myth verity
antonym
&
march 2021
table of contents
Letter from the Editors Maddie Wallace, Emma Maras, & Michael Ferry pieces of the sky johanna monson geerts I know someone who kisses the way a flower ppens, but more rapidly. Christine Orr river city johanna monson geerts Trimmings Christine Orr Child of the Sea Katrina Flores Water Signs Mattie Smith Complex Happiness 1 Ambyunderock We are all Mad here Hudson Parkinson Never Good Enough for a Mother's Love Kavi Kavali the sky's the limit johanna monson geerts blue mountain frost johanna monson geerts Defeated by Morpheus John Whittaker Contributors
5 6 8 10 13 14 15
17 18 20 21 22 26 28
Blog | Submit | Instagram | Facebook | Donations | https://antonymlit.com
letter from the editors
Cover “A Soft Embrace" | Katrina Flores antonym logo | Micaela Levesque Digital design software | Lucidpress march 2021 Editors | Maddie Wallace, Michael Ferry, & Emma Maras
Well, here we are—March—with buds springing forth, a hint of warmth in the air, and a renewed sense of optimism running a tenuous thread through us all. When antonym first became a thought, exactly a year ago, we thought we were heading into a period that was already near its end. It's been an incredibly difficult year, to put it mildly. And part of what's kept us going—we who make up this little team, and we hope some of you—is this magazine. Having something to do every month, with beguiling art and gripping prose and poetry to look forward to, has filled our days with meaning. And now an even bigger dream for antonym is about to become a reality: we're coming to print! To celebrate our one-year anniversary, we're bringing back some of our favorite pieces to a one-time may 2021 print issue. You can submit your nominations for pieces here, and order your copy of our print issue here. We can't wait to hold a physical copy of this magazine in our hands, and we hope you're equally excited! As always, we found ourselves awed by the breadth and depth of the work we received this month; the art was playful, dreamlike, and slightly mystical, while the exquisite poetry shared common themes of fluidity, belonging, motion, and transition. When we considered these pieces as a collective, two ideas arose: that of myth—ideas and stories so ubiquitously held that they are almost as powerful as truth—and its opposite, verity: something fundamental, unequivocally true, and formidable. We each carry our own myths—the stuff of legend held near and dear, that toe the line of deceit despite our desperate hope in their reality. And we each carry our own verities, our guiding principles of life. This issue poses the question: are they so different? What differentiates myth from verity? As these pieces slide one into the next—taking you from a fractured sky, to a scene from a story ingrained in cultural canon, to a jubilant foray into independence, to battle with the god of dreams—we hope you'll ask yourself these questions. In these pages, perhaps you'll even find your answers. With gratitude, Maddie, Emma, & Michael antonym editors | march 2021
pieces of the sky
johanna monson geerts
I know someone who kisses the way a flower opens, but more rapidly.
Christine Orr
river city
this city is night driving, hitting every single green light; i count the streets, my hand trails out the window, cupping the air that's as thick as water rushing through the spaces between my fingers. in the dark the wind is cold on the back of my neck and my shoulders. this city is rewriting everything i know about luck: i am manifested into this city, this city where i discover that i can manifest too. this city is filled with invisible tethers connecting all the unlike, perfectly-paired things, this city is a collection of all of the different types of magic. this city is filled with things that shine, filled with pennies in the gaps between the red cobblestones, on the grey concrete slabs of the sidewalk. in this city i, too, sparkle: this city is glitter eye shadow, this city is the deep gleam of colored glass. this city is the many moods of its river; the flooding, pounding of pouring rain. the warm summer afternoons when the water flows gentle and cool and brown: wading days, though i hate the feeling of the minnows eating my toes. this city is the autumn river, golden and shimmery, playfully swirling fall leaves: i can't decide if i need a jacket or not, and it's the winter river, icy and unrelenting, grey under the bare trees, a glassy mirror, punctured by blood orange rocks in the early, setting sun. this city is putting away the gps, just walking and knowing where i'll end up, is seeing the parks in all of the different seasons. i have time to have favorites in this city; here is waiting to hear the clatter of a pair of keys on the kitchen table. i know happiness doesn't live in another person but maybe home does. this city is beginning to teach me something about home, something less about a lease and more about the difference between potting a plant and planting a garden; this city is the the feeling of plunging my hands into the dirt over and over again. this city is no longer a name penciled on a slip of old notebook paper, this city is no longer a dot on the wrinkled atlas under my passenger seat. i don't remember when i stopped calling this city by its name, but this city seems to have a new name: yours.
Trimmings
Child of the Sea
Katrina Flores
I find contentment in the pool. In the coolness of the water gliding down my back. In the warmth of the sun beaming on my face. Both enveloping me in a cocoon of safe transparency. And I stop pretending to know how I feel in these moments. And I pause. And I float and I lay and I listen. I listen for the muddled crashes of wakes against the sidewalls. For the breaths that are greedily gulped. For the echoing of hands carving through water with graceful urgency. And I don’t have to pretend to know how I feel because I know. I know when I dive into the depths. When I open my eyes and see everything so clearly through the chlorinated crystal. And everything is as it should be. And I am finally as I should be. Then it hits. The realization that there is no permanence in this hidden home of mine. That there is no life down here for beings like me. But I kick and I cling. And I beg the tiles to let me belong amongst their wasteland of perception but they refuse. And they push me away. Rejecting, ejecting, me swiftly through the water. And with eye-stinging reluctance, I surface. I gasp for the air that supposedly gives me life and I feel it re-enter my lungs. But it feels more like poison than air. Slowly killing the hope, the clarity. Replacing it with the oxygenated opinions of the outside world. And for a moment I feel it all. And I see the difference between, who I am and who I want to be. What I say and what I do. What I hold in my depths and what I display on the surface. And in the next, it’s gone. So my hands begin to erode the water that I once longed to call home. And my ears tune out its melodic crashing. And I match the greedy breaths, until my lungs are so saturated with this air called life, that I forget the possibility of other ones. I find contentment in the pool. But I lose it just as quickly.
Water Signs
Mattie Smith
Ambyunderock
Complex Happiness I
Hudson Parkinson
We are all Mad here
Never Good Enough for a Mother's Love
My mother always wants me to visit. She says that she misses me. The first time I went back, I wore my hair down as I always did. My mother says my hair is too poofy and scolds me for being ugly for 20 minutes before talking about how I am not good enough as a child. She asks if I always looked so awful walking to class and that's why I have no "good" friends then goes on to say how my best friend isn't really a girl. The next time I see her, I tie it back and wear a hat. She assumes I am depressed since I didn't fix my bangs and scolds me for being lazy. The next time, I fix my bangs and tie my hair back. She says I smell musty and she can't bear the smell. She pulls faces and lowers her windows. I try to spray perfume but she just screams more saying I like to overpower her nose and that I will attract bees. The next time I go back, I spray some light perfume on my clothes before walking to her car. It is the same scent she wears, so it must be safe. She says my eyes are too dark and that I look like I am on drugs. The next time, I wear makeup to conceal my tired eyes. She says I look strange with a nice face and shabby clothes. The next time I see her...I just don't. I say I am busy with tests and essays every week. She says she misses me but I think she simply misses her punching bag.
Kavi Kavali
the sky's the limit
we may have driven together, winding our way east as the farms alternated with forests, subsisting on tropical trail mix and playlists from your ancient iPod. i may have slept in your home, curled up deep within my drab blue blanket, upon the master bedroom bed. your family and i may have eaten at the same table, sharing a steaming pot of rice, vegetables, bean curd, pretending that i could converse without being awkward. but this was not our adventure, for this one week, New York was mine. when i stood on that New Jersey train platform, wondering if it was too late to turn back now, i was by myself. it was just me, knees shaking, gripping the train pole; purple earbuds stuffed in my ears i alone was welcomed to New York, the place that had been waiting for me; i alone was awed by the high rise buildings sliding into view, brave and exciting and here. i bought single admission tickets to art museums, took selfies with the coolest, weirdest, most famous pieces of art, i tossed out my plans for the days to instead lose myself navigating the public transit system. i smudged on a different shade of lipstick every new morning (peach for Central Park, berry for Wall Street, and cherry red for Chinatown), i ate enormous, cookie-frosting sandwiches for dinner while watching taxis rush by. i listened to stories from the floor of a book shop, i talked to strangers in the market, i basked in the sun as it set in city parks, a turquoise blue, plastic film camera tucked into the pocket of my winter jacket, i ate at restaurant tables for one — i sat at a bar! i was a lone girl, walking, across the Brooklyn Bridge, i stepped into Manhattan; the strong, confident, independent woman i had always dreamed of becoming, for a week that was me. New York was the bravest journey i’d ever embarked on because in this place that millions call home, i was so absolutely alone. but despite my fearless solitude, my willingness to take on this legendary city, my recollections of those travels are still inexorably tangled with the sound of your folk music playing from my little, purple speaker, plugged into the cigarette lighter, as we followed the highways and keystones towards your home. and no matter how many images of skyscrapers and subways flash through my mind, when i think back upon the misty, drizzly bridges of West Virginia and the snowy hills of Pennsylvania, the memories still all sound like you.
blue mountain frost
John Whittaker
Defeated by Morpheus
Ambyunderock is a poet artist working towards being a Dali Seuss. Katrina Flores is a traditional freelance artist, art teacher, graphic designer and community leader in the arts. She lives in Utah with her husband who is an author and artist, four year old daughter and her menagerie of much loved pets. She is trained in a wide variety of art mediums but her heart truly belongs to oil painting and drawing. Katrina is also an art influencer in her community where she works to bring public art to her city, organize art events and support local artisans. Kavi Kavali is a poet and wants you to have a phenomenal day! johanna monson geerts is is a maker, writer, and explorer currently living in Richmond, VA. She believes in the power of quiet work and ordinary stories. You can find her artwork and more of her poems on Instagram @spacenohyphen. Christine Orr (b. 1993) is a mixed media artist based in Richmond, Virginia. Orr is currently working towards completing her Master of Fine Arts from Virginia Commonwealth University. Her work is an exploration into material and material culture. Her work is mainly focused within the realms of ceramics (pottery and sculpture), weaving, basketry, paper-making and writing. Hudson Parkinson is an author and artist from Utah. He lives with his wife, daughter, three birds, two dogs and one cat. When he is not writing or painting, he is spending time with his family, reading sci-fi and fantasy books or playing video games. Mattie Smith is a writer living in Paris, France. She spent most of her childhood in the Midwest and has always had a fascination with the world around her and the way that we interact with each other behind closed doors. She currently spends her days writing, drinking café crèmes, and teaching english as a second language. John Whittaker is a photographer and occasional filmmaker. In between editing photos and completing school assignments, John sings, runs, kayaks, reads, and has contributed images to various photobooks and magazines in Bolivia and the United States. He loves photographing and filming for magazines, documentaries, websites, billboards, and everything in between.
contributors
ambyunderock katrina flores kavi kavali johanna monson geerts christine orr hudson parkinson mattie smith john whittaker