Carolina Muse IV.I : simplebooklet.com

From the EditorI always choose a word to carry into each year: last year was adventure, the previous, self-discovery, and this year, love. The choice felt gentle compared to the chaos of my adventure year, almost easy, and I was excited to settle into it. But, a little over a month into the year (and, coincidentally, during the month decidedly centered around love), its complexity & chaos have pushed me to reconstruct its denition & reset my intentions. Love can be seen as a cliche theme in creative work, sometimes used as a default when we aren’t ready to approach “deeper” topics. Perhaps, subconsciously, that was my mindset in choosing the word for my year. But, love isn’t a theme we choose to avoid other feelings & emotions. On the contrary, it pushes us to feel everything more deeply. It isn’t just about a romantic partner… it’s bigger than that. Love drives compassion that is the basis of our connection with others, the earth, and ourselves. Loving others brings richness to life, but it also urges us to advocate for change in the world where we see hurt. Loving the earth inspires us to look out for it and make choices that support its vitality. And, if we don’t feel love for ourselves, how can we take care of our needs and treat ourselves with the respect we deserve? Love inspires us to feel and to take important action.This magazine is a love letter to the complexities of human nature, all of the heartbreak, challenges, inspirations, growth, and love that connect us. I hope you fall in love with the characters, art, cadence, rhythm, and melodies it contains, and that this love fosters compassion & love for yourself & others. Madison

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Volume IV • No. I • February 20247StoriesFor the BestYuna KangShe ate fruit in the morning and felt glad: she was not like those other people. The other people hung around McDonald’s at dawn, sniing, looking for cocaine. They partied until 6am, their bodies coloured with streamers and glitter and cheap booze. They were people who cheated at Monopoly or played Uno with a half-full deck. They were not honest people.These were the people of her generation, of her youth. Yujin was not like those people. She had vague half-memories of a frenzied madness, not her own, of cheap bacchanals, Marianne from room 9 leaning in too close, her sour breath tickling Yujin’s chin.Where were you last night? Everyone wanted to see- Studying, I was studying. Just like you should have been, and the hurt glazed over Marianne’s worn eyes. A light went out between them, extinguished ares, and they did not speak to each other again. They had no time. Marianne went to community college and became a cosmetologist; Yujin earned her way here. She rose, for the morning lecture was soon. She drank water, ate some slices of pear. Her mother would say, eat more! but her mother would be lying. Yujin always learned how to eat less—live on less—than the people of her youth. She packed her lunch: a bit of white rice, slices of yellow pickles, a thin seaweed salad with sesame seeds & soy sauce. A dash of sesame oil for avor, some salt, all packed neatly in a box adorned with cartoon bears. She was born in America, but she was often mistaken as Korean-Korean, that new-fangled word, of doing & being something utterly conservative, from the old country, as they say.She waited for the bus. Her bicycle was stolen three weeks ago; otherwise, she would ride to school sweating in the golden warm weather. As a child, she used to bike to school daily, little girl with pigtails and ribbons and long church skirts. No one was mean to her, but they did not like her, self-serious & solemn, with her oral blouses and her penchant to get things right. She had one friend: Korean-American, who was loud and liked to get into ghts and argue with the grocery cashier. They did not talk anymore; Yujin tried not to worry about what happened to Jennie. The bus was full of people, the slumbering homeless, old women going to work, college students on their phones. She was not like them, she listened to NPR and studied political science in the ten minutes she had before she went into that large room.A colosseum of culture, but it was just people doing the things they thought they knew best, a professor droning on amusedly at her new batch of prodigies. Progenies of this world, the doctor said, this new era belongs to you. I am too old to do anything more, and we have messed this world up to ruination. I give these things to you so you can do your best, for the… better. We need you to know these things so you can do better, be better.The bus ride back home is dark and full of stars. The electric humming of the evening transit glistens, and Yujin touches her cheek; it is wet with ancient tears. A grandmother sits knitting in the back, but the F Line is deserted as Yujin rides home. And the sky is full of dark crows, heading home to their distant roosts, and rats scurry along the pavement, Yujin has to lift her long skirt in fear of holes. Her shoes are peasant soft, brown & sturdy, she crunches over glass & “And the world was receding from her, the ocean threatening to pool at her footsteps, and Yujin was almost glad.”

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8Carolina Muse Literary & Arts Magazine obsolescence. If she was Korean-Korean, like Jennie said she was, then what was this world? A night full of stars, a rare one, for the fog was not alive & suocating with its thick mists of splendor. And, if she was a girl of so many generations hence, a good Korean student, working and working hard, then what was this? A few hundred years ago, she would have been a servant or a slave, not some industrious student at university. A few decades ago, she would have seen the war. A hundred years ago, she would have learned to hate Japan. I am not Korean, but I am not American either. And the world was receding from her, the ocean threatening to pool at her footsteps, and Yujin was almost glad. It was a feckless, precarious place anyway, an ecosystem in which very few belonged, where very few found privilege & footing.And Yujin remembered the third time she saw Jennie: She was throwing stones into a silver lake, glittering in the afternoon wild sun. Jennie was no good at it, the rock ostensibly should have skipped across the purple waves, leaving diamond petals in its wake, but Jennie never got them to bounce. Nevertheless, she continued to try. It was a family party, and Jennie (taking a drag of illicit cigarette), turned her onyx eyes onto Yujin. “Do you want one?” (Yujin, holding a paper plate laden with potato chips & rice, trembled). “What?”In Jennie’s hand was a stone, no larger than an apricot pit, glossy smooth by an eternity tumbling through ruby lake waves. “It’s quite fun. Do you know how to play?” (Yujin shook her head, heart trembling, palpitations frenzying her hands.) “Well,” and with a cocksure glance, Jennie kept chucking stones into opal surfaces. She looked at Yujin’s hands; indelicate, imprecise work.“Maybe it’s all for the best,” Jennie clucked, and with surere gestures, she kept throwing stones into the watery, gorgeous sun.Yujin studied the inexpert glances of Jennie’s shoulders, unathletic reposes, the clunky way each rock hit little currents to drown. Night was settling upon their bodies, but Jennie’s face was still tinted by the light, pink & blue lines exposing her rich cheekbones, the high build of her eyebrows, her aquiline nose. Climbing up the fulcrum stairs, she can still see Jennie standing there on the shore, obsidian chunk in hand, hurling rocks and laughing at the sinking blue world. And what was the point of that? Yujin fumbles in her school bag for her apartment key; she is almost home.Even now, Yujin did not know.Listen to Yuna read “For the Best”:Stories

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10Carolina Muse Literary & Arts Magazine gossip girl xoxoCerVon CampbellMusicshe at homei’m on the wayis you alone?where do you stay?laugh for a whilebut you’re on your ownis you okay? x3i had a crush i got a baethat shit be tough i’m on the waybut i’m okay x2it’s no need to go unnoticedit’s been a minute you must of lost focusshe wanna hug & kiss and be told she isn’t worthless she say that she love me we know that she don’t said he gone change we be the same so let me tell you he won’t she in her bad bitch era but she is no bad bitch errori just got hit with the tourwhat do you do?is yo city full?can i come through?and see youi hope you good be okayi left the void please be safe i be annoyedi can’t wait i left the voidthings been okayokay?nahif you’re still there i hate it for youif you stop growing i hate it for youi had a taste and took another if i wanted i’d destroy youhope you good i hope you goodhope you goodi hope you good x8

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18Carolina Muse Literary & Arts Magazine PoetryTo Sip from the CreekHaley JamesonI take o my slippers,walk barefoot through the grass.When was the last time I put esh to green?It’s been months since I’ve touched real nature,bare skin to earth.Or perhaps it’s been years.I rst worry about stickers,gumballs, pinecones,but I soon pick up the pace,a wish in my hand.I’m trusting the moon to keep me safe.The shadows hide no dangers tonight,even the rattlesnake has made way.Now it’s down the dockon the old wooden planks.My feet nd that nostalgic rhythm.Splinters cross my mind,but my soul is too light to trip on these memories of trees.I breathe in the still creek and the cicadas’ song.Oh, to crawl across the water’s surface and never sink,as calm as tempered glass.A ripple in the moon’s reection,the siren’s song in its splash.I listen and watch for a scaly friend.Little sh, if you don’t need your tail,I’ll take it.

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Volume IV • No. I • February 202419StoriesSmoking a Joint at the End of the WorldClaire LancasterHodgkin’s Lymphoma ate Mrs. Evans, Susan, from the inside out, beginning in her blood, her lymphocytes, and ravaging through her esh. Lilly had texted me, most likely out of loving obligation, a brief & melancholic update just days after astrophysicists observed the rogue asteroid:My mom isn’t doing too well in hospice–lost a lot of weight, sleeping most of the day, fed through a nasal tube. You would barely recognize her. When the masses learned of the celestial body’s direct collision course with our planet, humanity divided itself into two distinct categories. There were those who ignited with uncontrollable panic and lawless hysteria, who rushed recklessly through the streets shrieking and quivering and weeping, who dropped to their knees and prayed to the gods they never believed in. And then there were those who gazed up at the vast & dangerous cosmos with indierence and simply muttered, “What the fuck?” I responded to Lilly that I was sorry and that I was there for her if she needed anything. She thanked me back. Since our correspondence pertained to one death, as opposed to the deaths of nearly eight billion people, I gured then that we both belonged to the “What the fuck?” category. While planet Earth waited for the asteroid to demolish the frail remains of humanity, Lilly and I waited for the cancer to devour the rest of Susan’s crippled body. • • • I took up smoking—not nicotine, marijuana—after I sued Maria Rodriguez and her husband last August. I guess that I, myself, didn’t sue them. My client, Teri Summers, sued them. I just went to court and demolished a small, immigrant-owned business on Teri’s behalf because Mr. and Mrs. Rodriguez sold Teri a handle of Burnett’s and a case of Coors. And Teri drank until intoxication and proceeded to drive her Honda CRV into a ditch. Did you know you can sue whoever sold you alcohol if you just consume it and climb into a car and push your foot down on the gas until you crash? And you break your pelvis and three ribs? Because you can. Hurting yourself is lucrative. Eventually, Rodriguez Market ceased to exist, and Teri and I loaded our wallets full of dirty money. Absolutely lthy, rotten money. Twenties and fties and one-hundreds poured from the sky and pooled around my bare soles, and when I picked up one of the bills, tears were streaming from Benjamin Franklin’s dead eyes. • • • Lilly didn’t look sad, necessarily. She looked numb, her eyes damped and deadened and dazed. I knew what Lilly looked like when she was sad, and this wasn’t it. She was sad when she overheard Jane O’Brien say that Jamison had a crush on Molly Simmons and not her. She was sad when she didn’t make the varsity track team and had to wrap herself in her tired JV jacket for another season. She was sad when she got a C- on her pre-calculus nal and Susan, in a frustration-induced t of rage, asked her, Why can’t you be more like Lauren and Paige, huh? I can make out the veins in the whites of Brian’s eyes. He looked sad, real sad. I wanted to grasp his shoulders and shake him until his head wobbled like a bobblehead and say, Can’t you pull it together, you pathetic oaf ? Imagine how your wife feels! I harbor some resentment toward Brian; I think it’s justied. Brian carries a dampened and deadened and dazed look in his eyes always, not just when he’s at a funeral at the end of the world. He drives to his sales job with dampened eyes and comes home and quietly eats his dinner with deadened eyes and stares at Lilly in a subdued daze when she talks about jetting o to foreign places or moving from the suburbs to the city or starting a family before saying, I don’t know if we’re ready for that, Lilly. Brian is the antithesis of everything she wanted in a man. That’s why I hate him. I hate him because Lilly should hate him. I, myself, don’t have the

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20Carolina Muse Literary & Arts Magazine moral grounds to hate him. I am the antithesis of the person I wanted to be. I don’t have the moral grounds to hate anyone. I can see Brian blotting his reddened eyes with a Kleenex, awkwardly shifting from foot to foot, as I embrace Lilly. I tighten my grasp and shoot daggers at him because his wife can’t see. I hate him right now, especially because right now is too late. I hate him because Lilly will never wander through Lugano wearing Susan’s old Burberry scarf or buy one of the San Francisco brownstones saved on her Zillow or name her daughter Katherine and her son Levi. It’s just too late right now, and I hate him for it. • • • I had almost reached my gentried neighborhood of NoMa when I saw the For Sale sign on Rodriguez Market. It had only been two weeks since Teri and I triumphed in court, but it seemed as though the potted owers in the front had died and the windows had collected grime and the jagged cracks in the sidewalk had grown into canyons. I pulled into the Capital City Care dispensary because I didn’t know what to do with the money from Teri’s case, and I didn’t quite know what to do with myself, either. I looked at the man behind the counter and asked, Could I have a gram of weed? He laughed and he said, You’re probably going to want more than a gram; a gram is really small. And I thought, You’re right. And I said, Yeah, just give me whatever. I sat in my overpriced Restoration Hardware chair in my overpriced Washington, D.C. apartment and fuddled with an overpriced bong and an overpriced eighth. Through apathetic eyes and coughs and clouds of marijuana, I looked out over 3rd Street NE, cast in red hues of the Union Market sign that used to occupy my dreams, and I thought about how I wished that I could do everything over again. • • • It was a beautiful service. This is exactly what she would have wanted, I said. Thank you. Really. You being here means the world, she said, pausing to marinate in the awkward societal expectations of a funeral. She released herself, chuckling in a cynical tone, But it’s kind of fucking stupid, isn’t it? Not at all, I said. My mouth fell slightly agape and my brows furrowed and I gently nodded from left to right. I asked in a soothing tone, the kind of tone a mother takes when comforting her bullied child, What makes you think that? Part of me thinks my mom would have thought this was ridiculous. Part of me feels like this whole thing is ridiculous, she said. Doesn’t it feel kind of stupid to be here? I guess. But it also would feel equally as stupid to not be here, I said in a matter-of-fact tone. But the world is ending, she said. It kind of feels like it did a long time ago, I reassured her. • • • Four months after I obliterated Rodriguez Market, I turned thirty years old. My coworkers had wanted to take me out. Drinks, they said. But I was much too tired, not physically tired, but my brain hurt and my heart ached with each beat, and my stomach felt too heavy for my body. The disease of my rotten heart had spread through all the cells in my being. So I said, No, thank you, though. They said, But you’re turning thirty! We have to celebrate. I laughed with an intangible echo of despair. I don’t want to celebrate getting older, I said. Alone, I made myself a charcuterie board. Baked brie was to be the centerpiece of the whole grand night. I unwrapped the William Sonoma board that I gifted to myself, spread an array of crackers from a Party Assortment box, rued & wrapped prosciutto and salami into a delicate pattern, and carefully nestled a circle of melting brie into place. Everyone tells you that doing your taxes sucks the joy from your soul and that you’ll drown in Bills To Be Paid and that life goes downhill after you’re removed from your parent’s health insurance. That’s what they tell you about adulthood. I studied the largely intact array of meat & crackers and the less-than-half-eaten wheel of brie. Do you wrap a charcuterie board in Saran Wrap and save it in the fridge? Or, would the French look down upon that practice? But you surely can’t be meant to throw it away, right? No one ever tells you not to make a charcuterie board for one. No one ever told me that about adulthood. Stories

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Volume IV • No. I • February 202421• • • Brian went to the bathroom, Lilly said. Do you want to go somewhere else? she asked, her gaze penetrating me. I could see in her eyes that she had abandoned all societal expectations of funerals. There was no use for societal expectations today, anyway. They wouldn’t exist tomorrow. Let’s get out of here, I said, beaming with pride that Lilly pursued the opportunity to ee both the funeral scene and her dunce of a husband. She grabbed my hand and pulled me through the crowd of obliging relatives & lonely acquaintances who had nothing to bid farewell. We narrowly escaped Brian’s sight as he emerged from the men’s restroom. He scanned the room with wide, pathetic eyes, searching for his wife whom he so desperately clung to, as Lilly and I slid out the door. She stopped suddenly when we were met with the brisk aura of the outdoor air and the gloom of the evening twilight. The roof ? Just like we used to? She asked.• • • When the microwave clock read 12:01am, and my thirtieth birthday had ocially passed, I threw the meat and the crackers and the brie away. It would be sad to leave it waiting in the fridge, just perspiring until tomorrow night, I thought. But I was immediately overcome by a feeling of irrational guilt that intensied the hurt in my brain and the ache of my heart’s valves and the weight of my stomach. I envisioned myself piecing through my kitchen trash, retrieving cracker crumbs and shreds of meat and dollops of brie. No, no, you can’t do that, I thought. But I wasted too much. You should have known that cheese plates aren’t for lonely people, I thought. But no one ever told me that. I slid down the wall and collapsed on the oor. And I let myself cry for a while.• • • Remember that playlist we always used to play? When we used to crawl out my window and sit on the roof ? Of course, she said. I still know ‘The Suburbs’ by heart. We made that playlist that one night the summer going into sophomore year. We didn’t sleep so we could watch the sunrise. I was so sleep-deprived. My mom asked me why I was being such a bitch, and I told her that we pulled an all-nighter. She asked why. I told her that we wanted to watch the sunrise from the roof, and she yelled at me because she thought that sitting on roofs was too dangerous. Do you remember that? I asked. I remember. Of course, I do. You really were a bitch the next day, she said. A brief instance of contentment spread over her lips. Do you remember when you slept over at mine the night before the rst day of high school? she asked. We were too scared to walk in alone, so you slept over. Wasn’t that such a strange time in our lives? she asked. What do you mean? I inquired. Well, it was just weird. We were at that weird time in our lives, in that kind of liminal space where you’re guring out how horrible the world is but you have no idea what to do about it, she said. I nodded. Stories / Visual ArtrevelationGozoozu

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22Carolina Muse Literary & Arts Magazine But to be fair, I don’t know if you ever gure out what to do about it, she said. • • • It was 1:23am. The charcuterie scraps remained in the kitchen trash can. I sobbed until my neck felt droopy and my head got light and my hands felt like they weren’t mine. A crying-induced high. I considered calling my girlfriend from college. Mary, let’s move to Seattle. Please. I’m not going to law school anymore. I don’t want to go to Georgetown. Please. Let me move to Seattle with you. I’ll be a writer. Like I wanted to be when I met you. I’ll be a starving artist. But I’ll give you every dime I make. Let’s buy a shitty apartment together and just barely scrape by. And we’ll be so happy, still, I promise. We’ll be so happy, Mary. Please. But no, I thought. Her wife will make her remove your contact. But what if you could still be so happy? It’s just too late right now, I thought. • • • Where do you think she went? Lilly asked after a comfortable silence. My mom? Well, she wasn’t religious, but remember when we talked to her for hours about the afterlife? Or lack thereof, I guess? It was that one night after Lauren and Paige went to sleep, and your dad was on business in Houston. She thought that after you died, your soul went up to the stars and waited for another life, I said. So maybe, she’s just resting somewhere else in the universe until she can start again. My cheeks gleamed with warmth as we bathed in another crashing wave of silence. That’s a nice thought. I needed to hear that, she said. • • • The clock reached 2:19am at the time I gured that my one voice, the more pessimistic one, was right. It usually is. I exited my phone’s contact page which still read “Mary James” and opened YouTube. How… to… roll… a… joint… I typed with weak & trembling ngers, ngers that almost just dialed my married college girlfriend. I hoped to forget about the other voice, the one that told me that Mary and I could be starving artists in the Pacic Northwest, spending all our earnings on a decrepit apartment, still so happy together. I pressed down on “How to Roll the Perfect Joint” by someone called Dope as Yola. I didn’t know Dope as Yola’s real name, and he existed only as pixels on my screen, but I bonded with him nonetheless. He was a young, Latino man with a Ninja Turtle ashtray, and he taught me how to roll a joint. I swam in a rare instance of peace as I sat in my living room, rolling joint after joint after joint, listening to the stoned, lackadaisical voice of a man named Dope as Yola, who lived in his parent’s basement. I got so high that I almost forgot I still loved Mary.• • • Play ‘The Suburbs.’ It’s been too long, I said. She turned on the Bose speaker she had retrieved from her car before we crawled to the roof of the funeral home. She used to pronounce Bose as Bow-See. I pulled a crumpled joint from my skirt pocket. Would you do it all over again, dierently, if you could? she asked. Life? I asked. I struck the lighter against the fragile tip of the joint, drew in a breath, and cradled it in my lungs. She looked straight ahead, over the mossy hues of autumn grass and into the wide patch of tangled forest leaves & branches, xating on where the horizon enveloped the Earth. I studied the ery embers, charred on their circumferences, that sprinkled the shingles. She nodded yes. I released my lungs with the soft & gentle whooshing sound to which I had become so unfortunately accustomed. Of course, I said. I steadied my gaze to where Lilly was looking, right where our planet ended and the cosmos began. Stories“But what if you could still be so happy? It’s just too late right now, I thought.”

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Volume IV • No. I • February 202423 Why? she asked. You had it all. You were a lawyer, Diana. Smarter than most people ever dreamed they could be. You got the career that you practically prayed for ever since Attorney Thompson visited our sixth-grade class on career day. And you got the apartment in the city that you longed for ever since we visited DC on that eighth-grade class trip. And you got to see the world: Vienna, Paris, Lugano– On my two weeks of vacation time, I said. I reignited the scorched cap of the joint. You know what I did in Vienna and Paris and Lugano? I asked. I answered as she moved her gaze to me, I responded to emails and tried to forget that I destroy lives for a living. I wrapped my lips around the paper and inhaled, studying the translucent plume of smoke that made its way toward the sky. Did you know that I shut down a family business? I asked. No, she said. It wasn’t even the owners’ fault. It was never their fault. My client drank the alcohol they sold her, and she ran her fucking car into a tree. I think it was entirely mine. My fault. I chose to represent Teri Summers in court. But you had to, she said. Because it’s your job. I guess you could put it that way. Say that I’m not a bad person and that the illusion of the American dream is to blame. Or that late-stage capitalism makes us all into monsters. Or that I’m nearly guiltless because I just did what everyone else did, because just about 98% of the human race ultimately sacrices their ethics for a dollar. I used to tell myself that. I used to tell myself that I just got lost along the way. Or that I fell victim to ‘be careful what you wish for,’ I said in the span of one exhale. But Lilly, I’m thirty now. The lies have worn o. And I know that I chose to do everything that I did, I spoke in the midst of a soft inhale. The tips of my ngers brushed Lilly’s as I passed her the joint. We stayed quiet, but the silence was uncomfortable this time. What would you have done dierently, then? she asked. Well, I wouldn’t have been an ambulance chaser, I laughed with pessimism. I think I would have married Mary. Moved to Seattle, like I wanted to when I was young. Do you remember that? Maybe I would have gone into publishing & editing. Maybe I would have been a broke writer, submitting to the Kenyon Review and Harper’s Ferry every other day. Either way, I would have written poems about the Puget Sound and the ferries that take you to Mercer Island, I rambled. Most importantly, though, I said, I would have kept my heart. Lilly sat with her knees folded into her chest. I watched her ribs kiss her thighs as her lips kissed the joint and she inhaled. I hadn’t even noticed that “The Suburbs” was playing on a loop.The kids want to be so hard,But in my dreams, we’re still screaming, And running through the yard Would you do it over, dierently, too? I asked, motioning for the joint. Yeah, I would have, she said, smoke still trailing from the corners of her lips. I had a ne marriage, I guess. A steady job. It wasn’t too exciting. It wasn’t horrible at all either. I had some friends in my neighborhood. She looked at me, and the usual whites of her eyes cast a gloomy red hue. I guess my life itself didn’t make me sad. What was missing from it did, I think. I wanted to oat in the Black Sea and walk in the Mui Ne Sand Dunes and listen to the rush of the Nile River. I wanted to see all of the fantastic places left on Earth, she said. I used to imagine my career taking o, moving to San Francisco for my promotion. And I always dreamt of walking home to a little brownstone in the city. I guess I just got stuck in the suburbs, she laughed & pointed to the Bow-See speaker. The saddest thing is, she continued, is that I felt like I got so close to everything I ever wanted. Brian and I, we had the money to travel. But he didn’t like traveling. He thought it was a hassle. And a few years ago, I was oered a management role at Accenture. But we would have had to move to the city. I wanted to, but Brian didn’t. I loved Brian, I think. But he was so content with mundanity. And he was so scared of risk, so scared of uncertainty. She grazed the edge of my palm before nestling the joint between her ngers. Her eyes welled up gently, becoming glossy & reective. I could see the glimmer of evening light bouncing o her retinas. What I really wanted, more than anything, was children, she said. I would have been the happiest woman alive with just a daughter to cradle in my arms and nothing else. I told her that I loved her. I told her that she should Stories

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24Carolina Muse Literary & Arts Magazine have had everything good & everything beautiful in the palms of her hands. I told her that I was sorry, sorry that it was too late, sorry that the world was ending before it gave her what she deserved. So can you understand?That I want a daughter while I’m still young?I want to hold her hand,Show her some beauty before the damage is done I think you’re a good person, Diana. I just wanted to tell you before it’s too late, she said, palpating her spilling tears. Her voice was weak, fragile, delicate, interrupted by snies & respires. But it was genuine. I responded that I wasn’t so sure anymore. We were fteen, I think. I woke you up in the middle of the night because I was having a panic attack. Remember? Before you could even open your eyes all the way, you got up and walked to my bathroom and turned on the shower. You said that hot showers always help you when you’re sad. So you sat in my shower with me in the middle of the night, fully clothed. You didn’t even undress. You just helped me in and stayed with me. And you let me sit underneath the showerhead. I took all the hot water, and you were ne with being wet & cold. You held my hand the whole time. And you undressed me from my soaking t-shirt and wrapped me into new pajamas and let me ddle with your ngers until I fell asleep. She paused, lifting the joint to her lips. What I’m trying to say is, she continued, is that a heart like that doesn’t just disappear. I know that this life made you feel horrible, but I also know that your heart never went away. I let myself ruminate for a while over nothing in particular until a gentle, yet pervasive, sensation of peace settled into the charred crevices of my soul, and my irises swam in a warm pool of tears. I think, I said, that I needed to hear that. Your part of town against mine,I saw you standing on the opposite shore,But by the time the rst bombs fell,We were already boredWe were already, already bored We held each other, hand over hand, leg over leg, tangled in an amalgamation of her spirit and mine. We took turns caressing the tip of the joint with our mouths, Storiestrading the blistered barrel of paper back and forth and back and forth and back and forth. And we watched the smoke emerge from each others’ mouths and graze the sky which hung over our heads with a quiet melancholy. The atmosphere ignited with a rich & sweltering heat, and we perspired, still holding each other, our breaths aligning in passing moments of solace. We let our sweat coalesce and make nger-shaped impressions on the imsy roll as the cosmos above us cast down a strange & alien red hue. What now? I asked. Lilly’s eyes were inamed, hazy, reddened from the inside out, but a glimmer of astute awareness illuminated her irises. Maybe we’ll meet again among the stars, she smiled. That’s a nice thought, I said, crushing the seared cap of the joint into the shingles, watching the persisting embers glow, though they were burnt around the edges. I rustled my hand through my skirt pocket for another. Maybe, I said, maybe we’ll try again in another life. Sometimes I can’t believe it,I’m moving past the feeling,Sometimes I can’t believe it,I’m moving past the feeling and into the night So, there we sat, under the crimson complexion of our burning sky and the looming shadow of the aming rock, with bright and blazing and bloodshot eyes. A beautiful & foreign urry of smoldering embers rained down from the heavens and singed upon contact with the Earth, and there we sat, with all the good and all the bad that we’d endured, some of which was together and some of which was alone. We sat with all of the creation and all of the destruction in the universe, some of which we incited and some of which we merely observed. And there we sat, smoking a joint at the end of the world.

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Volume IV • No. I • February 202429Gogh’s Starry NightSubhadra NarayannA wistful muse, contained and dormant,lurking indoors, churning ceaselessly; conjuring palettes of colours vibrant.Epiphanous moments painting dreams in uid strokes amboyant and zealously.Gogh’s Starry Night of dark and light.Morning Star, blazing brilliantly bright.Amidst roiling blues, artistry takes ight, unencumbered by woeful blight.Foraging faculties, fancies uncurbed;the genesis of a curious concoction -stars rendered in radiant citrine rondure, tossed boldly, rippling along turbid skyof undulating ultramarines seemingly spry.In sickle moon’s aureate glow, a townlet,huddled, asleep, save for its lighted squares;a semblance of boxes on black stilts, mountingtoward the church’s steeple, solemnly countingon faith, en route to the horizon of rolling hills.Gogh’s Starry Night of dark and light.Cypress asway in soulful starlight,bridging earth and sky alike; paintingdreams of reaching stars in the darkest of nights.Poetry

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30Carolina Muse Literary & Arts Magazine i’ll donate my body to science when i dieCharlotte Gastonmaybe they were rightall those millennial podcasters sayingthrow the kid away if they hit their headlock them up before they killsomeone, anyone, everyonehurts this much, right?or am i just alone in thisbattle against the brain i never got to meetunchanged, unrattled, before the bleed.who was i supposed to be?maybe she did well in school and wasn’tscared of everythinghurts so much.sometimes i think about whether it wasintentional.did someone throw me against the ground becausei was little and did something stupid and nowi’m paying for it in endless days ofnumbness and grief that isn’t physical anymoreit shoots through my nerves and doesn’t shoot out my toesit keeps going itbounces back and hits me in the gut so i throw up all of thefeelings, food,freedomthat i was supposed to be guaranteed.but the body is a cage and mine is home to asquawking bird who doesn’t shut the fuck upeven when i squeeze every piece of my skin cut it try to peel it out and set it free.no, this is her home and she’s invaded the territorythat belonged to two year old me.i try to plant seeds in the ground but the bird gobbles them up,feasting on them all and i’mstarving picking at crumbsof who i used to be.i’ll donate my body to science when i die.maybe then i will be able to understand.Listen to Charlotte read “I’ll donate my body to science when i die”:Poetry

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Volume IV • No. I • February 202433PoetryDRIVE Johnny Cate(Improvisation in the Key of B) Time rider Can I take your hand? I want to ride with you Into the storm —Chromatics, Time RiderTank full but feeling capital-red-E empty, I pick up 40W. Sun falls behind the blue ridge and shadows ood Asheville till I’m clavicle-deep in dark, tryna shake regret’s black symbiote. The mountain line against the sky is drawn like Avril’s upper lip—galactic philtrum so pretty I could scream: the seamless ombre fade from white to peach, Uranian blue, then blue, then bad bruise blue, and I swear if you can’t see it, you can sense the earth’s curve, her shape, and like Turner says: her side-boob in space...Pisgah leans into Mitchell’s nape to watch my high-beams incise Appalachia. I am hell’s zipper. V6 Beelzebub, dog-bad with a belly of re and a phosphene green dial.Velocity is shotgun in satin, mathematicless and too cool to care how fast we’re going or how soon we’ll get to wherever that is. I’m still hunting my heart’s gearshift, a leather nub I can touch and throw that’ll make me change. But for now the pedal is enough: ever-yes gasoline sender says okay when I press it, ferries fuel to the core and never asks why. Over this road, I’m as hidden as a xenomorph’s eye, soul so two-toned you could call me an orca. So I feed the throttle, check my mirrors: what’s behind me is still closer than it appears.

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34Carolina Muse Literary & Arts Magazine Leave It On the BeachCameron LouiseStoriesThe band moved in the rst week of July. After I got to know him, I asked Stan why their manager had chosen Nags Head, North Carolina, of all places, for the vacation. “Freddie’s family is from Raleigh,” he said, and that was all the answer needed, Raleigh being the center of all things in North Carolina back then. I saw them moving in and knew they were a band, saw their name, Bootleg, and recognized it from a song Dixie 103.5 was playing a lot. When I ran into her room, Crystal barely looked up from her mirror, but she followed me to the front porch. If a band like the Rolling Stones had moved in, I probably would have hidden, afraid I’d get addicted to drugs just by being next door. Our mom, oblivious to any music that wasn’t Patsy Cline or Andy Williams, made a lasagna to carry over. “Mom!” Crystal implored. “They’re summer people. They’re a rock band. They won’t want your stupid lasagna.” Mom ignored her while tucking aluminum foil securely around the edges of her second-best casserole dish. She’d written out re-heating instructions on one of her customized index cards, “From the kitchen of Marge Jeanette,” and taped it on top. She took o her apron, hung it on the hook by the back door, picked up the lasagna, and asked, “Who’s coming with me?” I’d already changed into cutos and a Doors t-shirt I’d traded my friend Gloria for. I slid into my deck shoes; I couldn’t help that the stitching was unraveling on the toe. I was out the door as Crystal called from the couch, “Have fun, dork!” The walk down the outside stairs took forever, and I kept myself from running down them. I didn’t want to look dorkier than I already did. My sister got Mom’s blonde hair, but I got Daddy’s dark looks, even though we both have those icy blue eyes that some people say stare holes in you. Mom and I made it next door and up to their front porch. Before Mom could knock, a middle-aged man in a suit opened the screen door. “Can I help you?” he asked. Obviously not from around here. No one wears a suit in Nags Head, North Carolina in the summer unless you’re a banker or a lawyer in a courthouse. I learned about this from watching Daddy in court. Even though his summer suits weren’t dark blue like this one, more like khaki or seersucker. None of these houses had air conditioning back then. This guy must have been sweltering. “Hi,” Mom started in. “I’m Marge, from next door.” She used her elbow to indicate our rambling gray house to the left. “Wanted to say hi and welcome you to the beach.” He looked at her and then the lasagna and then to her and then to me, standing there smiling so hard my teeth were dry. “Who’s there, Mel?” someone called from inside, and a gorgeous blond boy-man appeared behind the Mel person. “Well, hi there,” he said. “Is that for us?” “It sure is,” Mom answered, not the least aware of who she was talking to. Two other guys came to the door, and Mel was pushed onto the porch. “Thank you,” the blond one answered. And the other boys chimed in with, “Yeah, thank you,” and, “We’re starving, thank you so much,” Mom began telling them that they needed to reheat it at 350 degrees for… but never got to nish because one of them went inside and brought back forks, passed them around, and the boys dug into the lasagna right there, standing in the doorway. Mom, not accustomed to watching hungry young men eat, laughed and said, “Well, you’re so welcome! Glad to have you next door, and y’all come visit any time.” “Any time,” I chimed in. Mom turned & started down the stairs. “Char, come on,” she called. I had rooted myself to the porch oor but managed to get moving and start down the stairs, looking over my shoulder occasionally before the boys took the pan inside to devour the rest. I missed the last step, stumbled, and caught myself. I dared not turn around to see if anyone was watching. “Well,” Mom said when we got home. “They were nice young men.” I plopped down on the couch, almost sitting on Crystal’s feet, stretched out as she was, reading Wuthering

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Volume IV • No. I • February 202435StoriesHeights. “Were they nice young men?” Crystal asked, mimicking Mom. I stuck my tongue at her, got up, and went to my room to look through old Teen Scene magazines for our neighbors’ pictures. About an hour later, Crys poked her head in. “Waves are kicking up a little,” she said. “Come on.” I put on my one-piece, as if I had a choice. Mom wouldn’t let me get a two-piece. Fourteen is a dicult age for most of us. When I got downstairs, Crystal was already headed out to the water with her surfboard under her arm. I grabbed mine, and by the time I reached her, she’d already paddled out. The waves were chest high, respectable enough to get wet for. The sun setting in the west cast Crystal in full late afternoon glow. Her straight blonde hair and the way she sat back on her board, waiting for a wave, hands gently resting above her knees, I had to admire the scene she’d set. I looked to our left. The boys were lined up along the porch railing like the sitting ducks they were. We each caught a few waves. I knew this surf break, had grown up surng this, and it was home. Everything felt familiar. I looked over at my sister. Daddy taught us to surf, but I was better than her, and she knew it. I could see the boys watching from their porch. I caught a wave, but Crys wanted it, too, and dropped in on me. I yelled at her, and she laughed and ew at me down the wave until she was nearly on top of me, but I sped away from her and she drifted back into the wave. I rode in and left Crystal sitting out there, waiting for the next perfect wave to come for her. It didn’t take long. She paddled for it and rode it in, the sun in front of her. She got out of the water, and I watched her begin the long walk from the low tide water line up to the house, her board under her arm. I didn’t want to look at the porch next door. I knew what I’d see. Daddy strolled down our boardwalk, still in his lawyer suit. He looked at the boys’ house, then down to me and gave me a wink. “Come eat, sugar,” he called out to Crys in a voice loud enough to be heard two houses down. “Mama’s got dinner waiting.” We’d wrapped towels around us and were at the kitchen table, about to start on peach cobbler for dessert, when someone knocked on the front door. “At dinnertime, Larry? Really,” Mom said, touching the corner of her napkin to her mouth. I jumped up to answer the door. “Clients at dinnertime?” Mom continued. Because who else would be rude enough to disturb someone at dinner? That would be Mel. I brought him into the kitchen. He held a bouquet of daisies & white chrysanthemums in one hand and a manilla folder in the other. Daddy looked at Mom. “Marge?” he asked, as if she could explain the presence of this ower-wielding stranger in our kitchen. I put out my hand. In 1968, fourteen-year-old girls didn’t shake hands with grown men, but I’d just read an article in Reader’s Digest by Barbara Walters on how to talk to anyone. “I’m Charlotte Jeanette,” I said. “We met this afternoon.” “Yeah, Charlotte,” Mel answered, transferring the owers to his left hand so he could shake hands with me. Mom introduced Mel to my father, who recovered, stood, and shook hands, “Mel Jabonski,” to Daddy’s “Larry Jeanette.” In the awkward pause, I pointed to my sister and said, “And this is Crys, Crystal.” She could only look down at her plate and shake her head slightly. “Um, please sit down, and won’t you join us?” Mom asked. Mel apologized for interrupting dinner and handed Mom the owers. “From the boys,” he said. “For the lasagna.” Mom blushed and thanked him, then insisted he sit down, which he did in the empty chair between my sister & father. “Char, why don’t you get Mr. Mel here some iced tea?” Daddy asked me. “Sure thing,” I quipped. I sat a glass of tea in front of him and watched Mel wince with the rst sip. “Very sweet,” he said. Mom, now rummaging in a cabinet for a little-used vase answered, “Yes, sir. Sweet tea. You’re not from the South, then, are you?” and didn’t expect nor get an answer. Mel put the folder on the table before him. “I wanted to ask for your help, if I could,” he began. “In what way?” Daddy asked. Mel began. “The band is here for a little R&R before going on tour.” He took out a handkerchief to wipe sweat from his forehead. “Hot in here,” he said. “And we want to keep their privacy. So, without getting all legal on you...” He placed a hand on a folder he’d put on the table. Daddy’s eyebrows lifted. “And that?”

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36Carolina Muse Literary & Arts Magazine Stories Mel opened the folder and pulled out a document. “It’s what’s called a non-disclosure form. Not getting too specic, it’s a standard agreement we ask people to sign. Helps artists and famous people keep their privacy.” Daddy pulled the document toward him. “And, I assume you’re asking us to sign this.” Mel cleared his throat and shifted in his chair. “Well, you know, boys will be boys, even the good ones, and we really don’t want anyone to know the band is here because they might get mobbed. And, really it’s also to keep it peaceful here on this lovely street for all you nice folks.” “Mm hm,” Daddy said. Crys and I sat riveted to our chairs. Daddy could spot a con man from fty yards, and I’ve gotten to be pretty good at it over the years. Mom is oblivious to deceptions, being too good-natured to expect people to act untruthfully towards her, and that’s one of her best qualities. Crystal, however, always expected someone to take advantage of her, and that has saved her career more than once. “I’ll tell you what,” Daddy continued. “I’ll look this over. Why don’t y’all run by tomorrow, and we’ll see to it.” Daddy stood up and walked Mel to the door. “What’s a non-disclosure agreement?” Mom asked when Daddy sat back down. Without looking up from the document, Daddy answered, “Something to make us keep our mouths shut.” “Well, I never!” Mom exclaimed, looking at the screen door Mel had just exited through. “Smart,” Crystal said. Daddy smiled at her. “Very,” he said. Then to me, “Who ARE those boys next door?” “The Next Big Thing!” I piped up. At that moment, I would have been more than happy to sign away my life to keep secrets that hadn’t even happened yet. The following day, Mel knocked on our screen door at 9:00am sharp. Mom answered, holding a laundry basket. “Mr. Jabonski. Good morning.” We were still in our pajamas on the couch, watching Hollywood Squares. He saw us through the hallway and called out hello pleasantries to us then asked Mom if “her husband had been able to look over the NDA he’d brought over last night?” “Oh, yes, that!” Mom exclaimed. She handed Mel an envelope with Daddy’s law rm return address in black raised letters on the upper left corner. After knowing him, I can imagine how Mel must have looked down at it and rubbed his thumb along those raised letters before he said to Mom, “I see.” “Okay then!” she called to him as he retreated outside down the front stairs. “Tell those boys hi. Y’all have a good day!” He likely thought she was being sarcastic. Of course we didn’t sign that NDA. Mel was just doing his job, trying to protect his clients. He didn’t know it then, but he didn’t have to worry about us. Two days after Mom delivered the lasagna, Brad, lead singer & guitarist for Bootleg, knocked on our door holding Mom’s second-best casserole dish and a box of Whitman’s chocolates. I was in my room waiting for Dixie 103.5 to play something new. In 1968, if you didn’t have the record, you waited until the radio station played what you liked. I was using an empty Kleenex box for a drum and chopsticks for drumsticks. Mom yelled, “Girls!” and I came out to see Brad standing in our living room. Crys must have known he was in there because she took some time coming out of her room, looking like the cover of Seventeen. With the ceiling fans going and all the windows open, her hair moved gently in the articial wind. She’d rimmed her blue eyes in dark brown eyeliner and must have put Vaseline on her lips because they were pink & glossy. In her cutos, her legs stretched forever, up to her white v-neck t-shirt. “Hey,” she said and moved to the rocking chair by the window. She picked up her copy of Wuthering Heights. Even if it wasn’t on the school summer reading list, Crys would have read it. She read classics, best-sellers, and books by unknown authors that she would later make famous just because there was a picture of her holding the writer’s book. “What are you reading?” Brad asked. Crystal held up the book. “Do you know it?” Crys asked, really looking at him for the rst time. “No,” he answered. I watched the scene unfold. He stood there until Mom thanked him again, then he said goodbyes and left. I punched Crystal in the arm. “He was so digging you!” I squealed. “God, get a clue!” she winced. I went down to the beach and met my friends, Gloria & Reedy, and we body surfed for a little bit. I didn’t tell them about the renters next door. NDA or not, consider me signed. Over the next few days, Brad and “the boys,” as we

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Volume IV • No. I • February 202437Stories / Photographycalled them, found all kinds of ways to hang out when Crys (and I) were on the beach. They tossed a football our way, and I caught it easily. Which led to us playing football and, eventually, the boys sitting with us. Crystal ignored them at rst, but at home, she grudgingly admitted to me they were fun. Stan grew up in New Jersey. He was scrawny and knew it. I never understood where his power came from when he played the drums. Freddie had gone to college at North Carolina State, and although we were North Carolina Tarheel fans, I never let that get in the way. He played rhythm guitar & keyboard. Ebert was an interesting guy from England, and this was his rst time in America. We laughed at him when he told us how brutally hot our summer was. With that British accent, I didn’t see how Crys couldn’t fall for him. He played bass guitar. And then there was Brad. From Kansas. The All-American boy. • • • I thought of that summer in Capitals: Week One, Week Two, Week Three. Week One: Getting to know one another. At the end of Week One, Brad asked Crystal if she wanted to go out. “Out where?” Crys asked. We were laying on towels on the beach. Brad was on one side of her, and me on the other. “We’re already out,” she answered. “Come on,” Brad joked. “You know. Out for a pop or something.” I couldn’t help but snicker. Nobody I knew called it pop. It was “go for a Coke,” even if you ordered root beer. Crys shot me a look, and I put my face into my magazine. “Come on.” Brad asked. “Please?” “Okay,” Crys answered. “When and where?” That afternoon, Crys walked down our stairs and got into Mel’s white Cadillac. I waved at them from the porch as Brad drove o. Stan stood on their porch, watching. I saw him and yelled, “Hey.” He smiled & yelled, “Hey,” back and walked over. Mom came out and told us to come out to the beach porch where it was cooler. She made us iced tea, and Stan and I sat in our beat-up rocking chairs. “It’s just beautiful here,” he said after a little while. “I love it.” I answered. He told me he was from New Jersey, the middle son of three boys. He was twenty one. His parents were teachers. He’d played drums since he was eleven but could play a little keyboard and some guitar, too. “So, this band. How did y’all meet?” I asked. I felt I should be taking notes. Already, I had an idea of forming a band with Gloria & Reedy. Gloria could play the guitar a little, but I didn’t know if Reedy could play anything. He was, after all, only ten. Crystal ClearSheryl Sabol

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38Carolina Muse Literary & Arts Magazine Stan took a deep breath, looking out at the whitecaps. “Mel,” he answered. “I was with a group of guys playing in crummy bars around Paramus, and Mel saw me. Asked me to be in this band he was forming.” He took a sip of Mom’s tea. “Man, that’s sweet,” he laughed. “Yeah, sweet tea,” I laughed with him. “So,” he continued, “Mel wanted a band and needed a drummer with a certain look, and voila, here we are.” “Your look. Drummer cool.” “You mean the long hair and sunglasses? I had the hair, and Mel made me bleach it.” He parted his hair and showed me where it was dark at the roots. “And, you didn’t know each other before?” “Nope. Never saw one another before we went into a studio for four days and cut a shit ton,” he shook his head and apologized. “No worries,” I countered. “A shit-ton. Go on.” It was the rst but not the last time I’d use that phrase to describe a lot of crap. “So, yeah, we’d never played together, but Mel thought we sounded pretty good, and he had a lot of songs ready for us. We laid down two. That’s the story.” “So far,” I added. “Yeah,” Stan said, taking a sip and looking out at the waves. “So far.” I rocked back and forth a bit. “It’s a good story,” I said. “It’s something,” he answered. “So, now you, your turn.” “Me?” I was surprised. The fourteen-year-old guys I knew didn’t ask girls to talk about themselves. “You know I’m only fourteen, right?” I asked. Even as I said it, I could hear how lame I sounded. Stan laughed. “I got it,” he said. “I’m not asking you to go steady.” And it was ok. By the time Mom called out that dinner was ready, I’d told Stan about junior high school, living in this house my whole life, and how I wished they’d oered drum lessons at Miss Sally’s instead of piano. “Drums, huh?” Stan asked. I couldn’t look at him straight on, more of a sideways glance, while I picked at my sneaker’s shoelace. “Hard to lug a kit around,” he said, standing up. “I’d better go. You guys (except he said “youse guys”) Storiesare ready to eat.” Mom came to the screen door. “Young man. Stanley, right? You’re welcome to eat with us.” Stan looked at me. I nodded & smiled. My rst dinner date. Stan and I never dated, though. I wasn’t his type. It was just me, Mom & Daddy, and Stan. Stan asked Daddy questions about a Supreme Court case that had just been tried and was in the newspapers. Mom asked Stan about his family. Stan told funny stories about growing up as a middle child. We ate meatloaf, mashed potatoes, peas from Mom’s garden, and for dessert, vanilla ice cream. Stan t right in. Then the screen door slammed shut, and Crystal whirled in. “We’ve eaten!” she announced. Then she said, “Hey Stan, Brad’s looking for you,” With that, she went o to her room. Stan got up and thanked Mom again for dinner and said “Sir” to Daddy, then to me, “Come over tomorrow if you want to see my kit,” and was out the door. When he was gone, Daddy raised his eyebrows at me. “Kit?” “Dad,” I dragged his name out. “Drums?” I tapped a ‘ta da da da da’ with my hands on the table. “Drums,” was all he said, reaching for the plates to help clear. We took the dishes to the sink. I washed and he dried, and Mom set up the card table in the living room for family jigsaw puzzle night. Afterwards, I stopped by Crys’ room. The long extension cord to the only phone in the house sneaked in under her door. I tried to eavesdrop but couldn’t hear anything she was saying. The pattern was set for Week Two. Breakfast; beach with the boys for a few hours; then in the afternoon, practice in the big, open area under their raised house. That rst time I strolled over to watch, Stan handed me a tambourine. I grabbed it and only needed a few looks from him at rst to know when to come in. After the second song, I caught Ebert smiling slightly and nodding to Stan, a silent “OK.” I always liked Ebert’s playing, but bass has never been my thing. I like to show o too much. Even if he hadn’t been a great bass player, just his dark hair and English accent drove girls crazy. Freddie had that soft “Beach air and crashing waves and Stan and being fourteen had everything to do with it.”

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Volume IV • No. I • February 202439StoriesSouthern style I’d grown up with, and he could really play keyboard. He showed me a few ris and sometimes let me play beside him. Thank goodness for Miss Sally’s piano classes. I had crushes on those boys. Ebert and his mysterious Heathcli Englishness. Freddie and his comfortable Carolina ways. And Stan because he was so nice to me. I’m sure they all knew it. But, they were all really nice to me and probably took pity on me. Brad, though, was dierent. Apart somehow. He was all business. From the way he dressed a certain way to the way he practiced. He didn’t like me, either. We never worried about making noise. Their rental sat at the end of the street, with only marsh to the front, ocean behind, and us to the side. Mel usually sat in a corner of the room, making notes or reading something business-looking. Sometimes he went upstairs to make a phone call or take a call. And there were always people coming and going and meetings at the house. Sometimes the boys were in the meetings, but most of the time they weren’t. This was a vacation, after all. Much later in the afternoon, Crys would wander over. She and Brad would go o somewhere for a little bit. I caught Brad looking at Mel the rst few times and Mel giving him the head nod to leave. When they nished practicing, Stan let me play his drums. Looking back, I don’t think I’ve ever played a better set of drums. Perhaps I have. By now I’ve played all over the world, with famous musicians and in huge venues, with my own band, of course. But that summer, when I fell into the rhythm of those drums, I fell hard. Beach air and crashing waves and Stan and being fourteen had everything to do with it. At the beginning of Week 3, Stan and I were sitting on my back porch, watching the waves, and we heard a car pull up next door and car doors slam. “You don’t know what you’re doing,” Crys’ voice carried to us. I shrugged my shoulders. “Lover’s quarrel?” I chuckled. “Right,” Stan said. We walked around the porch to the side of the house. Brad had Crys by the arm, talking low. She jerked her arm away and stormed up our stairs, slamming the screen door behind her. Brad’s gaze followed her and landed on Stan. I looked at Stan and his face held not surprise or agitation but sadness. Something felt o, the way the air changes suddenly when you’re not expecting it. I looked down at Brad. I could see that perfect smile set now in a grimace. He shook his head and moved to their house. “See you tomorrow, kid,” Stan told me, walking down the stairs. I went inside, and the door to the bathroom was open. I stood in the doorway, watching Crys wash her face with Noxema. She turned to me. “Know who you are, Char,” she said. “Know who you are.” She dried her face, walked past me into her room, and closed her door. The next afternoon, Crys didn’t come over, and Brad was more withdrawn toward me than usual. I saw him brush Stan’s hand away when Stan tried to ask him a question. I took the hint and went home. After dinner that evening, Mom asked me to take out the trash and to be sure to put the lid on tight since we’d been having a problem with raccoons. I had the kitchen trash can in my hand and was going down the stairs when I heard a noise and froze. I hated raccoons, with their sneaky little hands and robbery masks. I crept down the last ve steps and around the side of the house. Beside the boys’ house, I saw that Brad had pressed Stan against the side of their house. Brad had his hands around Stan’s backside, and Stan had one hand on either side of Brad’s face. I stood there, watching them kiss. I inhaled and made a little noise, and they broke apart. Brad saw me and ran to their house, but Stan stood there. We looked at each other for a long time, then Stan smiled a little crooked smile, and I smiled back. I went on to the trash can, and when I came back, he was gone. I went back upstairs, and instead of joining Mom & Crys at the jigsaw puzzle in the corner, I went into my own room and laid down. They were due to leave in three days, and I didn’t go back to the boys’ house. I waved when I saw them, but we kept our distance. I didn’t know the words yet to talk to Stan. Two days before the boys left, Crystal was discovered. We had just come in from the water and were sitting on our towels. The band was having publicity pictures taken on their porch, with the ocean behind them. Stan wore his signature sunglasses. He looked over at us and waved, and I waved back. The photographer turned to see who Stan was waving at. Crys turned to see who I was waving at. The photographer got a shot that made them both famous. Crystal was still wet from the water. Her hair streamed down her shoulder. Sand glittered on one side

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40Carolina Muse Literary & Arts Magazine of her face. She was wearing that red bikini that Mom let her buy. Four weeks later, the Ford modeling agency ew Crys & Mom to New York. The day the boys left, I met Stan halfway between our houses. “You okay?” he asked. “I’m good,” I answered. “You?” “I’m good, too,” he smiled, relieved, I think, that I was alright. The other boys shouted their goodbyes, and Mom came out to say goodbye to them. Crys waved to them from the porch. Brad didn’t wave. He just got into their limo and closed the door. I began getting postcards from Stan a week after they left. They would come from cities up and down the East Coast, and then from cities all over the country, and then from around the world. About six months after they left, their song, “Leave It on the Beach,” shot to the #5 spot on all the lists, and a delivery truck pulled up to our house. I got o my school bus to see delivery men unload a Ludwig Super Classic Sparkling Blue Pearl Drum at my house. The attached note from Stan read, “My apologies to your parents.” When my band made the cover of Rolling Stone, I was 22 years old, sitting at that drum set. You can’t see Stan in that picture, but he was there. Standing in the shadows, behind me and o to the left. Stories

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Volume IV • No. I • February 202441MusicSomeone RealNeveahI used to dream of you and me, but you’re not here, and we are not together.You and I no guarantee, that’s for sure ‘cause nothing lasts forever.So, we can say our goodbyes, goodbyes, babe, ecause I’m done with your lies, I’m tired of it. Packed up my heart I had to leave.I wash my hands of you and me.I need someone real, and one thing’s for certain, need love that’s real, so done with hurting. x2You used to be my everything, no one else around would even matter. Thought we’d be eternity, but now you act as if we never mattered. So, we can say our goodbyes, babe, because I’m done with your lies, I’m tired of it. Packed up my heart, I had to leave.I wash my hands of you and me.I need someone real and one thing’s for certain, need love that’s real, so done with hurting. x2I need love, I need a real love Need to feel, I need a real touchI need someone, I need me someone I need love, I need a real love Real real real love, I need, I need, I need, I need, I need it. Ooooh ooohh oooow I need. I need someone real, and one thing’s for certain, need love that’s real, so done with hurting. x2

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Volume IV • No. I • February 202443meet the creatorsBorn & raised in Apex, NC, Abbi Shengulette has recently moved away from North Carolina up north to pursue their Master’s degree. Although they have less free time to create art, she uses any time she can to create new & fun projects. Their preferred mediums are acrylic paint and black & white photography, which they develop themselves, and she is constantly trying new creative outlets, like poetry. Abbi likes to create representational art and wants to continue to be inspired by the unknown and the unpredictable. Their work is created with themes like isolation and self-exploration in mind but hopes that their audience feels any deep emotions when viewing it. Follow their art progress on Instagram @Ac3s_H1gh.Meet the CreatorsAnna Grace Burch is a Greenville, SC-based artist who explores astronomy, engages in the community, and enjoys alternative art forms. She received her BA in painting and drawing and a minor in art history from Anderson University. As a 2020 Brandon Fellows Alumni, the experience had her grow conceptually and embrace new, alternative mediums. Her work has been exhibited in competitions such as Artist of the Upstate at Artisphere in Greenville, SC, Artelds in Lake City, SC, and in galleries including the Greenville Center for Creative Arts, The City of Greer Center for the Arts, and the Mint Museum in Atlanta, GA. Burch is a visual arts teacher with the A.R.M.E.S Program and enjoys teaching and helping young & inspiring creators achieve their goals every day.Yuna Kang is a queer, Korean-American writer based in Northern California. In the criss-cross journey of stars that is human connection, she is constantly encountering the love & warmth of the Carolinas. The people she is closest to in her life all hail from the Carolinas; they have family there, they were born there, and they return there year after year. Yuna Kang has been published in journals such as Strange Horizons, Sinister Wisdom, and more. They were also nominated for the 2022 Dwarf Stars Award.Li Newton is an Asheville, NC based collage/mixed media artist and active member of the River Arts District. Her artwork represents the melding of her Air Force brat upbringing with her love for storytelling & exploration. Her recent artwork could be described as ‘painting with paper.’ Analog collages are hand cut/torn paper, fabric or both. Her latest large-scale paper collages feature thousands of individually hand-cut pieces. The addition of ephemera and other materials coalesce into a rich, textured surface density and luminous, atmospheric layers of color & light. Her subjects come from nature and her life experiences.Craig Kirchner has worked with some of the best golf clubs in North & South Carolina. His youngest son lives in Raleigh, and his dad ociated at his wedding a few years ago. Craig thinks of poetry as hobo art. He loves storytelling and the aesthetics of the paper & pen. He has had two poems nominated for the Pushcart and has a book of poetry, Roomful of Navels. After a writing hiatus he was recently published in Decadent Review, Young Ravens, Chiron Review, and several dozen other journals.From South Carolina, CerVon Campbell is a genre-bending musical artist & stand-up comic. Known for his soulful sound & venting lyrics, the Greenville native has crafted his own unique mixture of emotion & experience within his reective approach to music & comedy. With songs such as “DND (featuring John Oates of the popular duo Hall&Oates),” “Overthinking,” and “Cliché,” Campbell has gained a global following while remaining independent.

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44Carolina Muse Literary & Arts Magazine Sam Casto Hollman (she/her) creates poetry, essay, and visual art, primarily exploring the intersections of creation, processes in nature, and trauma. She earned an MA in professional writing (creative writing) at Kennesaw State University and serves as content editor for The Adroit Journal. Her work is published/forthcoming with Josephine Quarterly, Blue Earth Review, The Adroit Journal, and others. Now based in Atlanta, GA, she lived in Winston Salem, NC during childhood, the place that rst ignited her fascination with the natural world. As an adult, she has spent many weeks reveling in the magic of North Carolina’s deep Blue Ridge wilderness, especially the Pisgah National Forest.Ashley Jones is a ceramic and sculpture artist from Lexington, NC. She incorporates wild clay she gathers throughout North Carolina into her work to explore the relationship between medium, art, and self. Gathering & processing wild clay has made her more connected to the pieces she creates. Each piece is made with intention & respect for the material & source of the clay. She is currently working toward a BFA in art education from the University of North Carolina at Greensboro. She hopes to integrate her artistic practice into her teaching practice in order to empower students to explore their own creativity.Abraham (Abe) Diakite is an contemporary/mix media artist from Marietta, GA. Abe is a rst-generation African American from Guinea. The second oldest of ten siblings, and an alumni of Elon University in North Carolina with a Bachelor of Arts in graphic illustration and painting. While in North Carolina, Abe was very active in the community as well as the arts. He’s gone from working at a homeless shelter called Allied Churches of Alamance County for four years, doing an internship in Greensboro, to visiting art museums in Bull City and other universities such as Duke University and Wake Forest University. North Carolina will always be a home for Abraham.Mitzi Dorton has work in Southern Literary Review, The Dead Mule, Rattle, SEMO Press, Women of Appalachia Project anthologies, Poetry South, and others. She is the author of Chief Corn Tassel, a biography of the eighteenth-century Beloved Man and great orator of the Cherokees, Finishing Line Press, Literary Global Book Award nalist. Acknowledgements include second place in the Golden Ox Prose Contest, OxMag, and third place in the Wilda Morris Poetry Challenge/Peace Poems. She grew up in nearby east Tennessee and spent time in places like Banner Elk, Cape Hatteras, and Cherokee, plus summer visits to South Carolina.Born in Asheville, NC, Ernest Kroi was raised in the lush scenery of the Blue Ridge Mountains and was deeply inspired by the artistic downtown scene. He graduated from the University of North Carolina of Greensboro with a Bachelor of Arts in art and media studies. Ernest enjoys using high saturation & stylized realism, as well as depicting the mundane with subtle unnatural, juxtaposing, or comedic features. His work has also been featured in previous editions of Carolina Muse as well as UNCG’s Coraddi magazine. Outside of painting, he loves to read, hike, and go for long drives on the Blue Ridge Parkway.Alleigh Wiggs was born & raised in Wilmington, NC. She attended the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill for her undergraduate degree and is currently a third year medical student at the University of North Carolina School of Medicine. She has authored several medical humanities pieces, including “Tailbone” and upcoming “Omphalocele” published in the UNC Health and Humanities Journal and Iris, respectively. Growing up at the beach gave her a deep love for the outdoors & nature in North Carolina, and as she continues throughout her medical career she hopes to continue connecting with her roots through writing.Haley Jameson (she/her) is a queer, autistic writer from South Carolina. She credits her late Nana with teaching her the joy of storytelling. Haley has a BA (Hons) in English literature with a minor in creative writing from Bishop’s University, Quebec and is currently an MFA student of creative writing at the City College of New York. Born & Meet the Creators

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Volume IV • No. I • February 202445raised on one of the Sea Islands, the land & water inspire a good bit of her writing. Her other work appears in The Mitre and Rattle, though her rst ever published poem was in A Celebration of Poets in 2009. The Lowcountry will always be home. Find her on Instagram at @QAWriterHaley.Meet the CreatorsThough originally from Minnesota, Claire Lancaster has spent the last four years in North Carolina and now calls it home. She is a senior at Elon University, majoring in creative writing and professional writing and rhetoric and minoring in psychology and American studies. Her work has appeared in Beyond Words, received three Frederick Hartmann awards in ction & poetry, and received a Philip Carret critical essay award. Following graduation, Claire hopes to pursue an MFA in ction. The artist known as Gozoozu, a modern & prolic artist, has forged a captivating connection with the Carolinas, infusing their work with the thriving liviness of the communities they are surrounded by. Though Gozoozu moved to the south at the age of ve, their roots are deeply embedded in the Carolinian soil & red clay. They draw inspiration from the experiences of growing up and building a life in North Carolina. Their art serves as a testament to the symbiotic relationship between creator & locale, capturing the essence of their unique perspective in every stroke. Through trials & tribulations, Gozoozu continues to contribute to the ourishing artistic identity of the Carolinas, leaving an indelible mark on the regional art scene.Jaden Money, a unique singer-songwriter & guitarist living in Wilmington, NC, moved to the city three years ago with her boyfriend & his sister. Submerged in the local music scene, she’s been writing new songs, checking out open mics, and performing at shows. Passionate about connecting with the community, Jaden aspires to touch lives through her music, drawing inspiration from her personal experiences. With a desire to resonate with locals, her goal is to make a meaningful impact, sharing the solace & strength that music has brought to her own voyage.Sal Patalano was born in Gaeta, Italy, grew up in Somerville, MA, earned his undergraduate degree in New Mexico, and became a U.S. citizen in El Paso, TX. He received his Master’s degree in nance from Bentley University while working full-time and retired from corporate America in 2016 after a 30-year career. Since his retirement, Sal has been photographing total strangers that he meets on the street, depicting the harshness of street life in his poignant black & white images. He now resides in Tampa, FL. Sal would like to thank all the folks that have allowed him to photograph them for this project. He especially wants to thank those whom he briey met and who trusted him enough to tell him their names and share a bit about their lives, those folks who don’t have the choice of closing their doors and saying no, those folks who don’t have the luxury of privacy… those folks whose road home is the street. To them, thank you. And thanks to Carolina Muse for allowing Sal to continue on this journey.Subhadra Narayann is a former teacher turned poet & writer from Singapore who has turned to writing as a creative outlet and elixir to life’s challenging & confounding contradictions. Her rst poem to be ever published is “Shirahige” in Hot Pot magazine. “Gogh’s Starry Night” is close to her heart, and it has found its rightful home in Carolina Muse Literary & Arts Magazine, a platform that celebrates and gives voice to the intricate human experience. Her other pieces spanning the dierent genres are forthcoming in various upcoming publications. Charlotte Gaston (she/they) is a multidisciplinary artist based in Charlotte, NC and Salem, VA, about to earn a BA in education studies. Encouraged by her late poetry professor, Mary Crockett Hill, she took the leap to share her personal, raw, and honest work. Her body of poetry is a journal lled with scrawlings & scribbles from the darkest

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46Carolina Muse Literary & Arts Magazine days of her life–now testaments to her healing. While she was not born in the Carolinas, everywhere from Greenville to Seabrook Island has been her home for 18 years. Even her name is representative of the soul tie she holds to the region. You can keep up-to-date with her on Instagram @cltgaston.Meet the CreatorsTammy Spear is a passionate artist with deep roots in rural North Carolina. She believes creativity comes from the soul and is not a product of molding & imprinting others’ art into any particular style. Each piece she creates begins with re and a color blast. The full spectrum of emotions, from revulsion, depression, confusion, disorganized mania, and giddiness to sheer elation all drive her process. Combine this with honest beauty and the harsh realities of society & our planet’s state, and a work is born. Tammy knows feelings evoked by art reveal our humanity & similarities, not our dierences or indierence.Born & raised in the mountains of Western NC, James Horstman’s art is inuenced by the natural features of the region and from his study of art history. His grandmother, Mary Jane Ellsworth, was a prolic painter, introducing him to ne art at a young age. Producing only a few sketches throughout his early life, he devoted himself exclusively to the literary arts. His grandmother died in 2017 and this marked the beginning of his studies in the visual arts. His work draws signicantly from American Tonalism, Post-Impressionism, and all forms of Expressionism. Coining the term “Appalachian Expressionism” for the regional & emotional qualities of his portfolio, he now works as a self-taught, professional artist out of Asheville, NC.Johnny Cate is a poet, copywriter, and vintage t-shirt collector born & raised in Asheville, NC.In 4th grade, Cameron Louise received a small printing press which she used to print a newspaper for her friends. While she is no longer in the newspaper business, she is in the poetry, short story, and novel-writing business. The Southern United States is as much a character in Cameron’s writing as are its people. Her family arrived in North & South Carolina in the 1690’s. Cameron currently lives & writes on an island between Charleston, SC & Folly Beach, SC.Meet Sheryl Sabol, the visionary photographer weaving Carolina magic into every frame. Nestled in Charleston’s embrace for nine transformative years, Sheryl discovers solace & passion in the untamed beauty that surrounds her. With an artist’s touch, she orchestrates visual ballads, seizing the very essence of this cherished region. Her photographs unveils tales—tales of crashing waves and serene shores—where light pirouettes upon ocean waves, inviting you on a poignant journey. Each snapshot whispers of healing and captures the arresting allure of the Carolinas, an enchanting world where emotions nd voice & stillness speaks volumes. Check out her website, https://sherylsabol.com or follow her on Instagram @sherylsabol.Neveah began her professional musical journey at age 16, entering & winning talent showcases around the Carolinas. She would go on to release her rst single, “Complicated,” in 2009. This was the rst introduction of NEVEAH to the world. Through the years, many songs have followed: “Someone Real,” “Boom,” and “My Only,” to name a few. These tracks are available on all streaming platforms. Neveah has graced the stage with legendary artists, such as Keith Sweat & H-Town. She has also shared the stage with R&B artist & songwriter Bobby Valentino and most recently, Neveah and her band, The Neveah Experience headlined with R&B artist Donell Jones and had a curated event (also called The Neveah Experience) hosted Carolina-based artist Ricco Barrino. The Neveah Experience (concert/event) has cemented Neveah within the Carolina music scene as both

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Volume IV • No. I • February 202447creditsCarolina Muse Literary & Arts Magazine is a multimedia arts magazine showcasing primarily young adult creators in the Carolinas. Our mission is to provide a multi-sensory, immersive platform for young adult creatives that reveals the way various art forms can work together to tell the true stories of our human experience. We publish short stories & scripts, poetry, art & photography, music, dance in a digital multimedia format on a tri-annual basis. Whether you submit a document, image le, audio le, or video le, our team loves to see creators test the boundaries of their art form to bring their passions, interpretations, experiences, and messages to life.Want to add your voice to the arts community of the Carolinas? Submit your creative work through our Duosuma platform at duotrope.com/duosuma/submit/carolina-muse-literary-and-arts-magazine-1Yu2X.Please view the specic requirements for your art form as well as our submission window dates at www.carolina-muse.com/submit.an artist and a brand, providing a platform for other artists of all genres. Neveah has hosted her concert/event in the historic Noda area of Charlotte at various venues. Neveah is currently preparing to begin her U.S. Eastern tours to support her hit single, “Someone Real,” and new releases, “Right Now” and “All My Life “ o of her full-length album, Yours Truly, set to release in the second quarter of 2024.Jules Miller is a poet who discusses trans life and the natural world in his work, which has appeared in Atlantis Magazine, The Light Ekphrastic, and the Gilbert-Chappell Distinguished Poet Series. A North Carolina native, Jules has seen the entire span of the state—from the beaches of the coast to the western mountains—and loves every creature he comes across there. He will graduate in 2024 with an MFA in creative writing from the University of North Carolina in Wilmington. He tries to enjoy the little things in life, and as such, is a dedicated caretaker to many shrimp.Meet the Creators / Cedits

Carolina Muse IV.I

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