The Junction 2015

Editors: Sarah Allam Elizabeth Coluccio Ivan Davenny Annaliisa Gifford Justin Gray Bex Greene Serhan Ruggiero Courtney Takats Cassandra Tan Kyle Williams

table of contents prose

(6) She Walked In, Ordered, Sat Down a While, and Left by Kyle Williams (11) A Short Short Story by Alana Graffam (16) Walt by Rebecca Greene (22) Death of a Turkey by Melissa Conneuil (27) Savoy by Courtney Takats (33) Fragments by Alana Graffam (36) Outside Spinole Texas by Ivan Davenny (41) How to Assemble Your New Couch by Maggie Wrobleski (45) The Sad Old Man and His Birds by Steve Maloy (50) When Fourteen Was I by Tracy Pierre (52) Yelp Reviews for Best Buy by Justin Gray

poetry

O’Lucie by Rebecca Najjar (5) Dogs Will Wag Their Tales by M. Mazzotta (10) Tree by Mariusz Zubroski (12) Nowell by Joshua Wright (14) Sunburn by Lauren Snell (19) [Untitled] by Alexandra Taraska (21) Taking Out the Garbage and Barefoot by Rebecca Najjar (26) Between Last Breaths by Jennifer Autumn Li (32) This is Blooming by Max Temnogorod (35) Sasung by Annaliisa Gifford (39) Ursa Major by Joshua Wright (40) Not For Kids by Crystal Jolly (43) Long Term by Rebecca Greene (44) Things I Learned About You Over Breakfast by Lauren Snell (49) Five Ways of Looking at Subway Cars by Nan DeBlase (53) Weekends On The East Village by Rebecca Najjar (54) 3

4

Bleue Liverpool

O’ Lucie Rebecca Najjar For the time I spent with her among the sheep blotched blue and dying watching how we enter from where we leave In the comfort of a womb one dressed in flesh and one in mud, to stay so short a time between.

The trees here will live on longer than we will, won’t they?

Bloom again in summer.

Close up, the veins Of Commiphora trees/ are blue like ours.

If/when the earth grew warm I cut a limb would it Stain my hand crimson?

And does that mean it lives/ or dies?

We are all/ with dirty nails digging our own shape in the ground.

O’ We are carnage.

We are blotched blue.

We are snuff.

All else lives.

We are but travellers here.

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She Walked In, Ordered, Sat Down a While, and Left1 Kyle Francis Williams

—What’ll it be?

—Just coffee.

—Drip?

—Yes.

—Milk and sugar?

—One sugar.

—You got it.

Placement knock carousal round porcelain grained to solid surface faux marble. White ceramic reflecting white fluorescent lines ignorant of material edge carrying over to white-veined countertop. White: perception of the presence of every wavelength of visible light; black: perception of the absence of every visible wavelength. Reflection presents white; absorption presents black; black then is the extreme presence of every color presented as its absence; white follows. Everything is everything else if the changing of contextual terms is abated. Whether white or black is absorbed depends upon the material of the object in question and environmental factors—all falls to subjective perception of objective immaterial. Of:

Ebony and ivory encased in black mahogany wood hiding other-colors in conte(n/x)t, none worth mention; tuxedo black suit (alternatively: absorbed presence inducing absence); greased black hair slicked to shine white (alt: absence reflecting presence); waxed black facial hair to swirl (alt: etc). Actions absented: opening of perceptory orbs. Actions presented: bow, seat, song; pour, scald, drown. Immaterial sound tuned to key and scale, last note droned to drowning then—. Immaterial every color presence veins and cracks presentiment every color porcelain presentiment every color striate presentiment crowd presented pianist; latter then drowned by absence of color, former then filled by absence of color. Heave of chest, seize of physical body, human noises to inhuman absence of sound felt as weight. Death; Corpse: soaked in absencesoaked absence perceived as an absence of another kind (human duality has drowned; we have drowned it) so becoming nothing at all. Floating absence in sea of absence, absorption of color and animate.

—That’ll be four thirty-five.

—Yes. Here.

—Your change’ll be sixty-five cents.

—Appreciated.

—Enjoy your coffee.

—You too.

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A pedestalled moment, defined as immaterial section of time that changes length in accordance with convenience, thematic concerns, framing. A moment of attempted ignorance of social norms. A moment, lasting no longer than a moment.

Heated gaseous presence of every color floating from heated liquid absence of every color: one births the other and vice versa, ever existing only in dichotomy, defined by separation. If X is only ever defined relative to Y, do either exist without the other, and why? Ponder a question to get through the moment. The moment is all.

The absence of presence is the presence of absence making whole the landscape outside translucent panes.

Translucence: the absence of reflective/absorptive substance—if extended over the edges of a frame, effectively the absence of any viewable substance, as seen in Stanley Kubrick’s floating pen in 2001 or [other example] or [other example]. (The best arguments come with three examples, don’t ask why.)

There, still, a corpse floating in coffee, past the moment. A longer frame may be necessary.

Opening—translucent panes viewing the void aside frame, held within opaque frames painted absence standing without regard to context—open. Presentiment child: small(er) active presence, later stripling—if a moment is a container of time and time is assumed in flux does order then matter in which inner-moments are presented (probably). Dressed monolith in black coattails, holding stems of green leading up blooms of purple (stems of envy leading up blooms of royalty?). Presentiment of an event in failure; ensue drama. Monolith knocking its wade across vinyl flooring made up of every color: (wear/ where) opaque (every/no)thing.

—Excuse me, have you seen my father?

Absence defined as absence (life, definition TBD), floating in absence defined as absence (cold, solidity, color, etc.), held within presence (color) defined by ability of presentiment, held up by presence (color) defined by etc. etc. Linguists in part define language for its ability to express recursion; other things can also be defined in this way (life, time, humans) with varying degrees of (e/a)ffectiveness. Still: carr(i/y)on.

—He had a performance tonight; have you seen him?

Still: everything, suspended. Tense—another linguistic property on some level but here an emotive one.

Eyes like oceans. Everything is relative.

—What’ll it be?

Stuck; gears clogged. The alternation of a particle’s trajectory between fixed points is seen as index, evidence; the attempt to observe a particle’s multiple trajectories fixes it to a single point. Is observation then trustworthy, and where? If in observation judgment must be cast for the purpose of understanding, what good is evidence alone? A depression in the ground in a shape infers the passing by of something that made such a shape unless it doesn’t. It doesn’t.

—You must have seen him; I know you did.

Every-color half-sphere presenting no-color halfsphere presenting no-color no-man, lifted above monolith brought some distance (measured like a moment) away and set down with an uneven double ceramic tap (tap-/ta-/t- tap) on another even plane of presence, lower.

A difference presence than previous than previous than previous, but still the presence of every color—if only such presences presented with one another but this is not a film reel despite its construction on a frame held in by presence and defined by absence.

—Enjoy your coffee.

Our everyman has drowned; we drowned him and now we show our mourning persons. Poor Dignam.

Patsy Dignam, monolith, following, knockling linoleum loud louder (ti-/nu-)ll. Eyes like the edge of the world: all falls. All Falls. An exchange of power dynamics as displayed through the exchange of verticality; one willing subjugation to the forces of gravity, atmospheric pressure, the weight of the world and universe within finite spaces; one static, ignorance due to accustom—bliss, whatnot.

Monolith towers; viewfinder angled to look up.

—Where is he?

Absence of color floating absence of color. All Falls felled to blind. Stripling arm-in-arm led across a way, blind to any bloom of absence (color, life) or presence (absorption—can death be the complete absorption of life?).

All is present regardless of presence, perceived or no. All Falls, eyes like falling. Green bleeding through tightened skin, tp tp to every-color lowest-level plane, color straining from pets all’s mute to tp tp. No timekeeper but tp tp, no t(i/o)ck. Out the translucent pane still void: if dark-

ness is the absence of light/color then what is the color of the absence of substance; why is absence of color opaque when the absence of substance is clarity? Green fades to white; purple fades to black: more/less colors presence where once defined.

—You must have seen him; I know you did.

Pause, pause; pause. Pause. Tension: monolith affront composed of absence (color; perception, forced).

Time is relative, too; it can reverse—it is a lie that the universe tends toward entropy, that assumes a specific frame.

The absence of sound is the creation of negative atmosphere. Will tilted up/down color: Green up crackling to every presence; Purple down to impoverished rich of absence of. Latter now absence; Former now presence: everything exists in dichotomy, even with puddles of color on the floor.

—He had a performance tonight; have you seen him?

Yes. The tape is turned back, disincluding any pt pt, one well dried but still all falls. Still: absence of color floating in absence of color held in presence atop presence atop presence atop. Still—not still not standing but playing: carry on. Mono(duo?)lith knocking backwards across its wade; stripling shaken off of guide of time. All Falls all fell in clarity.

—Excuse me, have you seen my father?

If only. A polite refusal, abstinence from forward (from one point of view, anyway) momentum. Soon it will be morning but now it is night and night can extend in front and behind. Absence of substance of a kind still (not standing, rather flosting) substantial—all that lacks substance, all the ether floating within substance. Absence, presence, substance, ether, void: synonyms, probably. Everything (mis)understood; everything broken; look closer. Lith’s last moment knocking out of scene; exit frame right.

—What’ll it be?

Nothing is certain; perception is one more subjective frame; memory is an artist. Time is perceived as linear and progressive but that could just be a trick of the light.

Order is imagined, requisite substance and viewpoint. Insert a differing angle and everything breaks. Substance is insubstantial: contained within vast expanses of negative substance—void, absence, presence even, what-have. Rejection of substantial reality is easy: look closer.

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She Walked In...

—Enjoy your coffee?

Yes will yes. Lifted to frame eclipsing presence until drained. Still: absence. Still: carr(y/i)on. Still: the remnants. Re-angled reinterpreted all presences now shorter. Soon sink to null. Nothing to be done. So it goes. [Existential/Absurdist cliché.]

—What’ll it be?

Who knows? The profundity of questioning everything held up to standards or truth is false—relative to one another, relative to everything else. It would be just as well not to attempt to understand anything at all. The absence of an answer is a better representation of an answer than an answer could be. Do you love me?

The frame pans forward into maw until framed by frame until without frame in void. A pedestalled moment.

Nothing exists in dichotomy; more variables than could ever be realized (even within/beyond ess to zed) will refuse realization. Like a shore, it is best to be washed over, and over, eroded until human duality (if present) is realized first-hand, or else absorption into the currents ever present—time, everything. A pedestalled moment. The buzzing of a fly. Then—1 1 She Never Drank Her Coffee, Though. Usually Doesn’t. That’ll Be One Thirty-Five.

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Rachel Kisty

Sarah Allam

9

Dogs Will Wag Their Tales M. Mazzotta

The hills; were really just sleeping Giants under Mossy blankets and the Sun shown down on their rising Bellies.

Blades of grass breathing in the passing lives and lifetimes.

If it could talk it might be laughing.

The walls, the couch, the drapes, the rug.

The portraits, the photos,the bed, the dog.

The candles burn the time away First to fade; the memory, our memory unnecessary details the most important Choose.

The same Flowers will bloom and their petals willSlowly, slowly fall into into You. Rats will eat Trash Dog will wag Their Tales

10

A Short Short Story Alana Graffam He grabbed three sweaters from the enormous rack of used clothing in the mens section.

One sweater was a mellow orange with tiny polka dots of different blue colours. The other was a plain black with some logo of some sporthouse. The third one was of every bright coloured thread possible and it seemed as though the sewing machine was so overwhelmed by so many colours it blew up, vomiting out that sweater with no specific thread order, or color, or even shape.

When he tried on the polka dot sweater he felt handsome, a little bit daring even. He puffed up his chest, put his hand in his pockets and felt incredibly cool. He tried different stances to make sure the sweater looked good in every angle. When he was satisfied he decided he would get it.

He tried on the black sweater. It was okay, neither good nor bad. He asked himself if he really needed it and quickly decided he didn’t. He tried on the multicoloured sweater.

The sweater was ecstatic! Finally, finally someone dared to try him on! The sweater tried its best to hug every part of the man it could and attempted to make its colours shine even brighter. With every thread it tried to pass the man good vibrations and every thread vibrated with life, tingling the man with their happiness. The sweater was proud and hugged the man even further. Love me! Need me! Take me!

But the sweater hugged the man so tight it burst and millions of coloured threads shot up the sky like a display of fireworks. Each thread shouted a tiny noise of freedom and gently fell swaying slowly down to the floor. Their colours fading as they hit the ground becoming a graveyard of threads.The man was left in a state of stupefaction, but instead of acknowledging what happened, quickly grabbed the polka dot sweater and left, afraid that they would charge him for a sweater that exploded.

11

Tree Mariusz Zubrowski

i stare at the trees from my classroom window thinking how they talk to one another using spores are trees existentialists? a hipster tiptoes through the door but still interrupts professor campos as he heads to the back of the class fuck his bill cosby sweater plastic reusable starbucks cup and sperry’s professor campos asks a question about self what makes you you? hipster raises hand “kant would say—” professor campos says ok hipster raises hand again “oh, sorry my mouth was full” hipster eats a muffin “well, in mill’s perspective—” professor campos says ok hipster adjusts the cuffs of his beige suit jacket “rand’s opinion would be—” professor campos folds his arms together and looks at the trees outside he says ok looking at their swaying branches as if they’ve got life figured out

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13

Kyle Williams

Nowell Joshua Wright

A stony scaffolding seems to unfold and, unfolding, it holds in its bosom a granulated nightscape peppered ever so sparsely with ashen bodies that seem to float like bits float in the water in a plugged sink.

A sprig of parsley was hung today in the kitchen of the morning.

Are the people you knew when your eyes were meeting the rising sun the same? The boots you wore whan you called them by name are lost.

Little broken branches, like little finger bones, shiver in slivers of lunar light like thoroughly throttled paring knives.

A scatty dog, for a game, growls at the visage of a boggled rat.

Blue once splayed through panes of glass framed in frost as powdery snow sifted upon a silent night.

The famished confusion arises when the vittles are few.

Three wooden camels lie like butchered camels on the ground.

A star fell through the white canvass.

A dented bell fell. A stained angel fell.

A half-melted candle fell.

Down, down, down the well, gold, frankincense, and myrrh.

Radio transmissions, impossible to place, waver in the four corners of the air.

A bare-headed and badly bearded priest wanders through a wilderness wherein a thousand or more ravenous beasts howl and titter and tear his fallen collar to pieces. A rubber ball that seems like an eyeball mimics the partially obscured moon.

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The fidgety witch from the forbidden crannies of the frozen swamp that are demarcated by signs which nobody can understand and which nobody dares to cross extends through the threshold of the kitchen wherein a feast is in its final preparations her hand with coins nestled in the violently wrinkled pocket of her palm and with brittle yellow fingernails rips from the uncooked goose a chunk of meat and she chews and she tickles your chin when you sleep.

That is why

the ornamentally bare-footed orphan does not rest ever, but wanders through the emptiness of department stores at night, following the grace that seems to forever belong to tomorrow and, constantly stalked by yesterday’s wounds, he peruses the tags that unaffectedly state the price of this or that or that or this.

Defaced mimes from places akin to places that nobody knows peer and jeer and mock the lonely browser.

The witch, fidgeting implacably, chews the raw flesh of a boot, burping and slurping through her many cavities , giggling at the theatrical buffoonery of the festal guests trampling each other to get below the stove where the coins rolled when she let them go.

Through a particularly flurried dusk the priest, against the pelting frost, the priest, who was once himself a little boy lost, came in the woods to a clearing.

There was a cabin in the clearing and smoke puffed gently from the chimney like smoke from a grandfather’s tobacco pipe.

He knew this home.

He knew it from an ornament from long, long ago.

Maybe from before there was even such a thing as time.

He knew the icicles and he knew the figures in the window and he knew all the words to the songs they sang.

He knew he could go no further, for a beast blocked his way.

A lamb emerged from the snow and bleated.

Then the beast let it be known that all was cordial.

The priest took a step.

The lamb bleated in the silent night.

And the witch whispered subtle words‌

15

Walt

Rebecca Greene

Walt counted two-hundred and twenty-seven steps to his car. Depending on his parking spot, he could count as high as two- hundred and forty-five steps, and as little as two- hundred and twenty- two. Walt carried his thermos of coffee in his right hand. It contained a quarter of a cup of one percent milk, and two teaspoons of raw sugar.

Once these ingredients were added, he shook it five times.

It tasted perfect, and that was true.

He reached into his pocket with his left hand and removed his car key. Walt opened the door, and stared into his car for fifteen seconds. Within this time, his eyes moved around each section of his car, inspecting: three seconds for the front seat, three seconds for the passenger seat, and so on and so forth. He then put the key in its place and started the ignition. He did this all while only using his left hand.

Four fingers wrapped around the worn rubber cover of his steering wheel. His thumbs rested on the knuckles of each of his forefingers, and his hands were spaced precisely at ten o’clock and two o’clock. That was the most comfortable way for Walt to drive, and therefore, it was the safest.

Off he went, never driving faster than twenty-six miles per hour, or slower than twenty-four. Walt took the street route to his job. He counted the stop signs (sixteen, to be exact), and the seconds between each light, was equivalent to the amount of stop signs. Thank goodness for that.

His parking spot was third to the right of his boss’s, or five hundred and twelve steps from his office. Walt was an accountant. He had been an accountant for fourteen years, four months, one week and three days, precisely. It had always been his dream to work with numbers. Walt saw numbers everywhere, and counted everything. That was true.

Walt took the stairs instead of the elevator. He liked being alone so that he could walk up to the eleventh floor and count each step, privately. His right and his left arm pit would be saturated in sweat by the time he made it to his cubicle, which was to the right of his boss’s office, and perpendicular to the exit. Walt felt safe here.

On his desk was a four by sixteen silver plated picture frame. In it was a photograph of a woman, two children (a boy and a girl) and a man that was not Walt. Walt stared at this picture twelve times a day. The man in the

16

photograph was his brother. His name was William. He was younger than Walt by three years.

William lived 7.23 miles away from Walt; however, he hadn’t visited him in one- thousand four hundred and sixty days. Out of the twelve times per day that Walt would stare at the photograph, he would remember the amount of time that had passed since seeing him. Walt would get emotional, which made him only human.

Walt was jealous of his brother. It would be brazen for him to consider it hatred. Walt was a timid man.

He kept these sentiments about his brother to himself, but twelve times a day his throat would tighten, and the tears that he should shed, never fell. Thank goodness for numbers. They would embrace him, and it made him feel safe.

Walt would take his lunch at 11:54 AM. He would eat three carrot sticks, half of a tuna fish sandwich, and an apple that was quartered. He would sit alone in the staff cafeteria in the seat he had sat in for the last fourteen years. He would eat his carrot sticks first, and stared pensively into space wishing that there was more to look at (and count), instead of the food stains (thirty- seven, to be exact) that speckled the beige wall beside his table. Although the view was unappealing, Walt was content with it, and that was true.

Walt counted one-hundred and ninety-seven steps to his cubicle. It helped him to digest his satisfactory lunch, before the dread of sitting at his desk and staring at the photograph of his brother for the seventh time. He knew what he had done to William and his family. The memory never left him. It haunted him like the numbers he loved, and that was true.

Walt counted one-hundred and ninety- seven steps to his cubicle. It helped him to digest his satisfactory lunch, before the dread of sitting at his desk and staring at the photograph of his brother for the seventh time. He knew what he had done to William and his family. The memory never left him. It haunted him like the numbers he loved, and that was true.

At 4:50 PM, Walt shut down his computer, and began packing up his things. He stared at the photograph one last time for the day, and briefly sighed. He sat at his desk for nine minutes, in silence, reflecting: Two minutes on blood splatter, thirty seconds on the density of cartilage, one minute and thirty seconds on mercy and what it meant when someone begged for their life or anything,

three minutes on the silence of running water, one minute on the colour red, and one minute on forgiveness.

At five o’clock, Walt pushed his three wheeled chair under his desk, and proceeded to count (although he knew already), the steps that would lead him out of the building and towards his car. His boss waved goodbye and Walt put his right hand up in acknowledgement, but also to indicate that he was in a rush. He wasn’t. He was just counting and didn’t want to be interrupted, as with any other day. No one knew about Walt’s relationship with numbers.

Thank goodness for that.

Walt counted two-hundred and forty steps to his house. He reached into his right pocket, with his right hand, and fished around for his house keys. He opened the door to his home with his left hand, and stood in his doorway, inspecting: four seconds for the coat rack, five seconds for the foyer, and seven seconds on his door knob. Walt walked into his residence, slowly. He closed the door behind him, and leaned his back up against it. Walt had an exhausting day, which made him only human.

It only took four minutes and fifty-two seconds, for Walt to microwave his dinner. It consisted of seventeen green peas, two slices of meatloaf and three quarters of a cup of roasted potatoes. The plastic cutlery sawing through over cooked meat, was the only sound to be heard as Walt ate. During this moment of silence, Walt thought about other things besides numbers, like when he and William were younger. He reminisced on the days when he would get into trouble for something that William would do, such as breaking household objects, or more importantly, killing the family dog. Walt began to feel angry at the very thought of losing his dog by the

hands of his younger brother. To calm down, Walt began to count the peas left on his plate (seven, to be exact).

Walt ran his bath water until the tub was almost full. The temperature was perfect. Thank goodness for that. As he sunk into the water, he became weightless. All of the dirt from his long day, and his life, momentarily dissolved as he anchored willingly into the depths of his bathtub. Walt felt safe here, and that was true.

Walt shut his eyes underwater, and held his breath for thirty- three seconds. All that Walt saw was red. All that Walt felt was warmth. All that Walt heard were wafts of screams captured in the air bubbles that traveled through his ear canal under water. Walt sat up abruptly. Water dripped from Walt’s head, like blood.

In bed, Walt closed his eyes. He saw nothing, and thought of nothing for seventeen seconds.

This was his only moment of peace for the day. After the time had passed, he opened his eyes and began counting everything in groups of four: Four bodies, four animal legs, four young eyes, four older eyes, and four body bags, four years, and four minutes of regret. Walt became emotional, which made him only human.

Walt took ninety- two sleeping pills before lying down on his left side. He clasped his left and his right hands together, and slid them under the left side of his face. His cheek melted into the cartilage between his four knuckles. This was the most comfortable way for Walt to sleep. Walt counted backwards from twenty. By the time he reached the number nine, he paused. The numbers were leaving him: Eight, seven, six, five, four, three, free. Walt felt safe here. Thank goodness.

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Acadia Branch

18

Sunburn

it will hit you one day standing on the corner of Marcy and Willoughby the memory of me will bloom from within you the way a bullet wound might bleed through a shirt slowly at first and then all at once seeing red feeling me carving into your side like that dull ache you’ve had except mine will wake you in the middle of the night and curl your knees to your chest chasing your breath my name stuck in your throat in your room like a ghost my words lingering outside your open window remembering my body pressed against yours warm like a sunburn.

Lauren Snell

Jessie McHugh

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20

Sarah Allam

[Untitled] Alexandra Taraska

The first time I saw you pray when you look at me.

You don’t believe in god, let my voice lead you.

Where is your faith stored in your pockets, holes scattered will you fall in or out of them?

When will you love me like you love the god you fear has never abandoned Your mother’s prayers when her faith left her were heard and she came back to You don’t realize the one you left was the type of beautiful to slip between the cracks of your fingertips if you don’t hold on tightly, The only religion you need to follow is my breath carries God’s words high and low to where you are sitting.

There is so much love inside me cracking at the seams I try to hold it together, A task too bitter for your mouth which a hallelujah escapes hurled at the dawn is the end of night and the beginning of day- forgiveness, kept locked away I will take on seconds? Of course if you insist I will not be your leftovers left discarded until you are hungry once more I refuse to feed you with the marrow of my bones.

I take my old skin off dispose it there is no need to carry your burdens, What weighs me down isn’t even mine to hold.

I am an angel in three dimension, don’t you feel light in my presence?

You don’t believe in god but you told me I Iook like an angel.

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Death of a Turkey Melissa Conneuil

There’s a dead baby boy on the table and my sister, Lace, hands me the mashed potatoes over his body.

I don’t really like it because she makes it mad lumpy and I sent her a video I saw on YouTube of a lady showing people how to make mashed potatoes the right way, and of course she ignored it. Mashed potatoes aren’t meant to be lumpy.

My dad sits at the head of the table because he’s Dad and the worms that have half-eaten his decomposing form are falling on the floor with bits of dirt—Mom kicks them out of her way when she walks to the kitchen to get more drinks. It’s Thanksgiving, the most dysfunctional time of the year, and my aunt Maggie is here with her two sons, Vaughn and Kyle, and Vaughn molested me as a kid and likes the green bean casserole the most so Aunt Maggie piles half of the entire casserole on his plate because she spoils him so.

Dad’s worms are crawling towards the dead baby at the center of the table like maybe they’re over my dad which is kind of sad, but I get it, sometimes I get tired of eating the same thing over and over, but sometimes I get that way where I eat the same thing over and over again and can get kind of obsessive.

My grandmother is sitting in the corner on her rocking chair, and I want to cry because I haven’t seen her since she died when I was nine and she’s the only person in the room that I love. I was her favorite and she told me so. I felt love for nine years of my life and a part of me can feel it now and it’s been a long while, so I might not finish this meal.

My brother-in-law is not here, he’s cheating on my sister. My sister knows because I know and if I knew that means I had something to hurt her with and I totally tried.

But she already knew so that was disappointing. I totally thought I had a sharp knife in this relationship finally. A part of me kind of like her more now. I mean, I’ve figured it out. She’s going to stay in the comforts of her lifestyle with this man and she doesn’t have to have sex with him.

This is my ideal relationship with a man. I’m kind of envious, if I’m being honest.

My mother, Mom, can’t sit down for five minutes, and sometimes I hear her crying from the kitchen but I don’t do anything about it. Nobody does. Who’s even alive here? Vaughn gets up to use the bathroom and I think about following him and stabbing him to death there. But

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I don’t because people come back from bathroom breaks.

I’ll do it tonight when he’s sleeping. I always wanted to die in my sleep, and the Lord said do onto others as you would have done onto you, or some shit like that. Our house is going to burn down six hours from now and Aunt Maggie and Kyle will live, and so will Mom but she’ll kill herself in six months so don’t worry about it. If you’ve been keeping track, Dad’s already dead, so is Grandma, Vaughn I’ll kill before I set the fire, and my sister is the one I’ll set fire to.

I’ll shoot myself after don’t worry about it. This is starting to sound morbid, but trust me (hashtag) it gets better. But let’s get back to the present, the future is uncertain anyway. Maybe none of that happens.

Lace keeps looking at me funny and yes is the answer to her question, yes I’m fucking stoned as shit.

“What’s your malfunction?” she says.

And I have nothing to lose because Mom is in denial about everything so this won’t hurt her too much.

“Um… well, I got PTSD going on, a little bipolar disorder, a little anxiety to keep it cute you know, I’m going to kill myself and most everyone in this house… and I didn’t eat breakfast.”

“Why didn’t you eat breakfast?” she says.

“I wasn’t hungry,” I say.

Dad gets up from the table and falls on the floor because his left leg didn’t get up with him and that leg, now detached from his body, falls on the other side of his chair. My mother looks at the carpet and sighs heavily and her shoulders fall low, so low the edges might as well be her breasts.

“I’m going to need a good vacuum. One of you girls should get me one for Christmas.”

“I’ll get it for you,” Lace says.

And of course she fucking will.

Dad’s moving around on the floor like a fish just reeled into a boat and I think he’s forgotten how to be human and reach for things. He can get up if he reached for the edge of the table and pull himself up, he could stand on one leg. Aunt Maggie is scrolling through her phone, probably posting Jesus shit all over her Facebook wall. She’s given me a Bible every Christmas since I said I was an Atheist a few—maybe eight—Christmases ago.

Dad lost it and told me I was going to hell, and mom started crying because she believed him.

Grandma gets up from her chair and walks towards me and my heart swells. She’s the only person I feel in this room. I smile and she walks through the front door. I’ll see her later I’m sure. Vaughn comes back from the bathroom smelling like weed and I could really use some more weed right now because I can feel myself coming down and I want to ask him for some but I don’t want to humanize him by talking to him.

Kyle is on his Gameboy, and my sister looks around the table and she’s about to talk and, really, sometimes I think she’s adopted.

“So, why doesn’t everyone say what they’re thankful for?” she says, smiling that practiced smile that makes me want to throw acid on her face.

“That’s a great idea,” Aunt Maggie says. “I’m thankful for Jesus Christ and his saving grace. I’m thankful that he’s brought us all together, thought not all of us could be here, and I’m thankful for my boys.”

Her voice is irritating and I feel that rage swell inside of me. It’s not a rage that’s going to come out, well, not yet anyway, it’s about the level my rage gets when Mom asks me to show her how to use the computer.

“That’s great, Aunt Maggie,” Lace says.

And of course she fucking says that.

“What are you thankful for, Liz?” Aunt Maggie asks me.

I hate the sound of my name, well, those three letters from my name, and why just not name me that, no one calls me Elizabeth except teachers and shit.

“I’m thankful for…” And I have to think about it because fuck this holiday. “for—”

“I’m thankful for my family,” Lace says.

And of course she is. And of course she cuts me off. And of course she’s going to make setting her on fire difficult. Bitch.

“Yeah, me too,” I say.

“Well,” Mom says, “I’m thankful that we all survived another year and that we can all find the time to spend together.”

Aunt Maggie forces Kyle and Vaughn to say what they’re thankful for, and Kyle says his game systems, and after Aunt Maggie clears her throat and gives the Mom look, he rolls his eyes and says “and my family.” Vaughn says nothing; He’s dead in my ears.

My dad is still on the floor and the dead baby is still on the table. The living are not going to acknowledge the dead here, and a pause in the conversation gets too awkward to sit through so I take out a cigarette and light it and give the entire family a scandal at Thanksgiving. A gift…they need it. And I’m a giving person.

My mom is horrified and starts to yell in sync with Aunt Maggie. Lace scuffs in disgust and asks what’s wrong with me again before getting up from the table and going to the kitchen. Kyle gets up from the table to use the bathroom. And Vaughn is still dead in my ears.

“Liz, that will kill you,” Aunt Maggie says.

“Not if I kill me first!” And the exclamation point is my excitement over finally getting to use that line. I’ve had it in my back pocket for years.

“I can’t believe you sometimes,” Mom says. “We were having a nice Thanksgiving,” and I want to laugh myself to death.

“If you’re going to do that,” Lace says, poking her head back into the dining room from the kitchen, “at least do it outside.”

I look at her and I know the reason she got up from the table is so that she doesn’t smell it. She quit smoking four years ago, but an addict is an addict and I start sharpen the knife again, it could be useful this time.

“Fine,” I say.

And I get up and walk past her, exhaling a cloud of smoke at her direction as I do, and I look back to see if the knife is somewhere in her, but it’s still in my hand.

Fuck. Didn’t work. She probably held her breath. Bitch.

Outside is unseasonably warm, and I walk around the house. I was born here, my grandma died here. So did Dad. So did the baby. Everyone died here, so it’s only fair that everyone continues to die here.

After I finish the cigarette I walk back into the house and mom is clearing the table, careful not to touch the dead baby. She steps over Dad’s foot and looks down and shakes her head at the worms and the dirt. Kyle is nowhere to be seen, probably gone to his room, and Vaughn is dead to my eyes.

“Why would you do that to yourself,” Aunt Maggie says as she spots me.

“Do what?” I say.

“Kill yourself,” she says.

23

Death of a Turkey...

And I stop and stare at her, heart swelling, hoping, maybe—

“Smoking kills,” she says.

And I go back outside and light another cigarette.

I walk into the wooded area behind the house and head for the stream that lies a little distance away. I used to come here to read when I was a kid. I loved reading, but words got foggy and my head got tight a couple years ago and I had to stop. That was around when my dad died.

The sun begins to set and the air gets colder. I walk back to the house and Rockwell would love this shit. It’s white with black trim, has smoke billowing out of a chimney, and it’s surrounded by the colors of autumn. It’s a beautiful house. Postcard quality shit.

I walk back inside the kitchen through the backdoor and Mom is doing the dishes. My sister isn’t here, and neither are Aunt Maggie, Kyle, and that Vaughn thing she likes.

“Where is everyone,” I say.

“Turned in early, it’s been a rough day,” mom says.

And no it hasn’t. Not yet anyway. I walk to my room and I sit on the bed listening to music as primetime turns into Showtime. The house is quiet. The only sound that penetrates my mind is the sound of the rusty metal gate swinging in the midnight wind. The Vaughn thing is on the pullout sofa downstairs. I kill him first, naturally. Then I set my sister on fire. I reach into my bedside table and pull out my dad’s gun. The one he killed himself with… I do the same.

“The baby is crying,” I say.

“I know, I heard it,” Lace says.

And of course she fucking did.

We both walk downstairs as Aunt Maggie and Kyle are running from the thick smoke engulfing the top

24

part of the house. Aunt Maggie runs into the living room to get Vaughn and screams in a pitch I didn’t think existed in nature and, really, she’s so overdramatic. The baby stops crying before Lace and I get to the dining room and it’s only because dad’s picked him up.

“Liz, you need to watch your kid,” he says.

“Duh,” I say.

“I’ll watch him,” Lace says.

And of course she fucking will.

I hear coughing behind us and mom’s stumbling down the stairs and out the front door. I kinda wish she had died here.

Grandma comes walking in through mom and I run and hug her. It feels great to feel her instead of just see her.

“Let’s have dinner,” she says.

“Yeah, I didn’t really eat anything,” I say.

We all sit at the table and I hear someone clear their throat at the doorway. It’s Vaughn. Shit. Didn’t think of this.

“Does anyone know how to kill a dead person?” I ask.

My dad gives me a look that says, “Shut it,” and I roll my eyes. I guess I should just make peace with his existence. I did stab him in the chest 27 times.

“Whatever,” I say.

“Vaughn, come, sit,” Lacy says, and he does.

“So,” Grandma says, “Who’s going to say grace?”

The house collapses and the fire rages around us. I hear sirens somewhere out in the distance.

“I’ll say it,” I say.

“Thanks, Liz,” Dad says.

“No problem,” I say.

Artan Gashi

25

Taking Out the Garbage and Barefoot Rebecca Najjar Stale breath punts l o n g

soars

high

then drops. drops dull like the front door slams andpinches on fingers caught, then bounces against skin bounces, closes.

Pricked toes Hit. Stop. Jump.

Pricked toes pull thorns and their chestnut shells off the ground, now clinging to calloused feet, black bottomed and a little bloody.

The ground is not cold yet but it will be when more leaves fall.

26

I am not cold yet in pajama shorts and a hooded sweatshirt.

I will do this until the cows come home, I think.

I will move garbage until I die.

I sit down on grass beside plastic bags shaped like unwanted things and waiting and waiting and waiting It smells like death alone among unmarked bins the garbage men have not been ‘round for months.

Savoy

Courtney Takats

Some people, they claim they can still remember the good old days, but people have been claiming that probably as long as there have been days. As for me, I can’t believe there were ever good days, not when there was fresh blood in the alley this morning and no one asking questions. It got worse when nost hit the street. Got even worse when nost chic became a thing.

Started, like many disasters, with a novel idea: “what if you could experience virtual reality at its purest, literally live any decade without the associated grime?”

But they underestimated the addictive quality of getting to exist in a video game and it, like all good markets, twisted around itself. Demand spiked, prices hiked, a new market emerged.

From my window I can see the city skyline scraping against the clouds and the people below bustling like ants working for a faceless queen. This city has a pulse, and its palpitating heart is in need of a sacrifice. I flip on the light switch, but the juice is out again and everything’s still as dark as this city. Figures. Every building in a ten mile radius is teeming with filth and decay, just a side effect of being on the bum. I tip back the last of my whiskey - breakfast of champions, I used to joke, before it became habit - and grab my jacket.

Wasn’t always like this, Mac. Used to be respectable.

But the same thing happened that always happened. A woman and the promise of cabbage. But now I have no woman and I’m making peanuts.

The door of the apartment is that new metal alloy, cheaply made, easily knocked on through. The walls are also that batty metal, but draped over them is wallpaper as flaky as my old pals. Never cared for fluorescents. I squint walking through the hall. Crouching against the wall, curling into himself, that old Jack from apartment 4B. The usual 90’s bopper - frosted tips, denim jacket, signature squinty pout. Looks like he’s looking to get junked up. Needle in hand, that clear gel oozing inside. The usual story: a hot shot nosty with no idea how nanobots work but more than willing to pump himself through if it means catching that break. Trembling ceased once the vein is pricked, looking around pie-eyed, making the world his own.

“What’s the damage, mac?” I say.

“How are you?” he says.

“Gotta dust. Itching to get tight. You know,” I

say.

He says nothing in response.

“So long, soldier,” I say.

My shoes echo rhythm through the hallway, dampen once they hit the sidewalk. This wasn’t the world I would have chosen to live in. But I’ve heard that from many a nos junkie and the sentence has lost meaning. I pass some of the usual clients on the street: uptown teens with flowers woven through their hair and clothes of hemp; downtown men with greased back hair and leather jackets; hyper-cool mods with sharp italian suits; the assorted bunch who can’t make up their mind of when they want to be, who exist as a compilation of all the best bits of ever. All of them, so put together and functioning, but I’ve seen them at their damnedest twitching with desire for that hour of absence, for nost.

A flapper with a flask attached to her inner thigh calls me over as I walk by. Don’t remember this dame’s name, never bothered to learn any of them. Just pretend to be their pal ‘til I get my pay, then let them slip back into anonymity.

“What’s the score?” I say. No point in niceties, not these days.

“I’m out,” she says. Voice like tendrils of smoke.

Like I’m expected to have the goods on hand at all times.

I tell her, sweetheart, I’m on my way to get more.

I tell her be patient and Rick’ll fix all. Rick’s not my real name, but in a business like this it serves to reinvent yourself. Safer for everyone involved. I don’t listen to what she says in response. It doesn’t matter. They all end up saying the same things anyway, after a while.

The wind tunnels are strong today and I have to hold my hat on my head so it doesn’t blow off into the murky streets. She’s a good girl, that flapper. Think I’ve gotten drinks with her once or twice, chinned a bit, never partied though. She stayed stuck in the 20’s and I know when’s best to move in. Besides, not much interest in sex anymore. The problem with grown-up designer babies is that being beautiful stopped being special. No one thought we’d get used to perfection. That’s the problem these days. No one thinks.

There are cracks in the sidewalk and it’s harder to focus on the world around me. Funny, but with sharper eyes it’s so much harder to see all. Or something like that. It’s so cold outside. The world seems

27

Savoy... more colorful, brighter to the point of hurting the eyes.

I’ve always preferred the grit of concrete to fresh-painted lacquer. This walk always seems to take too long, especially when I’m not in the mood for it. It’s that guy in the hallway that delayed me. It’s the girl on the street. It’s everything about the city, everything about our world, everything but me. But isn’t that how it is for everyone? I don’t know. My brain hurts.

I turn the corner and step into the liquor store, wincing at those damn fluorescents. I grab at the first nice-looking, but not too nice-looking, bottle of cognac and head to the cashier. He nods and straightens the cuffs of his suit, asks how I’m doing.

“I’m good, just need a drink,” I say. Or four, I don’t add.

“Looking to get edged?” he says with a wink. But I don’t understand his odd vernacular and I just need to get back to my apartment. I smile, but the expression takes too much effort and slips from my features and I give him the money and he gives me the bottle and this is the same

28

exchange that’s been happening for years. Before nost, before we had an easier and more efficient way to take us out of this reality and throw us into a better one. So I take a swig as I leave the store and the bitterness boils my throat and I’m almost there I just need to get home and then I can relax and once I’m back it’ll be better and I can calm down and my thoughts will stop buzzing like this and yes I’m here yes.

Quick. Scramble. In the top drawer of the side table, hidden but not too hidden. Take it out, load it up, press the needle in, harder harder prick and then it slips in nice. Relief. A gray world that doesn’t hurt to perceive.

Feeling level again, I peel off my jacket and crash on the armchair by my desk. Should be an easy day today, Nost isn’t something that takes much time to sell, not when everyone’s itching for a hit. Just got to pick up the goods, drop of the dough to the main peddler of these blocks, then back to the flophouse to bide the night. Don’t dream much these days, too much grit in reality to sleep easy.

Jessie McHugh

29

Bleue Liverpool

30

Alex Hajjar

31

Between Last Breaths Jennifer Autumn Li A broken echo screeches beside you, and lifts the veil above.

It has been sedated, held back by your father’s urgency, his words filling the gaps in between.

You are at a wake, standing in a drunken stillness with legs surrounding where you are.

Bodies are dressed in black, but they are headless, non-faced creatures grieving and breathing.

You had a brightness, didn’t you, a willingness to fix your aim and throw a dart, a consistency in believing, gripping to the pen that signed your future into cursive letters, bold and elegant and printed. Your life, handpicked.

Your ego is an addict, its mouth is salivating with shame, shame that you need the words of another’s lips in order to feel upright, steady, gracefully tall and that craving is persistent, like expensive taste.

You are not alone. Hundreds walk with you, casting off their vision and surrendering their will to motion, relinquishing choice for action, binging in approval, soffocating under maks.

Who is being cremated, lost to the fire? You have forgotten, waiting in the fog, the abyss, the ceremonial departing.

You step in, closer, towards the coffin, and you find, beneath the smoke of dreams— a woman with eyes carved out by nails, a noose caressing her neck like a scarf, and her starved, pale-faced shedding of skin, You.

32

Fragments

Alana Graffam

I don’t know why, I cannot remember now, but I stole a photograph of yours. It was in your bed table, under a pile of miscellaneous objects, next to the vicks vapour rub I was looking for. I did it quickly without even thinking. I look at it know and cannot imagine what possessed me. It has no personal value, it does not remind me of anything at all. I just liked the various white and orange spotted cats on top of rocks. When I looked at it then, it was an incredible photograph, but now I observe it and the cats seem sad, underfed, skinny out of proportion. Do they miss their original owner? Were they always like that? Do you miss them? Maybe it did have some kind of value to you. Maybe you felt safe with it. And I took it, with no purpose. Now I have it hidden, I cannot look at it anymore, it does not belong to me. But neither does to you. I would say sorry but I am not, you have stolen things of greater value from me. It was not revenge, though. It was a thoughtless act, and now, a meaningless photograph.

My dad always loved taking photographs of us while we were sleeping. I don’t think he did it because we looked angelic in any way - quite the opposite in fact. Our mouths were always wide open, our arms entangled uncomfortably around our own bodies, our legs bent in such a way that it made us look weirdly disproportionate. Looking at these pictures one always had the feeling that we we were not only snoring loudly but that we were also not resting. Instead of sleeping it looked like we had collapsed into unconsciousness. The best photographs were the ones where we were all in one bed sleeping - all intertwined into one monstrous being with three heads. But a second glance to these photos and you could also see that we loved each other even though we would be at each other’s throats once we woke up. Another glance and one is dying to know what we were dreaming about, if maybe just maybe, we were all part of each other’s dreams.

There is a dream that keeps coming back to me. I wake up in my little brother’s bed.

He had already gone to school but when I pulled the blinds open it was still night. I was very confused and went to the balcony and there it hit me; it was an clipse. Only when I gave it a closer look, it was a full moon next to a fiery orange sun with no rays. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing, and no one seemed to care. I suddenly felt alone but so amazed at the beautiful, magical scene. Even though I tried, I couldn’t keep my eyes away. The buildings started disappearing and suddenly I was lying on the ocean water, admiring the sun and the moon against the pitch black sky. I could see them reflected on the sea, immersed in stars.

Now, I’m at the balcony, in the middle of the night (my second night in Puerto Rico) and I close my eyes. I try to listen to every sound; the coquis, the occasional car passing by, the dog scratching the window with its paws, the loud voices of a group of people crossing the street, the alarm go off on the parking lot, the wind rustling the leaves of the palm trees, the catcalls of men to the ladies on the corner. If I try really hard, I can hear it, there in the distance, in between those two large condominiums, the most mesmerizing sound; the waves of the ocean turning on themselves and unfolding at the banks of the sand. To me it always sounded like the music of the vast unknown, infinite to my eyes yet full of mysteries deep in its breath. It relaxes every nerve in my body until it makes me feel microscopic, it makes me see how big the world is and how glad I am to be in it. In my dreams and in reality.

33

Sarah Allam

34

This is Blooming

Max Temnogorod

Attempts to step again are always fresh prints in the only direction. I just changed my mind one thousand times and heard this.

Something was true and I struggled to taste it against myself while searching for sticks on the forest floor. Never the same harvest. We kept in the general direction of a treehouse and came upon outgoing traffic, in other words, a fully experienced waveform of spiders.

Yet always managing to return home reupholstered, the details didn’t matter. An open trick is being there for each waking iteration.

We get it, grand dukes and the flower alike, without request. Everyone sees that the beehive fell into the snow and that’s that. Nothing left to say that isn’t suggested by the parachute jump, its gestural topology becoming my native glow as I’m pulled home backward.

35

Outside Spinole, Texas (The Party) Ivan Davenny

He cut away from the road with his head down, his jaw set rigid, wading out among the arid chaparral and the chirp of bats, the liquid swish of passing pickups behind him, the crickets setting to sing. After a few hundred yards he turned and walked along a serpentinite outcropping parallel with the road. He crossed the flat floor of the valley stumbling occasionally through dried arroyos hidden under scrub. He sweated, and insects left smudges against his gritted temples and down the sandy red of his neck, floating around him in the changing light as though pinpricks of darkness had already invaded his eyes.

Sheltered at the end of the valley between hills like two waving curtains of patchy earth was a culdesac, a ring of houses facing inward with only a bare dirt work road leading to it. They had been painted in pastels, greens and pinks, but stood crooked and warped like mausolea sinking into the sands in the shadows of the hills. He stood between two setting suns, pinks and oranges streaked white blazing out in front of him and behind him.

Ahead, two pickups swerved off the tarmac headed for the abandoned suburb, racing one another and tearing through low shrubbery, digging into the thin dirt, treads rumbling through nests of roots. Over the sound of their engines he could hear hooting and trills from the cab. Dust billowed. He ducked low behind the shag of a ribbonwood. One of the trucks slid sideward and something tumbled out of its bed. The trucks’ tails settled and he continued.

When he came to the deep ruts of the tires he found a six-pack golden and strewn amid the brush. Two of the cans had burst, superating into a tuft of thin grass, but the other four cans lay intact, bloated and glinting like beetles. He picked these up, brushed bits of sand and foam from them and stuffed them into his pockets then followed the tire tracks like a game trail. The hills behind him swallowed the sun, and the valley floor was doused in blue, and the tracks extended below him like some unextinguished shadow.

He entered the development and could hear the party already begun, echoing through the unpaved boulevard, through the empty bones of the unfinished manses unsuccessfully holding the world at bay, sand and dodder creeping along the edges of the streets, along the walls.

There was no glass in the windows and he peered into their sockets where sandbanks leaned against walls and where countertops of raw wood ached empty, stroked by

36

the trailing fingertips of ghosts. The specters of expectation wandered their empty halls, ambled through their sunny block parties, their TV dinners, their wallpaper patterns. Field mice rasped through the swollen wood.

The trucks were parked in front of a house near the center of the ring along with several others, all sprawled over what would have been the front lawn but was now only withered unprecious weeds. He approached slowly, cautiously, finally caught up with his quarry. The cabs were empty, the doors were open, and music played from their speakers all ratty and tinny and grating in the night rattling with bass. The headlights spilled and pooled among the teeth of the sapling scrub oaks and nestling in the flowered shoots of the buckbrush and the colorless light that struck the house made the wood seem even older. He could see the shapes of the partygoers in the windows but they were moving quickly, a flash of a striped cardigan here, the back pocket of a pair of jeans, a white hand shading eyes against the glare.

He snuck behind the truckbeds, moving around to the side of the house, where he ducked beneath a window and sat in the bare dirt with his back to the peeling panels.

He could feel shrieks through the cracks of the dry wood as the building rocked against his back and trembled through the sand beneath him as if the rapture of those inside spouted from the earth itself out some geyser. Voices were indistinct and spoke not in words but in droning waves of sound. Swallows shot in and out of their muddy nests above his head and their yellow bellies swung through the gloam as if on the ends of arcing strings and he sipped his scavenged beers slowly, pulling the tabs gently, letting the pressure ease out in long low hisses, the sighs of metal. Light shone through the window above his head, a faint splash onto the wall of the neighboring house before him, partygoers passing over in washed out shadows, eidolons broken into planes over the paneling twitching in murmured laughter. Darkness settled.

He heard a pair of voices suddenly become clearer and a truck door slam. He pushed himself to his feet, hunched himself against the wall and twisted his head around the corner just in time to see a leg slide into the cab of a truck and the other door slam behind it. He paused and glanced back at the party that, untroubled by the departure of these two, rambled on. He bit the skin next to the nail of a thumb already shredded and raw. He edged

toward the vehicle, shoulders still hunched, eyes still sidled towards the party. He paused again at the window then put his forehead to the glass with his hands cupped to the sides of his face.

She wasn’t wearing a shirt and the boy on top of her had his left hand pushed under her bra. His mouth worked at her neck and he pulled his hand out to support himself as his other hand moved down to work at her pants. She opened her eyes, giggling as he hit some ticklish spot.

She saw his face, peering over the boys shoulder, the lower part of his face obscured by his breath steaming over the glass. She blinked and opened her mouth and let out a short breathless yelp. She struggled against the boy’s weight on top of her and slapped his shoulder. She yelped again, more of a growl this time.

He pushed away from the window. He could see dark shapes moving behind the fogged glass. He turned and ran back into the chaparral. The brush rattled and whipped his legs and his eyes struggled in the darkness. He could see a pool of light moving along the road in the distance, a beacon slipping through the darkness, and did not look behind him but if he had he would have seen a great column of dust rising like dim smoke. The stars gazed untroubled and hard and there was no moon.

The truck that headed out after him rumbled and swayed. A boy’s torso rose out of the passenger side window. Two more lurched in the truckbed. The windows of the cab were deep black and impenetrable.

Yeah you better run!

He retreated back into the truck then reemerged swinging a bottle still heavy with beer by its neck as a knight would swing his mace or a wrangler would swing his lasso. He tilted his arm and hurled the bottle sidelong towards the running figure who, though it landed only a few feet behind him, did not hear it over the sound of his wheezing or the thumping of his chest or the encroaching roar of the engine. His body flailed before him swimming over the earth in the glare.

The two boys in the bed, stumbling and laughing, followed suit. One flung a few empty cans that flipped in the wind and landed short. The other found a baseball rolling and thumping crazily against the metal walls and caught it and with practiced fluid ease he fingered the ruddy stitching, swung his arm back and let

fly. They were very close now and the ball struck at the neck just at the base of his skull. When it hit he could not hear the sound but the pitcher felt the thud vibrate in his fingertips.

He stopped running, his head jerked and he collapsed at once. The truck flew past in a straight line then twisted and made a sharp turn heading back into its own dust trail. It approached slowly and stopped, the body in the thin loess puddled in white. The doors opened, and four boys got out followed by the girl her shirt now on but misbuttoned. Her eyes would not move from the body. One of the boys hopped out of the bed, but the other, the pitcher, stayed back. Moths writhed through the pale lights around them. The doors were open and tinny music played, ignored and swallowed by insects’ nighttime thrummings. They were about half a mile from the empty road. They stood around the body. Shit he looks dead man.

One boy prodded him with his foot. The body would not move, no matter how hard he prodded. It seemed too heavy.

What do we do?

The boy who had nudged the body backed away and tried to put his arm around the girl, but she shoved his ribs and stood away from the group, still staring.

Jesus man, you killed him.

The pitcher said nothing, his white shirt was all they could see floating over the cab.

So what do we do?

One by one they looked over in the direction of the road, then back to each other, then back to the body.

The darkness rose around them like walls.

The baseball sat a few feet away, unnoticed and monstrously white.

Fuck.

The girl swatted at the moths around her face and went back to the truck. A boy knelt, and went through the pockets, all empty save a dull pocketknife which he put back.

No wallet.

Nothing we can do.

They stood bathed in light for a moment longer then moved into the darkness of the cab, tires spluttering grit, taillights bleeding over the body nestled amidst the roiling viscera of roots.

37

Rachel Kisty

38

Sasung

Annaliisa Gifford

Cinnamon baby girl and baby boy Tossed into the self affirming jaws of Societal protection “don’t be a danger to yourself, do not be a danger to others” Chanted at the boy who sits, bird-legged, meditating On the wooden bench with the light spilling onto his Left cheek.

He checks his right ankle and rubs at the red, strawberry Chaff-scar The chain sits like a sleeping snake. Innocent without your Struggle.

39

Ursa Major Joshua Wright As the rain ate the honey moon, And was not sorry for it, The spot of blood blossomed brightly upon the white sheet.

It was a sheet culled from the collection of one born under The sign of the ram, but The ones who mingled milky spurts with blood upon this fleece Were from the carousels of other zodiacs altogether.

Brief reconfigurations of constellations at the threshold of night May yield treasures.

Such treasures, it is true, found in the night, may rust By the morning time.

Rust, it is true, may be beautiful to perceive, The alchemy of metal and memory, clear form And twilight mystery, But a rusty tool is not the best to use to dig a hole, Just as a dollar Buried in the snow Is not worth more Than a penny in the pocket.

The tides of change will keep your boat afloat, But a river of honey Is sweeter than money.

So may words configure themselves and reconfigure themselves, As a hero may configure and reconfigure himself, Though his heart is by a lover’s arrows wounded And rust gathers upon his breast.

40

How to Assemble Your New Couch

Maggie Wrobleski

First things first: open the box.

Stare at the contents. Consider how it doesn’t particularly look like a couch. Identify the main components: thing one, thing two, thing three. There’s too many things. You need to be more descriptive. Fine.

Wooden thing one. Other wooden thing. Slats? You think they’re called slats. For supporting the cushions.

After you’ve become sufficiently bewildered, look for the instructions.

Unfurl the paper from its stiff, broken-in rectangle. It expands exponentially. Grow overwhelmed.

Let your eyes glaze over the instructions in Spanish, French, and Swedish before recognizing you can’t read them.

Silently wonder why you left home.

Find the English instructions. Discover that they make as much sense as the Swedish, only smaller words with fewer dots over the letters. Sigh loudly. Flutter the paper. Sigh louder. Watch the paper flip around like a pinwheel. Try to recall the last time you had a pinwheel in your hand and blew on the foil and heard it crinkle as it spun and caught the sunlight and made you giggle til your freckled baby-fat cheeks scrunched themselves up. Fail to recall this moment. It was a long time ago.

Glare at the instructions. Make them burn with your desire to understand them.

Extract the plastic bag of multi-sized screws from the mess within the box. Realize, with an uncomfortable jolt, that you can’t tell the difference between them to save your miserable life. Wonder why you left home again.

You had a couch at home, a nice soft one that never felt like it held any slats. It existed before your memory did. You don’t ever remember watching anyone assemble a couch, but you’re positive your sister could. Wonder why you left home for the third time.

Recall why you left home and banish the thoughts of that old squishy brown couch from your mind. The cushions sagged even when no one sat on them and there were always nickels and dust bunnies in between

the cracks. Banish your memories with a renewed sense of determination. Feel your mind go blank and empty and cold.

Shudder deeply without being able to stop yourself.

Read the instructions. Once, twice, three times.

Wonder if you’ve forgotten how to read English. Perhaps you’re dyslexic and you never knew it?

Take Slat A, or whatever your closest approximation of Slat A is, and prepare Screws 1, 2, 3, & 4.

None of these are labeled. Trust your instincts. They are wrong but you must trust them.

Let hours pass. Fail to identify A or B or C, or any numbered screw. Try to make the pieces go together through sheer force of will. Fail at that too. Mumble strings of curse words under your breath. Scream epithets from the tops of your lungs and feel the floorboards shake beneath the weight of your rage. Refuse to think about your sister who can fix everything. She fixed your toy cars and taped the book pages you tore from turning them too fast before your parents could notice and scold you. She folded you paper airplanes and you were amazed by how she turned something flat into so many sharp soaring angles.

Admit you were never good at making things.

Admit you shouldn’t have tried to build this stupid couch. Admit you were trying to prove something you already knew was false.

Remember why you left home. Realize why you cannot go back. Reap the consequences of your choices; drown in them until you can’t breathe.

Look into the box. Locate the cushions and remove the plastic wrapping. Let your nails drag against the grain of the fabric; these cushions are rougher than the old couch’s but you’ll just have to break them in by yourself.

Clear a space at the bottom of the box. Sweep the screws away listlessly. Position the cushions against the sides and settle yourself within. Decide that it’s basically a couch.

Enjoy the fruits of your labors.

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Bleue Liverpool

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Not For Kids Crystal Jolly

We found Terabithia, Beneath the apple tree.

Jeans trapped around my knees, His jacket on the ground.

Sublime, We know how small we are.

But the moss heard the song we sang, And so we shall remain, Forever beneath the apple tree.

Kyle Williams

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Long Term Rebecca Greene There were my feet in your lap Looking up at you Like eyes would There was a conversation Being held and it dragged like a shooting star One of us left the milk Out on the table But it wasn’t me The ceiling fan was on And it was interesting for a second I then looked back at you You might have said: “Why do you always do this?”

I might have said: “Huh?” There were my feet Falling in between your legs Heavy, and crossed, like your mood You rose, fists clenched As if driving an imaginary car I looked down at my feet, away from you I believe you asked: “Are you even listening to me?”

I might have nodded I made it look sincere, I’m sure

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The Sad Old Man and His Birds Steve Maloy

There was a sad old man who lived across the street from me while I was growing up. Honestly, I don’t know if he was all that sad. We never spoke. But he looked sad. Like he was ready to die.

His daughter lived with him. She was probably in her 40’s. She was nice, but also sad. I don’t think she had many friends outside of her Dad. I remember thinking that if I was that old man, I would feel very guilty about wasting my Daughter’s life like that. She was so profoundly lonely. Any time that somebody smiled or waved at her, she would run up to them and start talking. She turned any interaction into a 15 minute conversation about the weather or local politics, as that and her Father is all she knew.

On TV and in Movies, old men who live across the street are mysterious. They have dark secrets or mystic powers, and it’s always the kid’s job to find out what they were. It was painfully obvious to me that this old man had no mystery about him. His daughter told everybody about his ailments and medical short comings. There was no mystery there. I knew he was weak.

I remember one day, I woke up early and went outside. The old man was lying down on his lawn. I went up to him. He didn’t smell very good.

There was a bag of bird seed spilled next to him, but no birds.

“What are you doing out here?” I asked him.

“That’s a good question,” he said with a chuckle.

His voice was soft, but deep. He sounded as if he were struggling not to whisper. It was the first time I had seen him smile. I smiled too. He suddenly felt more human.

“I think I’ve broken my leg. Would you go inside and get my daughter?” he asked.

I looked down at his leg. He had rolled his pant up to his knee. His shin was all swollen and purple, and it looked bent in the middle. I didn’t want to go get her, but I didn’t know what else to do. I especially didn’t want to keep staring at his leg. Maybe he’s dead, I thought. Maybe I’m imagining this whole conversation.

I went up the stairs and knocked on the door. I turned around and looked at the old man. He smiled again. I hoped he wasn’t dead.

“If she doesn’t answer right away, you can go in-

side,” he said. I waited a minute, then did as he said.

Their house felt stale. It was a struggle just to breath the air. There was a stack of old newspapers by the TV, and a bag of medical equipment on the couch. Other than that, it was pretty clean.

“Is anybody home?” I shouted.

“Who is it?” A plain voice said from the kitchen.

I followed it.

It was the daughter. She was slumped over a sink of dirty dishes. I wondered for a second how a sad old man and his daughter could have so many dishes.

Maybe they had a party, or maybe she had put them off for a few days. I wasn’t sure how to broach the subject of what was going on outside. I felt sorry for her, but I also didn’t want to get in trouble.

“Your Dad is outside. I think he broke his leg.”

That seemed as good away as any to tell her.

“Ah, shit,” she said as she threw her sponge in the sink and ran outside. I followed her.

When we got outside, a few other neighbors had come out to check on him. They and the old man were all smiling and laughing. The old man now had the bird seed in his hand. A few cardinals were in the yard, too.

They didn’t seem to mind the crowd.

“You old fool! What were you doing outside without me? Aren’t you sick enough?”

Nobody said anything, but I could feel how uncomfortable her anger made everyone. Except for the sad old man, he seemed used to it.

“I’m sorry, Martha,” the old man said. “I wanted to feed the birds, and you were still asleep. I didn’t want to wake you.”

Martha sighed. She knelt down and kissed her father on the forehead. I couldn’t tell if she was appearing less angry for the crowd’s sake, or if her Father had won her over again.

“Well, I hope you enjoyed yourself. Look at your leg. This will be the last time you’re able to leave the house for a while.” The other neighbors and I helped Martha get the old man into their car. When she and her father left, they all turned and congratulated me on doing the right thing.

“You’re a hero.”

One of them said. I didn’t feel like a hero. I felt like a stranger who was intruding on someone’s life. I

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like a stranger who was intruding on someone’s life. I looked over at where the sad old man had been lying.

The birds were still there. They didn’t give a shit about the sad old man. They just liked their seed.

I told my parents what happened. They said that we should all go visit the sad old man in the hospital. I found that to be strange. We never spoke to him much while he lived across the street from us, why would we travel to the hospital to do so?

My Dad said it was so he knew that somebody cared. I thought about the birds.

I had never been to a hospital before, even when I was born. My Mom had me in a taxi cab in Philadelphia.

It felt stale, like the old man’s house. It was much more chaotic, though. There were people in different colored uniforms, running around taking sick and injured people to different colored rooms. I wondered if any of them

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cared about the sad old man. Probably not. But that was understandable. They all looked pretty busy.

When we got to the old man’s room, I felt out of place. Like I had on his front lawn. There were balloons and flowers at the table. Why couldn’t we have just sent those? What were we going to talk about with this sad old man? I wanted to go home, but I was also curious about how the old man was doing for some reason.

The old man looked at me and smiled. He didn’t say anything. My parents and Martha talked for a bit about how warm it had been recently, and the new city councilman. I sat by the window with the old man. We sat and watched the birds outside. Neither of us said anything. It was nice, but he still seemed sad.

The man died a few months later, and Martha moved away. I went over to their house from time to time to feed the birds, but they rarely ever showed up.

Rachel Kisty

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48

Ivan Davenny

Things I Learned About You Over Breakfast

Lauren Snell

your bottom teeth are crowded like the buildings in the city. as I watched you talk your lips moving with every word every expression I decided that I’d like to make homes out of each and every one of them. ________

and nice as your parents seemed to be down in houston ever create somebody as troubled and as beautiful as you? ________ sometimes you bite your nails when you are anxious ________

it was the longest time I had ever had you in front of me besides the very beginning that I do not speak of three years ago. we smiled over the table you had black coffee and I arnold palmer I learned about your roots your parents your siblings. they shared the same mundane first names like yours. later I laughed when you told me your fathers word for an erection was a ‘chubby’ and I wondered later that night how could people as normal

you paid for breakfast just like men do or the men used to do in the movies. ________ there was something about myself that I discovered over breakfast maybe it was before or after or right now. it became very clear like the crystals I’d collect as a young girl that in the history of all the desirables I’ve endured in my existence there was not one that could even compare to how much I wanted you.

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When Fourteen Was I Tracy Pierre

There was green grass on the ground and it was supposed to be green, because it was being watered and worried about. I wasn’t worried about, but I was watered. I was fourteen and I jumped the fence, frisked past my insecurity of getting whipped and dipped into the unknown. Sort of unknown, because I had done it last week, and the week before last, which brought me to...today. And I know he’s waiting for me across the street and I’ve got to get there, because when I do he’ll be smiling sort of nervous just like me. Just like me he’s trying to find some place to be that feels like home but it can’t be at home, nowhere close to home. They can’t see who I am and I can’t seem to figure out who I am when I am by myself, but when I am with him I know my name, because he keeps calling it. Reminding me that I exist. I am here in his arms hiding yet healed. I am not hindered by my age because I told him I was 16 and he was 21 and liked my small breast. My backside wasn’t all that, but I was tight everywhere else, just like I should be at 14.

This could be my first time. I mean not for a kiss, because I had that with a 10 year old when I was 11. I was taller than him. I had to look down on him, down on myself; there wasn’t even enough self to look down on, I looked at nothing. I had nothing to give and nothing worth taking back with me so I gave it all. And his name was Sunny and he looked like he was kinda slow, but it worked out perfectly because I was kinda fast. And now fast forward to 14, I am sitting in the back of a van naked stripping with shame. Shame on you Viergela, your mom raised you better. She wanted more from you, that is why she spent so much money on that Catholic school, that Catholic Church.

Nights without electricity and water.... for you. Nights doing homework by candle light and your brothers thinking it wasn’t right. They were right and I was right, too. I was right from wanting to be free of those church shoes and shiny dresses that itched underneath the belly and towards the back, too.

I had my first Holy Communion, but there was still a hole that confession couldn’t cover up. I was covered with bible verses, a brilliant education, cheap holy bread, and the body of Christ but nobody knew the trouble I was in. I was corrupt, not from the inside but from the outside from what I was taking in. And I was a good girl, getting good grades. Scholarships to private high schools. Captain of my cheerleading team. MVP of my track team and I stayed steady on the honor role, but my biggest role was on the streets.

And I didn’t hang out with the wrong crowd, because I didn’t want to improperly influence them. And I was also considerate, I never dated any boys from school, because my mama taught me not to shit and eat at the same place. You see I was listening, but no one ask me what I was hearing so I heard it, in ways that made sense to a 14 year old. Girl, Boy, I thought I was both. I was the nigga and the bitch. And I lived with this duplicity until I gave birth to my own seed and now I’m simply watching to see how far the fruit falls from the tree.

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Jessie McHugh

Yelp Reviews for Best Buy Justin Gray Henry (Geek Squad Specialist) arrived right on time. Store even opened early. Had what I needed. I was John P (5/5 Stars) in an out. Great experience!

Just went in to get the G.I. Joe DVD and the “customer service” person said they didn’t have it! Was Rich Z (1/5 Stars) really rude about it, too! I was like, “why don’t you have it?” and they were like, “it isn’t out yet.” And I showed them the ad from the newspaper and the “customer service” agent pointed out the date for the release on the ad was for the next day. Still, they didn’t have to be so rude.

Had what I needed, got in and out with no fuss. But the parking lot had a bunch of pot holes!

Felix G (2/5 Stars) I got some speakers from here, brought them home, set everything up. And they didn’t work. Don’t Tim F (4/5 Stars) blame the store, though, everyone there was nice. NEVER BUY PANASONIC!!!!!!

Heather Z This place smells like the father who abandoned me. Plus, the line was ridic long.

(2/5 Stars) George M Everyday, I return here and I feel Christ’s love envelop me like a soft Snuggie. In the section with the (1/5 Stars) MP3 players, I can almost hear His voice-it sounds like it struggles to be heard, His voice tinny and fractured, like a million pieces of ice trying to will themselves into a single snowflake. But then, I realize that I am hearing the music wafting over from the stereo section and I wonder how something so close can seem so far away.

My mother died three years ago and when I am here, and only here, I can forget for a moment that she Gary K (3/5 Stars) is gone forever and that I will never see her again. The sounds, the lights, my senses overstimulated, distract from the void of being.

Brandi R Everyone was so nice! They boys kept coming up and asking if I needed help and I was like, yeah, what’s (5/5 Stars) a hard drive? LMFAO!! Every section of the store I went to, a nice boy offered help. All of them, all of the boys and the men were staring at me with their hungry eyes. I know what they wanted. I have a very symmetrical face and a very toned body, plus my tits are pretty big! They wanted, me, these boys, these men, they all wanted me-even the old ones, crinkly, hunched over, sad and gray. Even the ones that were shopping with their wives and their daughters; even they could stop from staring. At first, it felt so thrilling to be so desired, but after about half an hour there, the attention became too much. They kept looking. I could feel my face get red. My forehead accumulated drops of sweat. I felt that I was drowning under their gaze.

I don’t need anything, but still I come. This store; it is a monstrosity, a corrupt temple to the voracious Frank F (1/5 Stars) appetite of consumerism, a twisted new religion on which individualism is sacrificed on the alter of commerce. But. Yet. I. Come. I need to own these movies, these devices, these cords and power systems, and memory storage, all of it. Without it, do I even belong in this world? Do I even deserve to? I return week after week searching, waiting for the pay-off. The results of the promise inherent in their advertisements, their capitalist assault: buy this and you will be perfect. And so, I come armed only with the hope that one day, they will have that product, that item that will expunge the dirt from my soul and make me whole again. Still. I come.

Yay! Got the new Ipad!

Perry S (3/5 Stars)

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Five Ways of Looking at Subway Cars Nan DeBlase

I Sprinting tin cans of dream chasers submitting to permissible kidnappings II Incarcerated freedom riders suffering tunnel vision in a chronic petrie dish III Conflation of a canvas’s possibilities and a journal’s fodder sparking inspiration IV Musical nomads staging underground pop culture in a beggar’s ATM V 10,000 averted stares until eyes catching eyes elicit a resounding, “whatchyou lookin’at, damn”

Maggie Wrobleski

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Weekends on the East Village Rebecca Najjar So, it seems on Sunday and Saturday mornings this whole city runs on coffee and brunch.

Miguel Portillo

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Rotislav Kuznetsov

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Letter From The Editors...

This literary magazine comprises the workings of the undergraduate students of Brooklyn College and we in the Riverrun Club are grateful for every submission. The work submitted was thoughtful, intricate, and full of the enthusiasm expected of such a talented group of individuals. We truly wish that this magazine showcases each piece as it deserves.

The Editors

boylanblog@gmail.com boylanblog.blogspot.com

Lacy Telles

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Featured Artists Serhan Ruggiero (Front Cover) Theodora Johnson (2) Bleue Liverpool (4, 30, 42, 57) Rachel Kisty (8, 38, 47) Sarah Allam (9, 20, 34) Kyle Williams (13, 43) Acadia Branch (18) Jessie McHugh (19, 29, 51)

Artan Gashi (25) Alex Hajjar (31) Ivan Daveny (48) Miguel Portillo (54) Rotislav Kuznetsov (55) Lacy Telles (56) Maggie Wrobleski (53, Back Cover)

Bleue Liverpool

Rotislav Kuznetsov