out Into the World, What Took You So Long?, Beloved
Horse, and Bugged in Brentwood: Tales from Suburbia.
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89
Libby J. Atwater
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/ CONTRIBUTORS
Michael Bassett is a philosopher, booklover, visual artist and
Michelle Chikaonda
Poetry
poet. He holds an MFA from Vermont College and a Ph.D. in
Nonfiction
55
English Literature from The University of Southern Mississippi.
34
Michelle Chikaonda is a narrative nonfiction writer who
originates from Blantyre, Malawi. Currently living in
Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, she is working at the undergraduate
He lives in Bluffton and enjoys the natural beauty of the South
admissions office of her alma mater, the University of
Carolina low country. He is the winner of the 2005 FUGUE
Pennsylvania, while completing a collection of nonfiction
poetry contest judged by Tony Hoagland and the Joan
essays about growing into adolescence and adulthood across
Johnson prize. He is the author of four books of poetry. His
multiple cultures. Michelle was the first place winner in the
latest collection, Hatchery of Tongues, published by Negative
nonfiction category at the 2014 Tucson Festival of Books
Capability Press, is nominated for an American Book Award.
Literary Awards. She is currently learning her fifth language,
/ CONTRIBUTORS
Michael Bassett
German, and, when she is not working or writing, enjoys
Marguerite Guzman Bouvard
Poetry
51
traveling and spending time with friends and family.
Marguerite Guzman Bouvard is the author of eight poetry
books. Her most recent book is “The Light That Shines Inside
Us.” Her seventh book won the MassBook Award for Poetry.
Her poetry has appeared in numerous anthologies and literary
magazines. She is also the author of 12 non-fiction books in a
variety of fields, human rights, women and human rights, grief
Jennifer ClarkGrainger
Poetry
30
Jennifer Clark-Grainger is a senior at the University of South
Alabama and an aspiring visual anthropologist. She enjoys
photojournalism focusing on American and southern culture,
including her own Acadian roots. This is her first written publication.
and more. She is currently a resident Scholar at the Women’s
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Averie Collier
Averie Collier likes to write about her experiences in life
Nonfiction
because, for her, it is healing. She is not ashamed of her
43
struggles. She chooses to be open about them and learn from
them. She hopes that her openness will help someone else
someday.
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ORACLE FINE ARTS REVIEW
Studies Research Center, Brandeis University.
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/ CONTRIBUTORS
Stephanie Feather is a graduate of University of South
Ryan Keller
Nonfiction
Alabama where she received her BA in English. She is pursuing
Fiction
117
a career in editing and publishing and enjoys writing when she
64
Ryan Keller may annoy you with his heavy-handed critiques,
but hopes that you feel motivated by them. An economics
student at the University of South Alabama, an avid musician,
has the time. She hopes to publish a book of poetry she wrote
artist, and writer, Ryan believes that one should pursue
about growing up in Seattle, Wa. Currently she is writing a
everything in life that they feel inclined to. He has published
fiction novel based on the very real poaching crisis in Africa.
work in The Collegiate Scholar and is currently seeking
/ CONTRIBUTORS
Stephanie Feather
representation for his first novel, “Children of the Citadel.” He
Corey Harvard
Poetry
122
Corey Harvard is a singer/songwriter from the Gulf Coast.
lives in Mobile with his wife and two toddlers.
His work has been featured in publications including Poetry
Life and Times, The HyperTexts, and The Oak Bend Review. In
2009, he was nominated for the Pushcart Prize.
W.F. Lantry
Poetry
148
(Little Red Tree 2012), winner of a 2013 Nautilus Award
in Poetry, The Language of Birds (Finishing Line 2011),
Julia Halprin-Jackson
Julia Halprin-Jackson is a recent graduate of UC Davis’ M.A. in
a lyric retelling of Attar’s Conference of the Birds, and a
Fiction
Creative Writing program, a professional editor by day and an
forthcoming collection The Book of Maps. A native of San
141
obsessive writer and doodler by night. Her work has appeared
Diego, he received his Maîtrise from L’Université de Nice, M.A.
in West Branch Wired, Fourteen Hills, California Northern,
from Boston University, and PhD in Creative Writing from
Fiction365, Sacramento News & Review, Flatmancrooked, as
University of Houston. Recent honors include the National
well as selected anthologies. She has received fellowships from
Hackney Literary Award in Poetry, CutBank Patricia Goedicke
the Bread Loaf Writer’s Conference (2013) and the Tomales
Prize, Crucible Editors’ Poetry Prize, Lindberg Foundation
Bay Writer’s Workshops (2011).
International Poetry for Peace Prize (Israel), and the Potomac
Review and Old Red Kimono LaNelle Daniel Prizes. His
Richard Hillyer
Poetry
61
Richard Hillyer is an associate professor in the English
publication credits include Asian Cha, Valparaiso Poetry
department at the University of South Alabama. He teaches
Review, Gulf Coast and Aesthetica. He currently works in
mainly Renaissance literature, especially Shakespeare.
Washington, DC and is an associate fiction editor at JMWW.
wflantry.com.
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W.F. Lantry’s poetry collections are The Structure of Desire
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/ CONTRIBUTORS
Invited Nonfiction
13
Becky McLaughlin is Associate Professor of English at the
University of South Alabama, where she teaches critical theory,
film, and gender studies. She has published articles on a
Julianza Shavin
Poetry
138
Raised in Georgia, Julianza (Julie) Shavin, is a composer,
writer, and visual artist who adopted the Rocky Mountains
as home in 1993. She has been disabled since 1987. Recipient
wide range of literary and filmic subjects as well as numerous
of three Pikes Peak Arts Council grants, she was named 2011
pieces of creative nonfiction. She is currently writing a book
PPAC Performance Poet of the Year; in 2012, Page Poet. She
about Chaucer and Lacan entitled “Wild” Analysis and the
is published often in literary magazines and anthologies, and
Symptomatic Storyteller.
has had her artwork selected for several covers. Recently, she
/ CONTRIBUTORS
Becky McLaughlin
was awarded second place and two Honorable Mentions in the
N.T. McQueen
Fiction
91
N.T. McQueen is the author of the novels Between Lions and
Mark Fisher Prize contest. In 2014, she merited three awards
Lambs and The Disciple. He received his MA in Creative Writing
through the National Federation of State Poetry Societies. Her
from CSU-Sacramento under the direction of Douglas Rice.
collection Of Mortality a Music was published by Dreamzion
He has won two Bazzanella Literary Awards and his work
Press; the upcoming title/manuscript is An Octave Above the
has appeared in issues such as Calliope Magazine, Gold Man
Sea. Past-President of Poetry West (www.poetrywest.org), she
Review, eFiction, Camas: The Nature of the West, Burning
served as editor of the thirtieth anniversary issue of its literary
Daylight, and others. He lives in Northern California with his
magazine, The Eleventh Muse.
wife and three daughters.
Kerri Waites
150
Timothy L. Rodriguez was a journalist when newspapers
Fiction
counted, he is a poet when poetry doesn’t count for much,
57
and he is a novelist when the fate of fiction is uncertain. He
has published in English and Spanish. His most recent novel —
Guess Who Holds Thee? — is available on Amazon. He makes
loose change selling his seascapes. He is a practitioner of
Robert Frost’s line — the only certain freedom is in departure;
he has traveled widely and assumed many walks of life. For the
moment he lives on a barrier island in North Carolina.
Poetry
114
resides in Mobile, Alabama. Herwork has previously appeared in
Oracle Fine Arts Review. She hopes to one day explore the use of
therapeutic writing in the treatment of Alzheimer’s patients.
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ORACLE FINE ARTS REVIEW
Timothy L. Rodriguez
Kerri Waits is a perpetual student, daydreamer, and poet who
151
/ CONTRIBUTORS
27
Tyler Williams
Fiction
104
BOARD OF TRUSTEES & ADMINISTRATION
Creative Writing at the University of South Alabama and
Director of the Stokes Center for Creative Writing. She was the
Governor Robert Bentley, President, Board of Trustees
2003–2012 Poet Laureate of Alabama and the 2013 recipient of
Ms. Chandra Brown Stewart, Mobile
the Eugene Current-Carcia Award for Alabama’s Distinguished
Dr. Scott A. Charlton, Coffee and Crenshaw
Scholar. Dr. Walker is a scholar, poet, playwright, professor, and
Mr. E. Thomas Corcoran, Baldwin and Escambia
Publisher of Negative Capability Press. She has nine books of
Dr. Steven P. Furr, Choctaw, Clarke, and Washington
poetry, has edited four national literary anthologies, had work
Mr. Robert D. Jenkins III, State at Large
published in more than thirty anthologies, published some fifty
Ms. Bettye R. Maye, Marengo and Sumter
critical articles and is known for her work on Southern writers,
Ms. Arlene Mitchell, Mobile
Carson McCullers, Flannery O’Connor, and James Dickey
Mr. Bryant Mixon, State at Large
as well as her published works on Marge Piercy, Margaret
Mr. John M. Peek, Butler, Conecuh, and Covington
Atwood, Richard Eberhart, and Karl Shapiro. Her book, The
Mr. James H. Shumock, State at Large
Chiasmic Ecology of James Dickey was published in 2013
Mr. Kenneth O. Simon, State at Large
by Mellen Press. Dr. Walker is a graduate of the University of
Mayor William S. Stimpson, Mobile
Alabama where she received a B.S. degree in Education from
Dr. Steven H. Stokes, Henry and Houston
the University of Alabama and an M.Ed, M.A. and Ph.D. degree
Mr. Michael P. Windom, State at Large
from Tulane University.
Mr. James A. Yance, State at Large
Tyler Williams is a graduate student at the University of South
Tony G. Waldrop, A.B., M.A., Ph.D President
Alabama pursuing a Master of Arts.
John W. Smith, B.S., M.Ed., Ed.D. Vice President for Student Affairs,
Special Assistant to President
Robert T. Lowry, B.A. Acting Director of Public Relations
ORACLE FINE ARTS REVIEW
ORACLE FINE ARTS REVIEW
Invited Poetry
Sue Brannan Walker, Stokes Distinguished Professor of
/ BOARD OF TRUSTEES & ADMINISTRATION
152
Sue Brannan Walker
153
/ BOARD OF TRUSTEES & ADMINISTRATION
Joseph F. Busta, Jr., B.S., M.S., Ph.D. Vice President for Development
and Alumni Relations
Lynne U. Chronister, B.A., M.P.A. Vice President for Research and Economic Development
Ronald D. Franks, M.D. Vice President for Health Sciences
Charles L. Guest Jr., B.S. M.S., Ph.D. Associate Vice President for Academic Affairs
Stanley K. Hammack, B.S., M.P.A. Vice President for Health Systems
B. Keith Harrison, B.S., M.S., Ph.D. Associate Vice President for Academic Affairs,
Dean of the Graduate School
G. David Johnson, B.A., M.S., Ph.D. Senior Vice President for Academic Affairs
Christopher A. Lynch, B.S., M.A. Interim Director for Enrollment Services
Michael Mitchell, B.A., M.Ed, Ph.D. Assistant Vice President for Student Affairs /
Dean of Students
Kelly M. Osterbind, B.S., M.P. A. University Registrar
Stephen H. Simmons, B.S., C.P.A. Vice President for Financial Affairs
ORACLE FINE ARTS REVIEW
Jean W. Tucker, B.S.N., M.P.H., J.D. Senior University Attorney
ORACLE FINE ARTS REVIEW
154
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/ SUBMISSION GUIDELINES
PLEASE FOLLOW DIRECTIONS CAREFULLY OR YOUR WORK MAY NOT BE CONSIDERED.
Written Work
Submit each piece of work, including author bio, in separate documents and name each
file “[Last Name]_[Title of Piece].”
Art Work
For each piece of work, specify in the body of your submission e-mail what category
No more than one piece should be on a single document. Identifying information should
you would like to submit to. Make sure your work is titled. Submit all work via e-mail in
be nowhere on the page. Include a bio of 150 words or less. E-mail submissions in a Word
CMYK, 300 dpi, JPEG format, and title each document “[Last Name]_[Title of Work].”
document. Submissions will not be accepted in any other format.
/ SUBMISSION GUIDELINES
SUBMISSION GUIDELINES
In a separate Word document, submit an author bio of 150 words or less. See oracle
website for example bios.
Fiction and Nonfiction: Maximum of three (3) submissions.
No more than 300 words, double spaced, 12-point, Times New Roman, or Times font.
Categories: Ceramics, Painting, Illustration, Mixed Media, Photography, Printmaking,
Sculpture, Drawing, and Glass.
Poetry: Maximum of three (3) submissions. 200 lines or less. 12-point, Times New Roman
Each person may submit a maximum of three (3) pieces in each category. Artists can
or Times font. Format your work as you wish it to be read.
submit up to nine pieces total.
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Please note: If you need your work photographed, you must deliver it to the office of diane
work and an explanation of the submitted scenes. Introductions should be no more than
gibbs in the Graphic Design Visual Arts Building, Room VAB 342. See map on University of
five sentences; 12-point, Times New Roman or Times font. Format your work as you wish
South Alabama`s website.
it to be read.
Email art submissions or inquiries to:
OracleArtDirector@gmail.com
Email writing submissions or inquiries to:
Oracle@SouthAlabama.edu
ORACLE FINE ARTS REVIEW
ORACLE FINE ARTS REVIEW
Stage/Screenplays: Maximum of three (3) scenes. Include a brief synopsis of the entire
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/ SUBMISSION GUIDELINES
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For more information, including future deadlines and current guidelines, go to:
www.SouthAlabama.edu/Oracle
See our website or follow us on Facebook for updated submission information.