FC: The Bloody Talon
1: Staff Suri Smith Nicolaus Wegrzyn Emily Eisenstadt Rebecca Chappell Rebecca Holmes Clare Yaghjian Jane Hearn Rachel Ridgill
3: Because so many contributions were submitted to the magazine anonymously, it seemed unfair to credit only a few works with authors. Subseqeuntly, we have decided to list those individuals here. Thnak you for your submissions. Laci Bruckerhoff Nathanael Plumb Bailey Rotenberry Jessica Craft Rebecca Chappell Clare Yaghjian Jane Hearn Rachel Ridgill Patrick Mcmannus Becca Holmes Suri Smith Vali Nasshat Sylvia Norris Noelle Stevenson Jennifer Murphy Glen Podwil Zoe Woodrum Raven Springs Latiyfa Hewitt Abrianna Manning Briana Stewart James Schultz Anna Batten Megan Boone Porscha Fisher Suyeon Lee
4: Around The World ...
6: When the ocean was all in a shell held to my ear, it seemed so surmountable, so touchable. There was no insignificance found in depths That could be traced with my finger and rinsed in the sink. There was no way to know how vast and difficult it would be To cross when all that I wanted was on the other side. If no man is an island, then what is an island? We can only see and feel that which we understand, That which is part of us. But I’ve never felt anything so strongly as this boundary, This line in the sand made of sand coastlines Beautiful perfect and meaningless beaches That crowd me as fiercely as barbed wire, Holding me to the island that is no man, That will never be a man, That still controls me like the most jealous of lovers. Somewhere in the ocean between us Lie all of the secrets and ideas and moments That now escape me, like mermaids and krakens, Glimpsed in dreams and lonely moments, far off from the Crow’s nest. Only I believe in them, and only I have seen Them, and in the brightness of day, even I doubt What never really came close enough to touch. | I could swim this sea for the rest of my life, Hoping to catch you, to snare you and keep you with me, But maybe you’re better as a long story, Brought out only under cover of night and Drunken wistfulness, that changes with time, And freezes you in perfection. This ocean will not age, but roll on forever, And I’ll stare into the waves until I am old And tired, dreaming of a love that could Have been, that would have been Perfect. My tales will glitter, And so will you, Eternally Ravishing and brilliant, Never gasping out of water or murky In your faults. Like the whorls of the shell That keeps the ocean within, A perfect and tangible and endless spiral, Easy in your smallness.
7: From top left to bottom right: The Dead Sea, Tel Aviv, Ceasarea, Tel Aviv, Tel Aviv, and Tel Aviv.
9: If on some hot afternoon we crossed paths, The sidewalk scraped and the sun pressing into My bare shoulders, your hair shorter than I knew, Maybe there would be nothing left to remember. Quickly, because there isn’t much time to recall What my heart was doing when the moon Spilled in strips across your back, splashed and Shadowed the lines of your jaw; I’d miss you If I could feel that. But when it was time to jump I fell short And it became a filler in your memory. The wings creaked in the mid-afternoon heat And the slightest breeze swept across your Fingers as they brushed by me on the way to Cross the street. Mother Nature, she loves your beautiful face, She gets swept up as easy as me. Did you know that the grass is greener here? And it was hope that kept us floating in that green sea of jealousy, But I’m not going to go backwards with you. I will not let you be enough.
13: To The Man I Might Have Known I sat in a smoky cafe, sipping bitter black coffee in a shadowy corner. The window closest to me had a sill covered in overgrown plants, their leaves spilling out green and fresh over the edges of their pots. Sunlight filtering through the grimy window, falling in a dusty shaft upon the floor; it left a square of light on the hard wood of the floorboards, reminding me that it was close to sunset. Twilight was on it’s way, a fact I was assured of after checking the small golden watch on my wrist. I looked around the room, through the maze of tables and chairs that seemed to be strewn haphazardly about the room. My eyes fell on a man sitting at the opposite wall. He looked young, probably only a few years older than I. He wore a dark button-down shirt, the sleeves rolled to his elbows. I saw him tap a cigarette in the ashtray and watched as glowing embers fell off the tip, leaving a trail to small gray-white ash on the table. I looked into his face, searching to see his thoughts. He was concentrating carefully on the cigarette, his brows knitted together in quite dismay. I wondered what sadness had crept into his life over the years; what struggles he had faced and been defeated by. Was it simply the weight of the world weighing on him in that moment that caused his forehead to contract so, or was it that his girlfriend had just left him? His dark eyes stared at the table before him, lost as if in some faraway moment he was remembering. It was then that the melancholy snuck up on me, too. I felt an ache in my bones and my throat tightened as I watched this man, beaten by some trial or another; watched him gently wilt into a private sorrow in his dark and dusty caf on 9th Street. How I longed to reach out to this man, to hold him silently and help him to know that the world might not be so bad. I sat, stunned at this emotional flood within me, and realized suddenly that the man had glanced in my direction. My eyes darted down to my coffee cup, hoping that he hadn’t noticed my blue irises staring at him through the gloom. When I looked up again, his table was inexplicably empty, clear of the cigarette ashes and his coffee cup gone; I looked around the dark little establishment, but saw no trace of the man. How he disappeared so quickly, I can’t know; how he affected me so profoundly, I’ll never guess. But I will remember his dark eyes and his calm sadness, and I will hope to one day meet him again.