Miljan Peter Ilich
Even more expansive than the reach of Bosnia’s history is the truth that the present is birthed from actions of the past. Miljan Peter Ilich expands this concept with a humble appreciation for Bosnia as a political lifeforce, spanning from the fall of Rome (from the perspective of the East) all to way to the relinquishing of Bosnia to the Turks in the 15th century. Bosnia’s influence doesn’t stop there. Ilich argues that between the rise and fall of dynasties, Bosnia paved the way for Protestantism and implemented policies that had a essential impact on the division of land in Europe and the evolution of alliances throughout modern history. An important element throughout is the foreign relations and religious implications prompted by the consolidation of power in each siege, revolt, and crusade in Bosnia’s rich and storied history. While Ilich does meticulously explore specific areas such as the origin of Bogomilism and the reasons the Ottomans went to Kosovo, we are confronted with a much broader perspective: if the world we have today is a result of the past, including Bosnia’s struggles with invasions and overthrow, the greatest tool we have in creating a good and fair world is the gift of examining the past and learning from the history books, of which Ilich has constructed an inspiring blueprint for the future.
Elle St. John
Elle St. John’s “Tender No Judgment” is a slow burn. Not that she wastes any time getting into the story; straightaway pliable Sabrina is left for dead on Desolation Mountain by a Eastern European playboy. Enter Micah, a muscled veteran who keeps to himself, lonely, aching— primed to drag her away and keep her as his sex slave. Or is she imagining? Is this wishful thinking? Although Sabrina’s wet from the start, St. John drags out the anticipation, tormenting the reader as Micah gingerly helps the nearly-dead woman, interrupted occassionally with monologues by his throbbing member. As he brings her back to life, we can see the dynamic forming: Ultimate Daddy, taking care of his Baby Girl. A kind and generous authority figure, a jealous and vengeful god. He pays his own physical need no mind, always attentive to Sabrina’s whim. But the underlying tension is palpable, overwhelming. No matter how Micah plays the gentleman, there is a constant reminder, a pulsing— a primal urge even, to overtake Sabrina that he cannot neglect for long. The story evolves as Micah fights with nature, and inevitably with fate. As they struggle to untangle themselves from their encounter with the Russian Mafia, their desire for each other does not wane: if anything, we experience it as a swimmer coming up for air—we welcome it, we relish it, we need it. As Sabrina and Micah confront their darkest traumas, St. John forces us to reconcile every facet of our sexuality as a powerful current in our lives.
John Mac Dougall
True to the simple and apt title, our story begins with the birth of Rene Bernard. His father, the oysterman, proudly nailing his boots to the door in proclamation. A genius! An artist for the next generation! For generations to come! the oysterman did not shout. No, this child was destined to carry on the family business, continue on the family lineage, right here in Etang de Thau. And so the villagers drank and celebrated the new life, the new oysterman, the new potential suitor to their daughters, not knowing they were in the midst of not the great oysterman Rene Bernard, but the great Impressionist painter Rene Bernard. And so the unassuming story of Bernard begins, with small town people falling in love with other small town people. Mac Dougall has a wonderful way of opening up these intimate moments with the reader; while stoking the fire, preparing food, dressing, eating, going to church— in all these humble rituals, Mac Dougall subtly intertwines the reader into the comfortable lull of daily life. When Rene is a child, he is found to be in rapture of some local artists who tell him that artists are showing their soul in their work. Here not only are we able to imagine the seed planted in Rene, but Mac Dougall manages to plant the seed in the reader as well, so that we are vested in Rene’s growth and revel in his surely imminent successes. By the time he is identifying as an artist, a personified lion doesn’t even seem far out of the realm of possibility. Nor is it unreasonable to mourn Rene’s death, even as we see it coming. Yet Rene Bernard eludes death even, in his way, because that’s not nearly the end of the story. Knitted together in this making of an artist, beginning at birth but not ending in death, are fairy tales, family histories, expectations of love and stories of unfulfillment. This is clear as Mac Dougall takes us through each human emotion; what is not clear is if MacDougall, or Rene Bernard, has left us with a happy ending. As it is with interpreting art, we are left to our own cumulative experiences to lay pity or praise on the great Rene Bernard.