Fall 2014 | Issue 69

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StaffEditor-in-ChiefAbby Chiaramonte

Layout EditorMarissa Flanagan

Web EditorAbby Harrell

Art EditorHannah Granberry

Photography EditorHailey Black

Poetry EditorMekiya Walters

Prose EditorLori Wilson

Copy EditorBrenan Winters

Submissions CoordinatorHannah Granberry

Promotions CoordinatorFrancesca Giordano

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About the Cover

Feature Articles

Contents

“As primarily a self-portrait artist I use photographs to explore insecurities and emotions. Using myself

as the subject invites criticism in an exceptionally per-sonal form since I am on display; I am portraying the emotion and executing the idea. This brings about anx-iety and fear for an introverted person such as myself. I have been open about these issues and how they influ-ence my work because I believe that they are the reason self-portraiture is so alluring to me. I use photography as my primary medium to show the uncomfortable lo-cations and posture that I subject myself to in order to force reactions in myself and from the viewer.

Drive by Hunter ReevesHades and Persephone by Emily LovitchBlind Faith by Shelby ScattergoodFishbowl Man by Bianca LopezLeaving the Past Behind by Brittney AndersonBolivian Jukumari by Charlene EckelsPersonal Politics by Jennifer SmithStudy by Hunter ReevesGalaxy Girl by Hunter Reeves

Butterflies by Ashley SmithWhat I Told People by Ashling MurphyThe Darkness by Chris PendergastRhotacism by Ryan Budd

Inside the Shower Studio with the Collective Dialectby Madison RobertsPort City Plays Tunes for All Kinds by Sierra ShepherdSwimming Dinosaurs by Pamela Creech

Debris by Kyle MaplesMr. Poppins by Juan EsandiJohnny Mercers Break by Cameron McHutchisonThe Mountains are Alive by Timothy VaughanSolitude by Jessica Campbell“water under the bridge” by Jenna Ferguson

Short Cigarette by Kyle MaplesMy Floral Frame by Brenan WintersEveryday a Blue Sky by Lydia FloresThe Moon Needs the Night by Lydia FloresAmerican Shit by Ryan Budd

Editor’s NoteDear Reader,

Thank you for pausing to pick up Atlantis’s sixty-ninth issue. In the Oxford English Dictionary, the verb form of pick up is defined as “to lay hold of and take up from the ground or any low position.” Thus, the simple act of pick-ing up this issue elevates its content—without our faithful readers, Atlantis would just be ink on a series of pages.

As the creative magazine of UNCW, Atlantis seeks to discover the voices of emerging artists. We want to make these voices heard beyond our pages and print run. For the first time, Atlantis is publishing student work online. If this issue does not sate your creative thirst, scroll through our website to see what more we have to offer!

This year, we are working diligently to publish the highest quality student work spanning photography, art, poetry, and prose. To broaden our scope, we have expanded our submissions categories to include feature articles. We want to hear what inspires our readers, our generation, and our classmates.

Atlantis is a foray into form, an adventure in the world of the arts. In spite of the incredible diversity of our submissions, this issue has become a cohe-sive unit. As we put everything together, it became clear that a theme was emerging: light and shadow. Flip the page—explore the contrasts of clarity and murkiness, brightness and obscurity.

Abby Chiaramonte

Photography 6 17 32 34 36 38

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PoetryFiction & Nonfiction 5 18 26 31

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My process for creating these images is incredi-bly simple: I scout emotive locations, bring my tri-pod and remote, and physically push myself until I am uncomfortable. Constantly putting myself in po-sitions that are awkward or revealing (physically as well as emotionally) helps make emotions tangible. I find light and movement to be the most interesting aspects of photography and try to use them in a sim-plistic manner to focus on gesture and emotion. This photograph, titled “You Don’t Have to Be Pretty”, ex-presses feelings of insecurity that caused the intro-spective pose.”

You Don’t Have to Be Prettyby Amryn SoldierPhotography

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ButterfliesFiction by Ashley Smith

Driveby Hunter Reeves

Nevr dull and glue on magazine

Butterflies on my palms feel like eyelashes, soft against my skin. I close each fist,

feeling them twitch as they try to escape. If I shut my eyes, I can imagine they are just flowers; I can open my hands, and they will reach up toward the sun once more. I unclench my fists and tilt my palms to the ground, and the pair of pat-terned bodies floats to the grass. I don’t know when I started hating butterflies. I think it was their soft, boneless wings that somehow glide against the wind, or that if you get too close, their beau-ty seems to disappear under black eyes and pointed antennae. Mostly, it was that they transformed from their worm-like brothers and shed their skin like it meant nothing to them. Once used, their ugly shells are cast aside like nature’s garbage, their skin left to rot among the leaves. I rub the creases of my hands, smearing insect goo into my clear sweat, and notice my own complexion. I wish it were covered in colored geometry. One day, I hope to glide against the wind to who I want to be. Until then, I will go on hating butterflies.

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Debrisby Kyle MaplesPhotography

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When you hear Collective Dialect on a track, you

would never imagine that they haven’t set foot in a re-cording studio. When the harmony of the beat meets the poetic words, it creates an old-school hip-hop sound. The pair, Ty Graham and Anthony Nastasi, produce their music in a makeshift recording studio that Graham set up in his bathroom, which is referred to as the “shower studio.” “It was real ghetto,” Graham said with a laugh. “I don’t know shit about anything really. I just kind of click buttons and figure it out, and Nastasi brings the

lyrics.” The duo met during their first year at UNCW; were both spring semester transfers and instantly became best friends. They talk trash and speak over one an-other, but they also finish each other’s sentences—this bond translates into their music. “We are constantly talking shit to each other,” Nas-tasi said. “Our whole friendship is based off of being assholes to each other pretty much 100 percent of the time.” “That’s a big thing because a lot of people would get offended.” Graham said. “You hear about bands break-

Inside the Shower Studio with the Collective Dialectby Madison RobertsPhotos by Claire Gibson

ing up because people don’t get along, but that’s not the case here. It’s easy to work with people who you can be honest with.” This brutally honest relationship, along with their contrasting regional backgrounds, is what sparked the idea for their group name, Collective Dialect. “It’s kind of funny because a week after we came up with the name, I found out the definition of ‘collec-tive’ is three or more people. At the time, we had a guy who lived on our couch that bought us a microphone, so I guess he’s our third person.” Nastasi added with a laugh, “Then ‘dialect’ comes from the fact that we’re all from different places so we all talk differently, but we work together, and it sounds cool.” “We always rip on each other’s accents,” Graham added, “which is just a part of the friendship.” Graham creates their beats on his computer and brings them to Nastasi for help with the lyrics. “As I’m listening, I’ve already got it in my head what will work. Then I’ll cut and paste a bunch of different things that I’ve written over the past couple weeks,” Nastasi said. Graham’s focus for the music is to create something that’s catchy and people will like, while Nastasi’s main goal is to create inspiring lyrics with depth and mean-ing. He gains inspiration from the world around him,

and begins by asking questions about why things hap-pen. However, one challenge the duo faces is that there are tons of groups doing virtually the same thing that they are. “I feel like most of the music we hear on the radio now doesn’t say anything of importance. But we do, and that’s what really sets us apart.” Nastasi said. “I think our songs, on the surface, are feel-good and very easy to vibe to. But underneath, we’re always trying to say something.” Another challenge Collective Dialect faces is the scarce hip-hop scene in Wilmington. Graham men-tioned that on the beach, there are rarely any hip-hop groups that play. More often, Wilmington and Wrights-ville beach venues book indie-rock and jam bands. He said there is also a bit of a demand for “trap rap,” which is similar to the music that clubs and popular radio sta-tions play, but that isn’t Collective Dialect’s style. “Because of the limited hip-hop scene in Wilming-ton, we could make some noise,” Graham said. “There haven’t been any distinctive hip-hop artists that have come out of Wilmington yet, so it would be cool to be at the forefront of something like that.” It has been difficult for them to find gigs in the area, but they believe that as time progresses and their mu-sic gains exposure, the venues will surely follow. In fact, their performance at the Atlantis summer release

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party was a huge hit. “I was so nervous about it at first,” Nastasi said. “But then somebody compared it to the week before a foot-ball game. You’re nervous the whole time, but then the first play happens, and then you don’t think about it anymore. That’s exactly what it was like.” In addition to performances, they also want to do more music videos. They hope these, in addiction to their music, will help them gain creative integrity and get their name out to the public. Graham said he would die happy if he had a track with Missy Elliot: “If we can make enough noise to get Missy Elliot on a track, I’m

probably just going to call it quits.” Both members of the Collective Dialect are seniors at UNCW. Nastasi will be graduating with a degree in English, and Graham will be graduating with a degree in Marine Biology. They acknowledge their education-al accomplishments, but hope that their music will take them the farthest.

Photos by Claire Gibson

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Short CigarettePoetry by Kyle Maples

Blind Faithby Shelby ScattergoodColored pencil on black paper

I tried to relive my childhood,but I started from the middleof my story. Stupid me.

I stepped outside and tried again,opened a new pack of short cigarettesand warmed myself in the fall. Across the street,a lonely girl did the same.

She stood at the side of her building,dark and beautiful between the dumpsters. She flicked back her ash- black hair and exhaledit, airborne into the night.

I think she noticed me. I think we kept each othercompany at a distance. I think we slowly kill ourselves.

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Regardless of their favored genre, most people have something to say about the live music scene in Wilmington. One overarching description is eclectic. Sure, mainstream acts come to town, but the real gems are the ones you wouldn’t catch on the pop Top 40. Wilmington’s calendar is sprin-kled with festivals throughout the year, and local venues host a permanent scene. Given that the Wilmington is first and fore-most a beach town, you don’t have to look hard for reggae shows. Not only do many up-and-coming performers call Wilmington home, but bigger names also have a presence here. At times, it may seem that beach music provides the main attraction, but an undeniably wide representation of genres visits town. The city hosted its second annual Cali Roots Festival: the Carolina Sessions in September. The line-up bragged names includ-ing Matisyahu, Collie Buddz, and Rebelution. And October brought Modern Rock Fest. Unfortunately, many students today, includ-ing myself, missed out on what was once called “downtown Wilmington’s destination for laundry, live entertainment, coffee, and more,” also known as the Soapbox. This ultra-unique venue shut its doors in 2013, ending the sudsy fun—yes, patrons could actually wash clothes while rocking out. The Soapbox provided a go-to spot for lovers of funk, jazz, jam bands, improv, and more. But as soon as the Soapbox closed its doors, the hottest new venue opened. Ziggy’s by the Sea took downtown Wilmington by storm in the summer of 2013. This location is the sister to the origi-nal Ziggy’s, found in Winston-Salem. Offering “Roots, Rock, [and] Reggae,” this spot has some-thing for everyone. Country artists and hip-hop music makers, too, have made appearances at this

Port City Plays Tunes for All Kindsby Sierra Shepherd

Market Street spot. Ziggy’s is my favorite music venue because of its proximity, price-point, and predictability. Now, predictability may sound ex-tremely un-fun. But indeed, the opposite holds true. Ziggy’s guarantees a kick-ass time. I’ve seen Collie Buddz, Iration, Badfish, and Scott Stapp at Ziggy’s, and those nights proved to be some of the best of my time while at the Dub. (Yes, Scott Stapp is Creed’s frontman. Yes, the performance was legendary. Where my children of the nineties at?) For more intimate settings, don’t miss the (liter-ally) underground scene at Orton’s, various bands at the Whiskey (where I saw the life-changing Yo Mama’s Big Fat Booty Band), or bluegrass at Sat-ellite Bar and Lounge. If you’ve ever been tempted to get drunk in church, the Brooklyn Arts Center gives you that chance. This gorgeous house of worship, con-structed in the 1800s, has transformed into a house of jams. Do yourself a favor and experience it with your own eyes. And if you prefer a night free of cover charges, look no further than Costello’s Piano Bar or Goat & Compass. Regulars of Goat & Compass proud-ly identify with countercultural music. You’re intrigued by what this curiously named Fourth Street location has to offer, right? You’ll have to dig deep—they’re not easy to track down online. A quick phone call, however, will score you all the details you need. Or better yet, let Goat & Com-pass surprise you. Live music is guaranteed every Thursday, Friday, and Saturday nights. My fondest memories in Wilmington have been what I like to call “music adventures.” I wish more people would explore the scene and support live music. To me, Wilmington’s music scene of-fers college students all they need.

Mr. PoppinsJuan Esandi

Photography

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Mr. Poppinsby Juan Esandi

Photography

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What I Told PeopleNonfiction by Ashling Murphy

I gave people a lot of reasons for our move to North

Carolina. I told them it was for my dad’s job and for a lower cost of living. I told them it was because my parents were sick of the cold. I told them it was because my grandma died and my mom didn’t want to stay in New Jersey if she wasn’t there. When I was in my dra-matic, sob-story sharing youth-group phase, I told them it was because I was bullied at school or some other sad thing that matched their stories of self-hate and sin. I didn’t tell people it was because my dad had quit his job for one that was five hundred miles away, promising that “this would be it.” I never said it was because my mom thought North Carolina would save their marriage. Instead, I lied and laughed and said we left New Jersey because it was tacky.

I spent the eight-hour drive from civilization to the redneck South squeezed between my rabbit’s cage and the carrier that held our howling tabby cat, Westcott. For eight hours, I listened to my sister whine that she was carsick. I thought about how we probably should have changed the bedding in the rabbit’s cage before we left. My mom talked about all the “new adventures” we would have in North Carolina; I talked about the four weeks of summer break I would lose because school started so early. Micaela got carsick. I was standing in the Hillsborough Middle School locker bay when I told my friends I was moving. They cried—I was relieved that their reactions matched the level of dramatics I had been exerting at home. They told me I shouldn’t have blurted it out like that; I told

them I couldn’t keep such a big secret any longer. Real-ly, I was just acting out the Dawson’s Creek version of this saga in my head, so a blunt delivery with the slam-ming of my locker door seemed appropriate. We made a petition—forty-five poorly written signatures from seventh graders—to give to my parents, but the for sale sign stayed on my lawn. I don’t remember which ex-cuse for moving I touted to those friends. I only visited the next summer before we lost touch, but I still have the petition they wrote for me. I incessantly questioned my parents about our move: Why are you doing this to me? Do you under-stand how unfair this is? Are you running from the law? Where is North Carolina? There was an outcry when my friends realized I would be moving there. It was such a random state—probably filled with farms, we reasoned. (The irony of this is that we lived in Hill-sborough, New Jersey, home of the “Got Milk?” cows.) We voted at the municipal building, where we also met for Brownies and the Fourth of July parade and the Labor Day picnic. We lived in a small town, yet we re-sented the thought that the South had fields, too. We lived in a two-bedroom apartment for the first six months after our move. I told people I made my sister sleep with my parents so I could have my own room. I told them we were having a house built. When no house was ever built, I told them it was because we didn’t like it. I never told the truth: that we couldn’t afford to stay in North Carolina much longer if our old house didn’t sell. I don’t know if that counts as lying, because really, no one ever asked. When I felt like we had reached maximum capacity in that apartment, I made a PowerPoint presentation about why my sister and I should have our own cable box in our bedroom. My dad said I would make a great lawyer, and my mom said I was spoiled. Even though I don’t think we could really afford it, they got us the box. My mom hated living in that apartment almost as much as I did. We waited for our old house to sell so we could move. When it finally did, my dad quit the “this is it” job; I think that’s when my mom realized North Carolina couldn’t solve my dad’s problems. We lived in that apartment for another six months. A five-bedroom, three-bath house with a fenced-in

yard and big back deck was the next thing my parents thought could save their marriage, but I didn’t tell peo-ple that. Instead, I painted my room blue and hung a poster of Taylor Swift on my wall. Our family dog, Trusty, made the long trip down South with us and fell sick shortly after. My mom didn’t think she’d be able to bear getting another dog after Trusty died, so she reasoned that we should get one before he did. We got a lab puppy and named him Clancy. Trusty had started to lose the ability to walk, so we spread a blanket on the couch for him to lie on. Sometimes he wandered off and would get tired. When he got stuck in other rooms of the house, we would carry him back to the couch. I felt kind of bad for Trusty, having to stay in one spot and watch Clancy run around. He died a month later, but we left the blanket on the couch. Clancy turned out to be really hyper and crazy and even though my dad didn’t have a job, he didn’t really train Clancy while he was home. My mom claimed an-other dog would calm Clancy down, but at this point, it just seemed like she thought dogs would save her marriage. We got our second dog, Checkers, from a shelter on Halloween. When my parents eventually separated, we lost that house and my mom gave Clan-cy to a farm. I was surprised when my parents separated, not be-cause my parents were so in love, but because things had been bad between them for so long, I thought they wanted to keep it that way. People started to ask me questions before I had the chance to tell them any-thing. I didn’t tell them that my parents’ marriage end-ed with a really pathetic fight over the mortgage of our new house; I didn’t tell them that I hoped my mom would take my dad back just so I wouldn’t have to call him every day to check on him; I didn’t tell them that none of us could afford to move out of the house, but we couldn’t really afford to keep it either. Instead, I told people that having divorced parents was cool because I got twice the amount of presents on my birthday. I started to think we should have a reality show, or a comedy on ABC Family—some sitcom about a di-vorced couple with two kids, living in the house they bought together, the house they couldn’t afford. The five rooms did in their marriage, but now conveniently

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Fishbowl Manby Bianca LopezAcrylic and stretched canvas

allowed everyone to have their own space. The stars: a couple with two hyper dogs and two daughters who stayed in their rooms, watched TV, and ignored their divorced parents. After my parents’ divorce was finalized, my dad got his own apartment. Even though he only lived five minutes away, I made excuses about work and school so I didn’t have to visit him. I didn’t like visiting my dad because he had a studio apartment and it didn’t have much furniture. He had a recliner to sit on while watching TV that kind of reminded me of Trusty in the way that he only ever sat in one place. I didn’t tell my dad that’s why I was always busy, because how do you tell someone you don’t want to see them because they remind you of your dead dog? After a while my mom met Scott, and I started to resent her less. I saw how happy he made her, and I realized what she had been missing out on. I told my friends my mom was dating because I knew they would be happy for her. They were, but they also asked me how it felt to have a mom with a boyfriend when I had never had one myself. I reminded them that they were single, too. I didn’t tell my dad that my mom had a boyfriend; he moved to Charlotte, so the secret got easier to keep. I didn’t tell people that my dad was living with his old friend from high school, Pete, because I didn’t want them to think he was gay. Really, I would’ve been re-lieved if that was the case, because at least he would be happy—but I think he honestly just enjoyed having someone to watch baseball with. Sometimes when I think about moving here and my dog dying and losing our house and my parent’s di-vorce, I think about how negative it all sounds. But re-ally, if people asked, I would tell them that I was happy. I would tell them that I’m glad we moved down here because we tested the boundaries of our weak family ties. I would tell them I’m glad we moved because my parents finally realized they couldn’t save their mar-riage. I think we were all relieved to have that burden lifted. I would tell them I’m glad we adopted Checkers because I love him as I loved Trusty, and I know Clan-cy loves the farm he’s on—because he really was too hyper for an apartment anyway.

My family moved to North Carolina because my dad is bipolar. We moved because he was in a manic phase and the South was his “promised land.” We moved to North Carolina because my mom wanted to please my dad—because she wanted to save her marriage— and so she moved her two daughters , and rabbit, and cat, and dog five hundred miles away from all of her fam-ily to follow her husband. When we moved to North Carolina, I discovered Chick-fil-A. I also discovered youth group and One Tree Hill and the Jonas Broth-ers. When we moved to North Carolina, we lived in an apartment, and then a house, then lost the house, then moved back into an apartment—without my dad. But we did not move back to New Jersey, because New Jersey is tacky.

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Brenan Winters

About BrenanBrenan grew up in Greensboro where she studied voice at Weaver Academy. She moved to Wilmington to pursue a degree in creative writing with a concentration in poetry and a minor in English. She has found con-fessionalists, such as Sylvia Plath and Anne Sexton, and beat poets, such as Robert Creeley and Jack Spicer, the most influential.

My Floral FramePoetry by Brenan Winters

Daisies dig into my brain like worms, rooting in pink flesh.

Lotus flowers blossom in my eyes, their root-needles

lodged in my sockets; the snaky strangle of reddened ribbons

ventriloquize the rise & fall of the moon discs.

Dandelions swell in my mouth& speak lion-toothed of lies.

Poppies sprout proudly between my teeth, the bloodied gums.

Their picked petals lay choked, plumped at my throat.

Sunflowers open in my chest& lean numbly toward the light.

Tulips bloom in my hands,peach-boned, yellow veined

vessels, rapidly reaching awayfrom their blackened core.

Staff Spotlight

About My Floral FrameThis piece was inspired by Sylvia Plath’s “Poppies in October.” I paid close attention to her habitual word choice and recurrent imagery, and wrote this as an imitation piece. I merged anatomical and floral imagery to depict nature’s taking back of the body, the bones returning to dirt, and flowers growing in lieu of the soul.

“Poetry, at its core, it is the backbone of all human communication. It is what’s left when the excess of life has been shaved away. It’s those remnants perfectly picked and positioned so they can reach out and evoke something human, something truthful and unexpected from within. It is the soul of rhetoric.”

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Leaving the Past Behindby Brittney Anderson

Acrylic paint and collage

Every Day a Blue SkyPoetry by Lydia Flores

There are words I’m afraid to let echo  off the walls of my mouth.  There are poems I have yet to write  because ink is like blood and I am caught red handed.  There are secrets only the stars know. If you look up, if you call out to the sky, you just might find the key to the gates of Heaven in the constellations.  How can I pray when my tongue is stuck behind my teeth? How can I touch the stars?  World War III is brimming on the stove.  The pilot is turned up too high  in the hearts of two girls in love.  The fire alarm is shrieking all over town.  We just want to burn for someone. The fire extinguisher sneezes.  The sky collects the gray.  God murmurs, but the music is in your ears.  You miss the whisper of redemption. The wind is slowly untying the string in your knees; you’ll meet your fall. The clouds hold all your sins, and Baby— you know it’s a 30 percent chance of rain tomorrow?  The ground is waiting for your surrender.  The sky opens up. Amen, Amen, Amen. There are stories that haven’t shown you the truth that leads the way to sleep.  There are lands with unborn tulips,  and if you just let yourself cry,  you can have a garden all your own.  If you dip your toe in the ocean’s mouth, you’ll be begging the waves to never leave. There are multiple shades of blue in your eyes from the reflection of God rippling in the water.

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The DarknessFiction by Chris Pendergast

I live alone. It’s a one-bedroom apartment but there’s enough space, for me at least.

I have no friends. Once, I brought a friend from work back for a couple of drinks. He said it was too cramped. I refused to leave. He did. It’s a small place, but I still get lonely, so I talk to my shadow. My shadow is the only person who can decipher the jumbled notions that come crawling out of my mouth. She’s a funny girl, my shadow. I call her “she” because calling another being “it” would be rude. I call her “she” because her long hair is elegant and mysterious. I call her “she” because I hardly know who I am myself. She follows me everywhere, from work to the grocery store. Most of the time, we talk the entire night. She speaks in whispers. Her voice is soothing—like a friendly embrace with a stranger. My shadow tells me that love doesn’t exist. But “she” does and we enjoy sharing each other. “What are you making?” she asks me sweetly. “Tilapia,” I say. “Want some?” “Of course,” she says, and I can feel her smile—it courses right through me. During supper we talk and I feed her. She rests on the wall diagonal to me. After a few glasses of wine, we sit down and watch TV. I place the tube on a slant between the door and the window—this way my shadow can see. She’s seated perfectly next

to me in the dim glow of the television. “You like this show?” I turn and ask her. She turns with me. “I love it,” she says in her soft whisper. She always knows the right thing to say. I can feel my heart warming me, my own personal furnace deep within my chest. At night when I shut off the lights, she sinks deeply into me, wrapping her darkness around my body.

The first night without power, I am worried for her. We had been in the middle of a great conversation when she was swallowed by darkness. She is lost inside of it. My shadow is scared, and in the quick, flickering illumination of my lighter, I can see her only briefly. Then the gas runs out. Panic rises, taking the form of knots in my stomach. If I can’t see her, then I can’t hear her. The snowstorm outside is malicious. I can hear the ice cracking at my window, trying to get inside. But I don’t want the ice. I don’t want anything else. I want my shadow, but she has vanished. The next day, the sky is gray. It hangs loosely over me in foggy particles. I walk to the store, but my shadow doesn’t follow me. I go to the supermarket to stock up on food and get some natural light. To be honest, the candle doesn’t help. In fact, it only makes it worse. My shadow is monstrous. She is frightened, but most of all, she frightens me. Her enormous figure towers over me like a haunted spirit cast upon my bedroom wall. She is dif-ferent. She is horrifying. I take my palm to snuff the candle. I hear her screams as they fade to black. On the second day without power, I can’t leave my house. I don’t know where I am; I don’t know who I am. I’m scared. On the third night, I don’t open my eyes. I can’t even find the strength. Finally, on the fourth day, the power comes back. My shadow returns, but she doesn’t talk to me. She just sits plastered on the wall diagonal from me and cries. “What’s wrong?” I ask. There is no reply, just sobbing. “Come on,” I say. “It’s me, remember? Me.” She finally speaks up. “I’m leaving. I’m going home.” “Home?” I say. “This is home. You can’t leave—the light is here.” “We can’t be friends anymore,” she says. “All of those days you left me alone in the dark. I found the others.” “What others?” “The shadows,” she says in her whisper. “I finally found where I belong.” “You can’t leave me,” I say again. “Good-bye.” The room goes black. I turn away; I can’t take the darkness. I reach for my front door and twist the knob. The cold metal rushes through my fingers and up my wrist. I step outside into the light.

I now know who I am. I am no longer alone.

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The Moon Needs The NightPoetry by Lydia Flores

Bolivian Jukumariby Charlene EckelsAcrylic on wood

A march is trying to drum  up the sound of its own existence. Do you hear it? The pale, lily-skinned man unknown of his privileged tongue. Back in the allies of scum, the dark-skinned girl smiles at herself in a cracked mirror shard. But the world turns its face and blooms lilies out of the valley. Night has to carry her stars everywhere she goes and hold the moon out to everyone who can’t see how night is like the light. In the event of an eclipse,  there are gawky smiles and melted hearts. But the night still has to prove its tongue, speaking in constellations and shooting stars. The day only has to be a white light, filling the rooms of this house. Some people are still afraid of the dark, and some people still can’t see themselves in the crack of the moon like the wide eyed, dark girl in the back allies dancing  to the song, marching out of the garden of lilies.

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Personal Politicsby Jennifer SmithCharcoal and newsprint

Wyan. No, it’s Ryan, said Dr. Nan. I repeat—Wyan. Rabbit—wabbit. Car—caa caa caa, I cawed like a crow. My constant struggle of tongue, lips, and sounds. Frustration. My second-grade lips dam words keen to flow from my mouth. No one makes fun of the voice of your thoughts, I think. I ask her, Why do I have to talk like eweybody else? You don’t want to sound different, do you? No. I don’t. I just want everyone to talk the way I do, or ignore my impediment. Point your tongue to the roof of your mouth, says Nan, ahrrr, ahrrr, come on Ryan, ahrrr. My tongue flounders, flaccid with the eloquence of an eel. Nan grabs my lips with her fingers and thins them wider. Spreading my mouth open, closing it slightly, then open more. Say it Ryan, ahrrr. Ryan is hard to say. But so are words like girl, world, and marriage.

RhotacismNonfiction by Ryan Budd

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Johnny Mercers Breakby Cameron McHutchisonPhotography

Swimming Dinosaursby Pamela Creech

My dad and I sat on the gunwale—the side—of the

Tortuga, a thirty-one-foot dive boat. Our scuba units were strapped to our backs and the August sun beat down on our black neoprene wetsuits. Cobalt seas were all I could see in every direction. We were for-ty-something miles from Wrightsville Beach. I closed my eyes, pulled my knees to my chest, and did a backwards roll into the water. The cool rush of the sea relieved my heat-induced nausea. My father and I swam toward the anchor line and grabbed it with gloved hands. We followed the white rope down to our destination: patches of sand and rock eighty feet deep. These patches—also known as the Meg Ledge—are a depository of Megalodon sharks’ teeth. Sixteen mil-lion to two million years ago, Megalodons roamed the seas, feasting on blue whales. The only evidence of the giant sharks’ existence are the six-inch teeth that re-main in near-perfect condition on the ocean floor. As my dad and I reached the sand, he hooked the end of a cord—a wreck reel—to the anchor line and grasped the other end in his hand. We could only see fifteen feet in each direction, and since divers often kick up sand with their fins while searching the sea floor for Meg teeth, it’s easy to get lost. The wreck reel allowed us to easily find our way back to the boat, de-spite the low visibility.

I raked the sand around me with my hand. As a nov-ice tooth hunter, I didn’t know what to look for. My hand hit something hard and smooth. I lifted it out of the sand and brushed it off. It was flat, black, and ten inches long—a fossilized whale bone. I shoved it in my small mesh bag and kept swimming. I saw a small triangle outlined in the sand. I picked it up and brushed it off—a tooth! It was gray and shiny; the enamel made it look polished. I placed the root of the tooth on the base of my palm. The tip reached half-way up my middle finger. I shuddered as I imagined the sixty-foot beast it once belonged to. Thirty minutes later, we surfaced and climbed back onto the Tortuga. My dad and I each had three teeth and several whale bones. The other four divers on-board had similar luck. After taking an hour to rest and eat lunch, we jumped back in the water for a dive even more successful than the first. Many divers sell Megalodon teeth on eBay; a large tooth can sell for four hundred dollars or more. How-ever, my dad and I keep our treasures on a wooden tray that’s on proud display for our visitors. The sat-isfaction of finding and owning pieces of pre-human history doesn’t have a price.

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The Mountains are Aliveby Timothy Vaughan

Photography

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I started stealing toilet paper when I was eleven. My older brother taught me how to silently wind the ivory tissue around recycled cardboard spools and stow them in the front pocket of my hoodie. Mother waited outside the bathroom with the shop-ping cart full of new school clothes, graphing calculators, polyester lunch boxes, and her box of Franzia. I thought every less cent I spent wiping myself at home was one more for my parents to spend on Christmas presents. She feigned ignorance, our mother, who was secretly proud of our frugality as well as the cleanliness of our assholes.

American ShitPoetry by Ryan Budd

Solitudeby Jessica CampbellPhotography

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“water under the bridge”by Jenna FergusonPhotography

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Studyby Hunter ReevesGesso and pencil

Galaxy Girlby Hunter Reeves

Gesso, paint, and pencil on cardboard

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Jessica Campbell is a freshman at UNCW that loves the beach and the weather that comes with it. She has loved photography for many years, and ever since she discovered her passion, she has been trying to capture her best shot. Usually her favorite shots include macro or black and white. Black and white has an ability to make a photo raw and emotional while macro boosts the intimacy of the object or person being captured.

Jenna Ferguson is an English and Secondary Education Major at UNCW. Her happiness is found behind the camera lens. “I see my path, but I don’t know where it leads. Not knowing where I’m going is what inspires me to travel it.” - Rosalía de Castro

Ashling Murphy is an English and communication studies major in her third year at UNCW. Ashling hates the beach but loves the way it looks on Instagram

Bianca Lopez is a barbaric bohemian. Her crazed anime fan-girl art escalated to constant doodling mad-ness out of boredom. With one semester to graduate with a philosophy and religion degree, she hit the pause button on her education for nearly two years. Within these two years, she made a thousand mistakes but discovered her infatuation with drawing and painting. Everyone is constantly evolving, and art pro-voked her to make her story unforgettable.

Charlene Eckels is a Bolivian-American artist. She aims at promoting a Bolivian agenda that includes so-cial and cultural heritage through art. By demonstrating the themes and stories of the Bolivians, she hopes to create a dialogue and give some insight into Latin American culture. Charlene is currently studying at UNCW. She has survived an airplane crash in the Amazon jungle. She specializes in Bolivian themes with a rich and brilliant palette in various paint and ink media.

Long Island native, Chris Pendergast, died on the evening of March 3, 2013 from an overdose of words. Chris was born again, on March 10, 2013, through the dim lampposts off the Cape Fear River. In the days between, his soul was exorcised from his body. Chris has been searching for it ever since.

Juan Esandi is a twenty-year-old transfer student from Wake Tech. He came to UNCW to major in Film Studies. He moved to the US three years ago from Venezuela. He likes to do photography. He started taking pictures when he was in middle school and started learning the art of photography by himself. Since then, it has become an important part of his life.

Kyle Maples is a sophomore transfer student attending UNCW. He enjoys reading, writing, doing pho-tography stuff, and listening to anything besides country. And opera. He aspires to one day be something, hopefully.

Lydia Flores is a spark growing into a flame. Come one, come all, bring your marshmallow hearts.

Ryan Budd: Male. Caucasian. 21. Lactose intolerant. Emily Lovitch likes art that makes her think and ask questions. She likes making art that tells some sort of story. All good stories and good art fall somewhere between enchanting and disconcerting and that is the aesthetic to which she aspires.

Cameron McHutchison is originally from San Diego, California, but later moved to Durham. He is a junior and a film studies major at UNCW who has a passion for film and photography, especially 35mm black and white. He has a background in painting, visual and grapahic arts. Creating and innovating is why he wakes up in the morning. Atlantis is awesome!

Brittney Anderson is a student attending UNC Wilmington. Creating art is one of her favorite hobbies. The artwork she has selected has an African-based theme that signifies her heritage.

Pamela Creech has been enthralled with the ocean from an early age. When she’s not hanging out under-water, she enjoys cycling, running, and sharing bad puns. In May 2015, she will graduate from UNCW with a BFA in creative writing and a BA in Spanish.

Hunter Reeves is a sophomore at UNCW, and even though she is studying psychology and English, she is passionate about art and loves to create as much as possible in her free time!

Madison Roberts is a junior at UNCW majoring in creative writing and minoring in journalism. She serves as the president and founder of The Forget Me Nots, UNCW’s Alzheimer’s Awareness organization. She hopes to move to New York City after college and get a job in journalism or book publishing.

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Hawkstream Radio

http://www.hawkstream.org/

Timothy Vaughan is a senior at UNCW that recently came upon a camera. He loves shooting nature and the beauty around him.

Jennifer Smith is currently a first year art student enrolled at the University of North Carolina Greensboro.

Amryn Soldier is a photographer working mainly with self portraits. She is currently a ceramics major at the University of North Carolina at Asheville.

Ashley Smith is a junior majoring in awkward silences and bad decisions.

Shelby Scattergood is currently a junior at UNC Greensboro pursuing a BFA in drawing and printmaking. She has done a variety of hyper-realistic drawings throughout the years, but her focus for the past two has been entirely portrait work. Blind Faith is a self-portrait of sorts about her struggles with her medical problems after being diagnosed with Ankylosing Spondylitis and Fibromyalgia. This piece was completed going into her sophomore year of college.

Sierra is a senior and transfer student to UNCW as of 2013. When she’s not writing for The Seahawk or Her Campus magazine, you’d probably find her at concerts or at the beach. Sierra has been lucky in finding work as an extra in locally filmed TV shows and movies.

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Thank YouBill DiNome, the student staffs, Adobe, Randall Library, caffeine, our contributors, our readers, the invention of finger painting, Satellite, Stray Local, Lori’s banana chai bread, bake sales, Anna Lena Phillips, copyediting, Macs, Google, scissors, fall weather, late nights, trashy television shows, Pomegranate Books, work-ing technology, strikes of brilliance, new computers, chai tea lattes, passive agressiveness. cinnamon roll waffles, not having a green thumb, knitting, Nutella, Netflix.

Fall 2014 | Issue 69

Submission Guidelines We are looking for any type of art, photography, prose, and poetry with a unique perspective. We want our readers to experience your mood and tal-ent through your own brush, pen, and camera—not through the lens of Instagram. Show us your most creative, innovative, and personal take on the expan-sive world around us. To submit to Atlantis, you must currently be an undergraduate or graduate student at a universi-ty with the UNC system or Cape Fear Community College. Contributors may submit up to ten pieces of art, poetry, photography, or prose. Please follow the guidelines carefully. They can be found on our web-site at atlantismagazine.org/submit.

Editorial Policy For each genre featured in out magazine—art, photography, poetry, and prose—there is an editorial staff comprised of a genre editor and several UNCW student volunteers. All submissions are anonymously coded by the Submissions Coordinator before being thoroughly reviewed by the student staffs. The Sub-missions Coordinator does not participate in the review process, and the submitter’s name is not dis-closed until each editorial staff has made final con-tent decisions.

Copyright All rights are reserved to the individual authors and artists. Permission must be obtained to use any material from this publication in any way.

Advertising To advertise, please call (910) 962-3789 or e-mail ads.uncw@gmail.com for rates and information.

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