EDITORS Adelisa Cekic Annalene Deleon Angel Shaji Algie Todd Colleen Martin Ryan Cooks Khloe Gagen Manny Perez Sheanna Murray Shannon Wong Trinity Lopez
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Khloe Gagen
FROM THE EDITORS, Freed from the confines of solitude, a challenge mentally and physically draining, we were thrown back into the depths of reality; before we were all ready, but we grit our teeth, faced it head on. The city inched back to life, the term “new normal” echoing in our ears. People returned to the streets, classrooms filled, and the school campus bloomed. Maybe we lost the ability to know how to speak, exchange words, feelings, emotions with others for a moment. A portion of our lives were taken away, at least in the only way we know how to live. The question of our reality is continuously being raised, now more than ever, as the unprecedented still hangs in the air; yet we still continue forward, wondering and questioning the significance of everything. Thoughts akin to these get cast aside, stuffed in a box, sealed shut, labeled with a stamp stating “FRAGILE, DO NOT TOUCH,” with some warnings etched to the side in small font. It’s tossed into the attic of our minds, shoved into the clutter of other things as much as possible, because we have come to terms that it inhibits us to function in the way our world expects us to be. But that box would grow legs out of nowhere, jump out through the escape door, scampering ahead to get your attention, top flaps exploding open, and we become a mess of emotions, breaking down from how tightly we held everything together in wanting to just…be. To speak, write, share, about the turmoil in each of our individual lives is a vulnerable thing to do, as we are giving a piece of ourselves away, trusting the listening ear not to be as cruel as the world is. It takes bravery to do such a thing, but we will always encourage you to open your box of feelings to the world, and be a safe space for where they could be shared. From the bottom of our hearts, Riverrun
English Majors’ Counseling Office thejunctionbc@gmail.com thejunctionjournal.wordpress.com Follow us on Facebook and Instragram - @thejunctionbc
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Table Of Contents “For the Love of Writing”- Colleen Martin (6) “The Letter”- Freeman (7) “Healer”- Shannon Wong (8) “Lake of God”- Manny Perez (10) “The Enclosed Garden”- Adelisa Cekic (11) “Oceanic Contemplation”- Shannon Wong (12) “Night’s Solace”-Isley Jean-Pierre (13) “The Vast of Night”- Isley Jean-Pierre (14) “Dance Into Spring”- Diana Athena (15) “An Affair”- Isley Jean-Pierre (15) “Retelling Scorpion and the Frog from Heaven”Cliff (16) “the phenomenon known as bee absconding”Algie Todd (17) “Cascade”- Shannon Wong (18) “City of Tears”- Sheanna Murray (20) “The Writing on the Wall”- Algie Todd (22) “Observations of a bus rider”- Trinity Lopez (23) “Bal-let”- Jana Taoube (24) “Awake”- Remsha Mahmood (25) “In the Face of Death”- Trinity Lopez (25) “Not All Wear Capes”- Khloe Gagen (26) “Death Wore Khakis”- Joshua Randal Leonard (29) “On Edge”- Colleen Martin (30) “unnamed”- Hannah Lazerowitz (30) “Walton Road”- Joshua Randal Leonard (31) “Covid Chronicles”- Sheanna Murray (32) “We’re Tired: A Reflection of What It Is Like to Live in NYC in 2022”- Priscilla Mensah (34) “Forgetting”- Annalene Deleon (35) “1950s Love Story”- Melissa Morales (36) “Searching (for Wholeness)”- Shannon Wong (37) “Lavender”- Manny Perez (39) “Nickname”- Diana Athena (40) “Final Destination”- Annalene Deleon (40) 4
“The Stillness in Silence”- Eliel Mizrahi (42) “Forgive/Relapse”-Diana Athena (43) “(no)”- v ritchie (44) “Here We Go Again”- Melissa Morales (44) “Sour-sweet”- Chelsea Forgenie (45) “Excerpt from Exchange”- David Cesar (46) “The Day Ends with Blood on Your Sweatshirt”Keshawna Mooney (49) “I left my heart in...”-Algie Todd (50) “Whatever You Do, Don’t Read This”- Melissa Morales (51) “A Shocking Procedure”- Khloe Gagen (52) “The Girl in the Glass”- Remsha Mahmood (54) “The Chamber of Secrets”- Trinity Lopez (55) “to my body”- Hannah Lazerowitz (56) “Queen Uterus”- Shenece Boyce (57) “Boys Will Be Snowmen”- Khloe Gagen (58) “There are Monsters in the Woods”- Algie Todd (61) “This Place Feels Familiar”- Keshawna Mooney (62) “Mind-Throb”- Semoy Booker (63) “Bad Brownie”- Joshua Randal Leonard (64) “The High Roller”- Ryan Cooks (67) “All’s Fair in War”- Angel Shaji (69) “Into Dreamland”- Sheanna Murray (70) “The Dreamers”- Annalene Deleon (71) “mood slides”- Hannah Lazerowitz (71) “like father, like daughter”- v ritchie (72) “one&twofour&three”- v ritchie (73) “Soul with Soul and Souls”- Fifa Atef (74) “regarding the remains”- Algie Todd (75) “This Song is Not About You”-Melissa Morales (76) “Journey”- Freeman (77) “Growing Pains”- Sheanna Murray (78)
Featured Artists
Sheanna Murray
Bren Tawil (65) Carolina Rosa Martinez (17) (38) (76-77) (78) Chaya Nachum (12-13) Fifa Atef (11) Gina Rivieccio (16) (53) John Chakos (44) (51) (61) (62) (72-73) Jose Casillas (63) (71) (75) Kate McGorry (24-25) Khloe Gagen (6) (10) (14-15) (19) (20-21) (23) (30) (31) (33) (37) (41) (54) L.L.L (55) Leila and Sean (29) Leila Assif (34) Liza Larsen (56-57) Muskan Cheema (69) Raisa Alexis N. Santos (8-9) (49) Semoy Booker (36) Serena Gezmer (74) Sheanna Murray (7) (22) (26-28) (35) (40) (42-43) (45) (50) (58-60)
For the Love of Writing Colleen Martin Inspired by Joy Harjo’s Poet Warrior Limits. Relentlessly, I pound. I am racing through time, looking for an escape. One wall, this wall, Another? I am writing for peace. Delight. Sunny fields, A warm, comforting glow when you need it to the most. Smiling, Basking in it, Cuddling. I am writing for joy.
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Refuge. Cannot handle it, Cannot deal with what’s next, what I need to do, what I want, Why so many decisions? This is it… I am writing for less. We create art. Words leave us boundless, Giving us a pen, paper, Freedom. Giving us a voice. Word Warrior, Writing because there is no other way to speak. Writing because…
Khloe Gagen
Sheanna Murray / “Caged Sunset”
The Letter Freeman Dear…….. Whomever this may concern
I look at the pen or pencil like it’s hard to write
I’m concerned about, who’s going to read this
I look at my fingers like it’s hard to type
Am I really?
I’m more than many, what was left, I was born to write (right) Right……. Back to this letter
I’m more concerned about who is going to need this ……Here’s a message that wasn’t sent through text Whoever is going through some ups and downs, considered steps It’s necessary to go up, but you seem to go back down
If I send it, will it return to sender Or will it end up shredded in some dispenser Should I keep questioning? Or should I keep messaging? A few more words, before I’m off to send
But whatever you go up against don’t let it get you down
I hope this message gets across
Dear….. Yes I’m talking to you
Like it came from him ( Jesus)
I promise there is someone else who is walking you through
So, before I send this letter, ill put the stamp on the corner
Some days I know it’s hard to fight
And hopefully it sends to the right (write) person 7
Healer Shannon Wong The city center’s clocktower struck midnight, gongs of the bell echoing throughout the streets. Though it was late, people still roamed about. They hung at the open bars and pubs, drinking cheerfully, laughing loudly, and the clinking of gambling coins being added to another pile could be heard. A single white-cloaked figure silently passed through the night scenes, a hand on their hood, and was hurriedly heading to a certain destination. She made a turn into a dark alleyway and paused for a moment. Looking behind once, as if to make sure no one had followed her, she set her eyes forward again then. Holding both her hands out front and together, a single orb of golden light appeared in her palms. It floated upwards, lighting up the dark alleyway just enough so that she could continue her journey. Walking forward, the orb of light followed alongside her. Passing through the first section, she emerged into where many of the lower classes live within the city. Makeshift tents and people sleeping on newspapers or cardboard against the dirt ground were seen. A strong odor filled the air, but it didn’t seem to bother the figure in the cloak. She silently weaved through them, careful not to disturb anyone. After making a few turns within the alleyways, she stops in front of a wooden door to a crudely built, yet sturdy, stone house. The orb of light returned to one of her palms. She raised her free hand to knock lightly on the door. Footsteps were heard before the door opened a crack. A woman, in her early 30’s, dressed in simple linen clothing emerged. Their eyes were lined with dark circles but brightened upon seeing the cloaked figure. “Healer Thea! You’re…really here. Please come in,” the woman exclaimed quietly, opening the door further for the other. The cloaked figure nodded, stepping into the stone house, and the door was shut again. Warmth reached her hands from the flames in the stone fireplace against the center of the back wall. The orb of light disappeared from her hands. She took off her hood, face now more visible. Strands of light brown hair reached past her shoulders, framing her gray eyes. A single braid was pinned across the back of her head. “Of course. I promised you I will be here, no matter what,” Thea responded, smiling politely. “Now, bring me to your child.” The woman quickly led Thea over to one corner of the room where a wooden baby crib sat. Within it was none other than an infant, nearly one-year-old, wrapped around in blankets, and silently asleep. “This is my sick child…he’s been constantly running fevers and 8
Raisa Alexis N. Santos / “Watchtower”
I’m not quite sure what’s wrong,” the woman explained. “No worries, I will find out what’s ailing him. Is it alright if I hold him?” “Yes…please do as you need, Healer.” Thea reached forward to gently hold the infant in her arms. She felt the child’s energies then, and there was definitely something bothering him. The infant seemed to be a brave soul, as he continued to sleep soundly despite being in a stranger’s arms. She placed him back down in the crib. “Your child, he’s going to be alright. It’s nothing serious. It’s most likely the weather changes…but also, is he getting enough to eat and drink? I fear that the fevers he’s running may be the cause of that,” Thea asked the mother, though her eyes fixed on the child. “Healer Thea, I really do spare everything I have for him. Yet sometimes, there isn’t enough, I’m ashamed to admit,” the woman said, tears filling her eyes, and cast them down onto the floor. Thea frowned, already knowing that would be the answer. With a wave of a hand, a large pouch appeared at the wooden table in front of the fire. “Here, I brought this for you. It should last you both for a month or longer. Consider it a gift from me. The other Healers and I have been doing our best to provide food for the ones in need. Please take it,” Thea informed. “There’s also medicine in there for your son or in case you ever get sick. Instructions are provided as well.” The woman got on her knees then and began to thank the Healer. Thea was quite alarmed by this action. “Thank you, Healer, thank you so much…how can I ever repay you?” she said, beginning to sob, grabbing the edges of Thea’s cloak. “Please don’t–come on, get off the floor,” Thea said, holding the woman’s arms gently to help her stand. “The Healers of Hemera promised to dedicate their lives to aiding others. We are only doing what we are supposed to with our gifts, and no repayment is expected from anyone. Just live on happily and be there for your son. That’s all I will ask of you.” The woman nodded then, wiping the tears from her face. With that, Thea pulled up her hood again and bid her farewell. Stepping out of the stone house, weaving through the alleyway slums, she soon became a figure within the city streets again. 9
Lake Of Gold Manny Perez Flooding, spreading out by my feet, untouched by man. Pineapples and coins. Have I found it here? The Hidden City? At last. Deep in summer mist. Honest, the prophecy. It said I would be alone, with my mind weary. Lies bite at my heels. My mind is weary, Rest no longer comes. But I’m not alone, Ghosts caress my vile soul.
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Khloe Gagen
The Enclosed Garden Adelisa Cekic Green lines the garden I call mine, Tweeded green traps my precious flowers, Imprisoned I watch them from my tower, Waiting for sun to shine, Waiting for them to breakout from the vine, Free yourself from the bonds my wallflower, Collect while it shower, Make me proud of what I call mine. “Grow my beloved wallflower!” I shout, “Free soon, I will bloom, You too will leave your tower- setout! For the dark clouds will no longer loom, With sunlight I will sprout, I am soon to bloom.”
Fifa Atef
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Oceanic Contemplation Shannon Wong I constantly change, tides rise and fall, pulled by Moon’s gravity Our dance every day, I love her so I am a surrounding mystery men lost in my waves the barren emptiness drives them insane A siren song echos in the enshrouding night and another man drowns. Engulfed.
I have no remorse as they have poisoned me beyond recovery. I grow every day with the melting glaciers and warming of the Earth, humanity’s own demise.
One day I will take over till they are washed from existence and the only thing left is me the Ocean, I who brought life to all.
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Night’s Solace Isley Jean-Pierre The splashing sound of the waves On the rocky shores in the night With the breeze washing over Our motionless bodies with a string Of life that ties the heart and the mind The indistinct reflection of the moon Dances on the surface of the agitated water As we hold our gifts in our cold hands And listen to the song of the pulsating waves Whose strange desire is to give succor To vases containing ashes Boxes filled with decaying photographs Envelops with letters of unrequited love And letters of late pleas for forgiveness The night hides the tears on our cheeks Faces, young and old, molded prematurely The ocean shores; their blackest nature Promise to drown all wholeheartedly There under the pale moon, hesitations Vanished, dreading the sound of the waves How the dying night wants them all All that resides in the mind and the heart All is gone; now departing with light hands Yet, the sensation of what they held, notably Remained still, despite the thaumaturgy And the selfless act of the ocean shores.
Chaya Nachum / “Shoreline”
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The Vast Of Night Isley Jean-Pierre
Where all memories fall prey To abysmal solitudes When the body yearns for warmth Yet the cold breeze remains It’s only reward and shadow The river flows aimlessly Like a perverse thought That shakes the mind aplenty Some dark erected pieces of wood To keep away starving predators For they can feel and taste The state of isolation What is this country you speak of Fellow traveler…? All there is to see is a petrified landscape That stretches in the far horizon Where the sky bows shamelessly to the sea And where some have gone and never Returned to feed the earth with their bones… Again, fellow traveler Allow this pervasive thought to be spoken Once more, What is this country you speak of, that lies Beyond this endless land of stones and silence?
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Khloe Gagen
Dance Into Spring Diana Athena
My heart will stay in silence Burning All the words I’d rather say Sinking Into ashes of trust No words will prove Frozen ground Under the dead November leaves To be support I once felt Sensitive does not make me Weaker It pours Compassion Into my blood Cutting binding threads Sweeping remains Making Space for the snowdrops To grow Keep my heart But I will take my Loving Fire To dance the Spring Into my soul. - I choose to blossom through your expectations.
An Affair Isley Jean-Pierre
Of the heart that began with warm hands Gliding swiftly through grasses That glitter kindly under the sunlight After a brief rain shower in the last hour of winter That announced the waking of spring; Fully manifested Where the winds blew in all direction At the passing of the mysterious lady For the trees were content of such a divine presence The days became long, and memories clouded As the inner core became home to confusions Where all scenes emerged in perfection outside of reality Although shaped by a life barely lived An affair that was in the midst of its creation The heart inflamed at the coming of the lady Whose eyes contained no hints of deception, For a golden gift presented to nature After the beginning of an affair of the heart That ended with faces drew near together And eyes locked in with childish hesitation With silence lullabying an eternal moment
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Retelling Scorpion And Frog From Heaven Cliff Dear Reader, I will let you know that I am speaking to you from beyond the life in which you try to make sense of your circumstances. Do not worry though, God is with me. I have seen Allah. Dios has a giant afro. I’m not talking about big like three feet wide. I mean it’s enormous like the size of Brooklyn. I can see lights start from one end of a strand of hair and flow to the other end. Amongst other familiar attire, they also wear a hijab, a Bindi, a Yarmulke, and a swastika symbol as white supremacists wear it and as it originally meant before the Nazis. It’s strange but it makes sense once Yahweh explains it. But anyway, I’m getting off track. I’m not trying to inform you of what it’s like here. I’m trying to tell you of how I got here. I needed to cross the Manhattan bridge one day. I could not do it quickly because I was on crutches. A jogger comes behind me as I’m standing there in awe of what I need to do. He says to me: Hey do you need any help? You can ride on my back if you want to. I could use your weight to train my legs. Tuesday is leg day bro. I say okay that would be awesome. He was like an angel. He was an exceptionally large dude, like The Rock. Anyway, there I am, happy and feeling lucky. Then he says: I’ll have you know though; I am extremely racist. I become flustered at his boldness. I reply that it’s okay and that I don’t need to get home that bad. He says that he will only jog me to the end of the bridge and kindly say goodbye to the negro he has just helped. He actually said negro. His hands were also in front of him moving downward, and his palms were facing each other. He seemed convicted in trying to help. I said it’s in his nature to try to kill me. I didn’t trust him because he could easily throw me over the fence and into the water. He promised he wouldn’t. He said people can choose their nature. My iPhone beeped and I knew my lady was texting me to hurry home. I mean could you imagine trying to cross the Manhattan bridge on crutches? So, I disdainfully agree. It’s not like he would do something illegal and get seen by passing cars. Surely enough, this bitch threw me over the fence halfway across the bridge. Then, get this, he jumps in after to save me. And he couldn’t even swim! As we drown in this freezing water, between chokes and coughs, I ask him why he threw me. All he said was that he was sorry. He was acting in his nature and that he felt bad after he did it. I think my last words were: You’re an asshole! I’m not sure why he did it but looking back on it, I’m not sure if he even was an asshole Anyway, be careful out there. And fuck supremacy.
Gina Rivieccio / “Bridge Sunset”
the phenomenon commonly known as bee absconding Algie Todd I know a little bit about honey— I know it is sweet, and it is golden (both in varying degrees: I have a jar nearly as brown as my eyes; I no longer have a jar that tasted like medicine.) I know the local stuff is good for allergies and putting it in tea soothes sore throats and if I leave it long enough on the shelf it will turn to crystals that crunch crisp between my teeth. (I used to think honeycomb would be like that, until I paid ten dollars to put wax in my mouth.) I know it is made by bees.
I know a little bit about leaving— I know about taking a train at 11:46 pm and not bothering to tell people until months later. I know about being the last one in an apartment throwing out a purple shirt that wasn’t mine to begin with. I know about fighting with my mother (one to a hive, you know?) and walking walking walking. I know about sitting in my kitchen, honey on a piece of bread (just barely crystallized crunch) planning where to go next what to take with me when I get tired of being unhappy.
I know a little bit about bees— I know they have queens (one to a hive, or they fight.) I know you can give a tired bee sugar water and they pollinate flowers with their legs and stinging can kill them. I know, unlike most livestock, bees can’t be mistreated or badly housed or overworked (not if you want to be a successful beekeeper); an unhappy colony will just leave. (I think bees are smarter than humans that way.)
Carolina Rosa Martinez / “Colosseum 1”
Cascade Shannon Wong When old civilizations became ruins, new ones appeared out of old foundations. On the changed, weirder planet called Earth, there is a city named “Cascade.” It was said to be named after the ripples of the constant puddles that exist on its roads and gray rain clouds that always hovered over this region. It was dark and gloomy all year round, with constant rainfall. Yet this did not stop the citizens who lived within it to be happy. I can tell you, these people are probably the happiest out of all the regions I have traveled to. The city surrounded itself in vibrant colors of all kinds, largely in contrast to the weather itself. Buildings, structures, and the people were adorned in every shade of color you could ever think of; hues magenta, holographic purple, vibrant blues, pastel pinks, lush greens…and ones you’ve never even imagined to exist. They welcomed travelers at the entrance with open arms, which were tall, golden glittering gates. I was given a vibrant metallic silver umbrella upon my arrival as a gift; no one in this city went around without one. It was a very important item to each citizen of Cascade, the weather here made it self-explanatory. I was immediately invited to a party though I had barely just stepped into the city; the citizen was a bright individual and spoke cheerfully, as if happy to meet another new friend. Once I checked myself into a hotel, specifically tailored for adventurers, I made my way to the party I had been invited to. Just like the citizen who had greeted me at the doors, I had no trouble asking for directions from another. These people were happy to guide me to my destination written on the shimmering teal invitation card. On the way, I was able to see more of how the city looked. Taking advantage of the overgrowing nature on this planet, it was very incorporated within the architecture. Archways of flowers covered many streets, added with bright decorative lights to constantly keep the roads bright, trees that curved and twisted, holding naturally glowing crystals within their hearts, and even the animals that wandered about gave off their own color of radiance. The party, located at the center of the city in a grand ballroom, was just as wild as I expected it to be. People were dressed in all colors of the rainbow, outfits that expressed each individual’s soul, dancing the night away under the strobing lights. During my stay here, I learned that a party happened every other day or night. Other than that, they also had festivals to honor the rain within this region, embracing it instead of submitting to the emotion of pessimism that the constant year-round gray skies gave off. The citizens of Cascade never seemed to be sad; the city was overall perfect... too perfect to be real. Where were the problems of this city hidden? Did anyone feel miserable about the lifestyle here, or without the sun, a source of vitamin D that humans need, or were ever curious about how blue skies looked? I lightly poked at some citizens with these questions. They each had the same reaction when I asked: nervousness, eagerness to change the subject, and avoidance. There was never a direct answer. Being that it was possibly something to do with internal affairs, I decided not to prod into things, especially as an outsider. Shortly after, I made my leave. No one stopped or convinced me to stay longer; as if the city couldn’t wait for the strange traveler to leave. The puddles that reflected the cloudy skies rippled under my shoes as I walked towards the gates, looking back at the skyscrapers that glowed in the gloom. Maybe one day this city will see sunlight, but that day was not today. It would be for another adventurer perhaps or a citizen within, to solve the mystery I have given now to the city named Cascade. 18
Khloe Gagen
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City Of Tears Sheanna Murray
ThtLgou#23,546 Another group of visitors is coming today to explore our city of Cascade. They come for the adventures and explore the hidden realms of nature amongst the wonders of the never-ending rain, or that is what the pamphlets read. The thin sheets of paper are covered with colorful images of streets framed with ffower arches and trees twisted and shaped by nature, engulflng the towering metallic skyscrapers. In brightly colored clothing with large smiling faces, my fellow citizens greet the visitors with equally as bright smiles at the golden gates. Gates of hell, a fact only known to us citizens. We welcome them with open arms and dark hearts, shielded by the constant rain pattering against our city-issued silver umbrellas. Everyone in the city must use these glittering metallic umbrellas as it provides shelter from the rain and allows them to track us. The golden gates close as the guests are ushered into the city, entrapping us behind its false walls. Each visitor is now equipped with an umbrella as they explore the city with wondering eyes as they trek to the only hotel in the city. With each oh’s and ah’s, the feeling of being watched grows. They’re always watching. In the city of the crying skies, we’re always watched. I know the other citizens feel the same tingling sensation, a feeling we have grown to know, as their smiles become brighter and their eyes darker. We, the citizens, must always be happy, a motto that has been painfully engraved into our minds, forever taking control of our being. We mustn’t show discomfort or displeasure in this city, or we risk the chance of meeting an unfortunate end. An end so many have faced as they grew tired of this city. No one really knows the truth beneath the stone-paved streets of the colorful city, but we do know we’re trapped for eternity in the city of tears. The gloomy weather is our only comfort as the pelting rain prevents them from hearing our thoughts — our thoughts of freedom and escape from this horrid city— or so we hope. For now, we must smile.
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ThtLgou#23,547 I once was too a visitor to this mysterious city, excited to explore the wonders of a place that never stopped raining. The amazement of the town blinded me from realizing I was being lured into an unbinding trap. They seduced me with extravagant parties and wild festivals that honored their rain god. I was unaware that my future was already sealed as my life now became theirs as I sunk further into the world of the sunless city. I don’t know how long I have been trapped in this city as the time seems to slow down, matching the constant beating of the rain. These unsuspecting adventures will soon become one of us, stuck wallowing in a pit of despair, forced to live in a city of false happiness. ThtLgou#23,548
The tourists slowly become engrossed with the happenings of the city, the parties, the festiva the culture, unable to see us suffering behind our painted smiles. However, in particular, one visitor has caught my attention as whispers throughout the city reveal she has become to intrigued about our lives. She walks around the town asking questions if we’re happy living i a city without blue skies or if we enjoy the lifestyle. Her questions are met with avoidance an nervousness as the citizens try to keep their composure, trying to avoid their watchful eyes.
It’s flnally the last day of their planned visit but their flrst day imprisoned behind the golde gates. The strange visitor approaches me with a beaming smile and questioning eyes, unawar of what’s to come. Our silver umbrellas touch as she comes closer, whispering her forbidden questions. The tingling sensation is back. They’re watching, waiting for my answer. I just smil at the curious visitor, hoping to hide my discomfort. The feeling grows stronger as the rain pel harder. As beads of sweat slowly trickle down my face, I tell her about the greatness of this ci and how I enjoy living amongst the wonders of man and nature. I lie with every utterance, bu I still hope she notices my subtle glances and the uneasiness behind my smile.
After receiving her answer, she turns to leave, walking through growing puddles to the gran gates —that will never open— waiting for her release. n U beknownst to her, she will soon join me in this twisted utopia, living behind an enigmatic smile and amongst the crying sky. To m surprise, the gates slowly open, inviting the visitors to leave the city. My fellow citizens are al shocked as disbelief is written in the folds of their creased foreheads. This has never happen before. The gates have always remained close on the last day of a visit, entrapping the visito forever. Maybe this is my chance to escape. This thought quickly leaves my head as the tinglin sensation is so intense that my body becomes paralyzed, leaving me unable to wave goodby to the visitors. I can only watch the stranger go, and the gates slowly close. I try to scream pleading for her to take me with, but my message fails, sealed for inflnity in my mind. Mayb she will come back to explore the hidden secret, but I have a feeling she won’t. A tear escape my eye, mixing into the relentless downpour, forever trapped in the city of Cascade. Khloe Gagen
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The Writing On The Wall
Sheanna Murray / “Time Square Reflections”
Algie Todd Swirled in proudly vibrant spray-paint, scrawled in half-hearted ballpoint pen, plastered across billboards, carved into cement—regardless of method, every artist, poet, advertiser, and urban magician should know the value and power of words on walls. Evie, being two of the above and with hopeful aspirations about a third, tries to stop and read graffiti every chance she gets. Her first teacher had been insistent on that lesson: skip over the words given to you by the city, and lose at least half of the magical potential out there. More than once over the years, Evie has pulled the form of a spell or the energy to fuel a ritual from painted concrete. Just last week a string of numbers advertising a “good time” danced from a door onto her palm, then rearranged themselves into the address of a tiny hole-in-the-wall store full of unusual and reasonably priced potion ingredients. She leans over the bench and runs a finger under “K + R 4EvR,” breathing in the infatuation and hope and neardespairing anxiety inherent to the kind of love that promises eternity between wads of chewing gum. The letters fade into the wood grain, and magic rises along Evie’s spine. The spiky, twenty-inch-high letters in blue and orange are waiting when she straightens up, their carefully shaded 3D effect practically shivering with impatience. REMEMBER, they say, and she nods encouragingly, waiting for them to unfold and form up again. TO DUCK. The warning helps, but the extra shielding from K + R is what saves her, a barrier built of bravado and fear standing just long enough. The burst of force smells of metal and oil and discontent, and Evie catches a bold red bit of “train is never on time” and the bright yellow of a warning sign before it dissipates. It’s a sloppy mix, but exactly the kind of thing she’s grown to expect from her opponent. She shakes away the remnants of her shield and her eyes catch on the torn corner of an ad. Layers of paper, flyers and posters and notices never taken down because it’s easier to just paste over the top of outdated ones. Peeking out from under a clothing ad is one for Fireball Whisky. Evie smiles, words and heat already curling into her palm.
Observations Of A Bus Rider Trinity Lopez At exactly 7:54 am, I board the bus and proceed to my declared window seat; once comfortable, I allow myself to get carried away by the act of observation and the trance of my headphones, fascinated by the theater that is the B11. The typical sightings are a combination of tired students and bustling commuters. I watch as students frantically catch up on homework or, better yet, on sleep, as they drift off on the shoulder of the unlucky stranger next to them who is too polite to brush off the heavy head of America’s youth. I watch as loyal commuters pass judgmental stares to those who sneak onto the bus through the back door; they sit irritated and $2.75 poorer. I watch, with sympathy, the mother who must beg her rowdy toddler to sit down. She is only successful when she surrenders to his request for her cellphone (he has been quiet ever since). I watch-and eavesdrop- on the two ladies in front of me discussing Maria’s baby daddy and his recent antics. As they spill the tea, I’m tempted to lean forward and join in on their gossip session, but my attention is diverted to the activities outside of the bus. Two buses of the same line cross paths while traveling in opposite directions, and each driver comes to a halt to exchange their pleasantries-indifferent to the traffic jam they are causing. For the next two minutes, I must tolerate the sounds of horns and passing insults from angry drivers. The chaos, however, masks the obnoxiously loud gentleman taking a call on speakerphone. I try to derive pleasure from picking up the fragments of his story and letting my imagination fill in the blanks, but I am relieved when he exits at the next stop. As the ride continues, I watch as the bus begins to take on the character of each neighborhood we pass: the Latinos from Sunset, the Asian-Americans from Brooklyn Chinatown, and the Hasidic Jews from Borough Park. As people get on and people get off, each stop holds its own sense of familiarity. I can calculate distance by my route’s illustrious landmarks: the crashed car that has been forever parked on the corner of 13th Avenue, the Oh! Nuts store that reminds me of the granola bar in my bag and the 21 stops still left in my journey, and the green-colored house that marks my halfway point. In anticipation, I wait for the final landmark, the “Brooklyn College” sign planted on Bedford Avenue that tells me that my journey on the B11 has come to an end. Khloe Gagen
Bal-let Jana Taoube he locked eyes with her as he intertwined their legs together against her will she began to struggle he lit a fire beneath her already raging hearth without her permission she began to buckle he did not care for manners or pleasantries only warzones and never sanctuaries he heard what aggravated him activated and created him he did not care for their cries debilitating and filled with goodbyes
he caused trouble to her tongue suppressing her power she began to shuffle
made her cry and lie but soon her strength could not hide only rise
he ordered her to speak to shout and not doubt to show her devotion without a set amount throughout he was rough to the touch
he hid from the world his desire to watch her crumble in his reign kept an arsenal on her land to aid his generational campaign they shook her trees that soon became trimmed and abused and yet her roots unwavering remained her cries of pent up rage finally rose with all the power within her voice she chose to point toward the starred tyrant in an effort to expose and with a final gasp of air, she asked him for his name instead, he hissed in ridicule freedom must be claimed. Kate McGorry / “Walking Vision” 24
In The Face Of Death Trinity Lopez
Awake
Remsha Mahmood As they still lie there awake, them all, desperately escaping their death unconscious of what happens next, they shudder with each breath. Them all, desperately escaping their death as the killer gets closer, they shudder with each breath they can not escape this torture. As the killer gets closer they can not seem to close their eyes. They can not escape this torture as they all behold their own demise. They can not seem to close their eyes, all of this was unplanned. As they all behold their own demise, they discern the knife in their own hand. All of this was unplanned depression, anxiety, workaholism. They discern the knife in their own hand, they silently beg for help. Depression, anxiety, workaholism. Unconscious of what happens next, they silently beg for help as they still lie there awake.
Inspired by Pierre de Wiessant, Monumental Nude, 1886. I have always feared death; always pondered on when it will happen, how it will happen, and what I will feel. Will death be pale and cold when he finally reaches out to me? Together forth he and I shall go in haste but will I feel tremendous peace or tremendous agony? Given my curiosity about death, it is no shock that I have developed a particular fascination with Auguste Rodin’s Pierre de Wiessant, Monumental Nude, a naturalistic bronze sculpture that depicts Pierre in an isolated state of anguish as he faces the cruelest suffering...death. From Rodin’s work, I have drawn certain inferences regarding death and what I may experience in my final hour. In the face of death, I will retreat to my body and try to conceal my cowardliness. Notice how Pierre faces away from his viewers; his neck and head stretch behind his right shoulder, his back is hunched, and his right hand hovers over his face as if to hide it. I must plead with him to show me his face, but he is too busy tormented by his internal thoughts to pay me mind. He does not wish to be seen. He does not wish for me to know his pain, to know the secrets and emotions of death, but his fear gives them all away. Torture. Devastation. Loneliness. In the face of death, my flesh will surrender as I do. Unlike his youthful and muscular body, Pierre’s face looks much older- a reminder that physical strength does not equate to mental strength. His expression is filled with despair; his eyes are almost closed; his head looks downward; his forehead is filled with wrinkles. He is tired, drained. His hair is rough and textured; it tells me we share the same nervous habit of running our hands through our hair and tugging at it when we are stressed. He tells me that death will have tremendous power over my body. It will age and weaken me. Pierre shares with me some of death’s truths, but that does not give me an advantage, bravery, or strength, for when its inevitable grasp reaches for me, I shall not be ready, and my body will mirror that pain.
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Not All Wear Capes Sheanna Murray / “Summer Sights”
Khloe Gagen REDACTED wakes to a rough shove. “You can’t sleep here,” the police officer informs him. “Scram!” Getting up, the young man double-checks that he has all his belongings. Then, standing tall and looking the officer straight in the eye, he salutes, stating “All clear on the western frontier, Officer.” “Okay. Sure thing, soldier,” said the cop walking away, apparently indifferent to whatever was going on here. A pigeon lands next to him and says, « Bonne matin. Il fait beau aujourd’hui. Oui? » « Oui » REDACTED replies, unfazed by the pigeon’s ability to speak. « C’est une bonne journée pour acheter un chapeau, non? » with a dramatic sweeping motion, the bird takes off its top hat and holds it expectantly before REDACTED. « D’accord…» he mutters, pulling a handful of birdseed from his pant pocket and sprinkling it into the bird’s hat. « Merci beaucoup, monsieur. Ne pas oubliez le chapeau ! » “I got it; you damn rat with wings. It is a beautiful day to buy a hat.” “Squawk Squawk,” the bird screeches before flying away. Did the birds always speak French in this park? Had he always spoken French? He suspected not, yet all the evidence suggested the contrary. The squirrels never spoke in foreign languages, but he supposed it makes sense for a pigeon to be more well-traveled than its landbound counterpart. Usually, birds talked to him in Russian, sometimes Vietnamese, even Arabic once or twice. He could wrap his head around that. Those were all real languages. But French? Ridiculous! He flips the bird upwards at the sky, waving both hands like an air-traffic controller landing a plane. The all-seeing spy satellites would get the
message. He didn’t appreciate being taunted with this made-up gibberish excuse of a language. He starts walking nowhere in particular, constantly looking over his shoulder, scrutinizing passersby. “No, no… I said be quiet! All of you. Shut up!” He shouts, startling two passing joggers. He’d been awake 15 minutes and already was being followed. Which shadowy agency was behind today’s surveillance? And why? He must be on the right track. Why had he been chosen? What made so him special? He set off to find out. He presses his face up against the store window to watch the news. “Now, we interrupt this broadcast with a message to one special viewer: today is a wonderful day to buy a hat. And now, the weather.” The newscasters often passed him messages like this, their trustworthy faces merely façades for some sinister agenda. He’d have to play their game. Perhaps it was a good day to buy a hat after all. But where? A bus passed with several characters from a popular TV show plastered on the side. Their eyes followed him, and one tipped their hat. “Aha! Follow the bus, I must. Trust, trust, trust the bus. Pizza crust. Musty dust. Follow the bus.” He continued to rhyme for several blocks before the bus sped out of sight. Across the street was a thrift store. This must be the place. A gaggle of girls giggled as they walk by, surely mocking him. Why were people so mean? They must be in on it too. He wouldn’t put anything past his adversaries. They were too clever and resourceful. An old woman sits down next to him. REDACTED stares at her. “Can I help you, sir? Are you okay?” As if he would just give away that information. Did they think he was stupid? This was too much; he couldn’t contain his outrage. “Do I look like I need help? Eat a charred cheese melt. I’m onto you. Who do you sue? How do you
do? You can’t stop me – today is a wonderful day to buy a hat, says the fat cat tit for tat, pitter pat pat.” Boom! Burn notice: delivered. They’d need to send a new agent to tail him. The lady slowly backs away. The thrift shop was small and reasonably priced – probably a front. Dust coats most of the shelves. Vintage clothes were stacked to the ceilings. REDACTED tries on a few hats. No, no, he muttered. There! He recognized it immediately. It was a bright red beret, knitted of buttery soft cashmere. Energy radiated off it. When he put it on, everything went quiet. The radio waves that bombard his brain with useless information, like French, cease firing. And for the first time he could remember the voices fade away. Blissful silence. He took off the hat, and the voices returned at once. “Don’t you dare –” “No, stop that! You’re nothing without – “ “Looking good! I support your decision to – “ He put the hat back on. Silence once more. He rushed to check out. “This hat! I’ll take it! How much?” Even his speech pattern had normalized. Apparently, the hat could compensate for all the cognitive deficits that had arisen from a childhood filled with medical experimentation. This clarity even allowed him to see through all the implanted memories – he even remembered that his name was REDACTED. “Okay. That’ll be $250.” “But I don’t have that much money.” He hadn’t ever held down a job for more than a few weeks. “I’ll work off the debt. Please, I’ll do anything. I need this hat.” The lady from earlier she clears her throat and speaks up, “I’ll buy the hat. It would look lovely on my grandson.” She shot the dirtiest of looks at REDACTED, who was startled by her presence. The clerk, with an ‘I don’t get paid enough to deal with this shit’ look on his face, said, “I’m sorry, but if you can’t pay, I’ll need that hat back.” No! Backing away, he trips over a rack of discount fur coats. The hat falls off. The old lady snatches it off the ground triumphantly. The voices
return with a vengeance: The devil on his shoulder said, “You know what to do. Snobby old hag has it coming.” The angel concurred, “While I don’t normally condone theft, we can make an exception. That hat will let you live a normal life. You need it more than some spoiled grandson.” He pressed his hands to his ears, shouting, “Please! Shut up shut up!” They stare at him. The clerk says “No one is talking, sir. Are you okay?” The old lady chimed in, “back in my day, we locked away people like him and threw away the key.” The key! The hat was the key! “But… the hat… cures my flat affect… effectively collecting lots of thoughts … protecting me… selectively sorting … notions in my mind, racing and chasing their tails… whales watch tales… The cost of that hat pales to the buckets of money they’ll pay resorting to locking me away. I want to stay, in society, see? I pray I don’t go away again. When lost, follow the flocks. Tick tock, tick tock goes the clock.” He continues in this manner, oblivious to his surroundings. The old lady and the clerk look at each other. The clerk slowly backs away and dials 911. The devil commands REDACTED: “don’t let this wimp stop you. Hit him. Grab the hat. Make a break for it.” The angel retorts: “Oh come on, you don’t need to hit him! The call has already gone through. Just snatch the hat and run.” He deftly snatches the hat out of the lady’s hands and runs. He made it about five feet out the door when the cop from the park tackled him. “Stop resisting arrest!” the cop shouted while tasing him. The last thing REDACTED saw was the old lady, the clerk, and the cop standing over him. The world went dark. _____________ REDACTED sat across a desk from a doctor in a white lab coat. Sunlight filtered through a small, barred window. The walls were white with some haphazardly patched-up holes, scars left by unruly patients. This room had seen some shit.
“We’ve given you some medications to help you relax. Do you know why you are here?” the doctor begins. “You already know why I’m here. You’re one of them,” REDACTED retorts, “One of who?” “You know – an agent.” “Nope, just a doctor. Can you tell me where you are right now?” “Some government black site, where you can lock me up and throw away the key. Don’t patronize me! Daily, agents stalk me everywhere I walk. See! The same ones pay your salary.” “Why do you think people would monitor you?” “Because I’ve cracked the code. It’s everywhere – in the daily crossword, on billboards, even the birds talk to me.” “Birds?” “I’m here because some French bird on a park bench set me up! Entrapment! You gotta believe me.” “I believe that you believe that. But do you know why you are here?” “I just told you the reason. They told me to find a hat. I don’t need you’re damn poisons or your torturously tortuous talk therapy. I need my hat! I need my hat….” “Please calm down. You’re here because you assaulted a police officer who was simply trying to arrest you for resisting arrest. There’s nothing about a hat in this report.” “You bastard! I oughtta –” REDACTED, agitated, starts to stand up, The doctor nodded to an orderly, who jabbed an intramuscular injection of antipsychotics
and benzodiazepines into his glutes. REDACTED goes silent. The orderly escorts him out of the room. After a moment, a man-in-black wearing sunglasses – the cop from earlier – enters the room and flashes his badge to the doctor. They converse in French. “Is he one of yours?” the doctor asks? The man-in-black replies, “Oui. Sorry about this. All the mental conditioning can leave some nasty side effects.” “Huh. And here I thought he was suffering from schizophrenia.” “It’s the perfect cover story for a sleeper agent. Who’d believe it?” “Fooled me. What was the deal with the hat?” “Experimental tech that was lost in a tragically fashionable security breach. We’ve been trying to locate it for months. If it were to fail into the wrong hands, the results would be catastrophic. It works similarly to the chips inserted into REDACTED’s brain. The signals led him right to it.” “Fascinating. It’s a shame about those side effects. Can we do anything for him?” “Lots of sedatives. What’s one man’s suffering compared to national security? The world will never know, but that man is a hero. Make him comfortable.” “Will do. Not all hero’s wear capes. Apparently, some wear caps,” the doctor says with a chuckle. The man-in-black rolled his eyes. “Oh, come on, that was a good one! Make sure you include that in your report.” SIGNED: KHLOE GAGEN GAGEN Date: 13.2.2022 Classification: Top secret.
Death Wore Khakis Joshua Randal Leonard On that night, Death decided to wear khakis. He paired them with a green-striped polo, brown loafers, and brown bowler hat. He wore all this over the body of a large, hunched man in his seventies; wisps of white peeked out from beneath the hat and jowls hung down from a face with no mouth, eyes, or nose. Death couldn’t do anything about the mouth, eyes, or nose, but he could make the rest of his appearance presentable. Death didn’t do this for himself, you see. Death didn’t care how he looked— he was death—but he didn’t like to frighten, and he knew his appearance could be frightening. So, on nights when duty called him to places where more than the dead would see him, Death chose to be presentable. Not for himself, but others. On that night, the other was the nurse. In the middle of a graveyard shift, after working a full day and only running on a nap, the nurse would see Death. As she made her hourly rounds and her mind drifted to her two children at home with their alcoholic father, the nurse would turn a corner and see Death from behind shuffling down the hall. She wouldn’t see the moment before as Death materialized from the clinically cool hospital wall, its green stripe becoming the green stripe of his shirt. She wouldn’t see his scythe slender itself to the narrow cane he would hobble along on. The nurse would instead catch Death in the middle of his walk down the silent hall, peeking in each hospital room, checking to see which soul was ready to make the journey at his side. Knowing all of this would occur, Death presented himself as the old man. The nurse would question what happened to the old man in the striped shirt, disappearing in a doorway before she could catch up to him. Death knew this was not the last time she would see him, not when duty called him to the side of an alcoholic father of two just as the nurse returned home. And on that night, Death would again wear khakis. Leila and Sean / “Raven 5”
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On Edge Colleen Martin Teeth chitter down and touch the nerves of your soul. Your heart is going 180 on a 60-mph highway. You want to let go of all the food you ate because it may do it itself. Your lungs gasp for full breathes of air. Your hands tremble with the weight of your burdens. Your body is looking for peace.
Khloe Gagen
unnamed Hannah Lazerowitz i feared the inevitability of ecstasy walking out on me and the disappointment of abandonment so, i lingered in my depressive shadow, blocking any iota of sun from my existence joy had to be permanent, otherwise, it was pointless 30
now i’m being swallowed wholly by a perpetual darkness, unable to accept a sensation of which stays stuffed in a jar, labeled as a curse: happiness -allow yourself to experience happiness
Walton Road Joshua Randal Leonard Mrs. Walton sits on her porch, sipping iced tea while a pot of chicken and dumplings simmers on her rusting heap of a stove. Tomorrow, she’ll saunter up and down the quarter mile of her namesake street, passing out old Tupperware full of her beige country staple—but only to those who signed. She’ll return for her Tupperware a week later, never knowing that no one touched her chicken and dumplings because they taste off. No one would dare tell her. Mr. Walton rides his lawnmower from street sign to street sign, trimming the edges of his freshly paved blacktop. Sometimes, he will dip into a ditch to help out a neighbor—but only the ones who signed. The narrow road, still waiting for the minimum wage road crew to bestow it with stripes, could be a thin, bottomless void cutting through the green neighborhood. Mr. Walton always keeps the green at bay, his lawn mower blades riding too low and cutting the grass too short. No one would dare tell him. We all remember the Waltons shambling from house to house, clipboard in hand, asking to sign the petition back when the quarter mile of asphalt was Duck Road. Mrs. Walton’s eyes would glaze over, her old knuckles whiten, as she told us how many times the Country Club confused her home with Duck Circle two miles away—with its cinder-blocked cars, mangy dogs, and roaming white trash. Mr. Walton spoke of his gun always at the right moment in wife’s story, kept at the ready for those who found Duck Road by mistake. Enough families signed; the Walton’s didn’t need us all. Those of us who signed will always remember the scratch of the old ink pen on the paper, the lick of Mr. Walton’s lips that would later wet a stamp to send the petition to the parish courthouse. In truth, we knew better. Our lawns might be greener, the bricks of our homes straighter, our dogs cleaner; but just like every other street in our Louisiana backwoods, white trash lived on Walton Road. No one would dare tell them.
Khloe Gagen
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Covid Chronicles Sheanna Murray Finally, after a long and stressful day, I can go home and relax with an ice-cold beer and the latest sports highlights on ESPN. Come on, elevator, move faster. I can’t stay one more minute under this dim, soul-sucking LED light in this grey office with equally depressed workers dressed in straight pinstripes and pointed faces. Why is it still on floor 13? Wasn’t it there 5 minutes ago? I should wait a little longer because I know I’m not walking down 11 flights of stairs. I see dark clouds starting to brew outside the glass windows. The wind slowly picks up, gently swaying the century-old oak tree. A raindrop hits the glass, then another, commencing in a race. They rush, trying to outrun the other, trying to claim victory. A loud “DING” noise snaps me out of my daze, bringing me back to the dreary speckled grey floors and blinking corner light. The elevator door opens, revealing emptiness. (Huh, that’s weird) Where is the elevator car? All I see is a black wall with drooping wire cables. Welp, it looks like I’m walking. One step, two steps, three steps. I’ve only just begun, and I’m tired ( I really need to start working out again). Looking over the rail, I see a dark abyss framed with never-ending, winding rails—ten more flights to go. Come one leg; the ocean blue ottoman awaits your embrace. 5 more steps, 4, 3, 2, 1. Finally, I’m out of that miserable building. Big raindrops pelt the glass door, going pitter-patter, pitter, patter. It now hits me that I forgot my umbrella. Maybe I can take a chance and run to my ancient car. A loud, deep rumble and a bright streak of light penetrate the gloomy sky, changing my mind in an instant. But I need to get home; my tasteless TV dinner is waiting for me. Out of the corner of my eye, I see a bright blue box, a newspaper box. I can use a newspaper or two as coverage as I run to my car. I grab a few without looking at the latest headline, sprinting to my car, partially covered from the harsh drumming of the rain. I have never been this happy to see my manure brown station wagon. I unlock it in a hurry, inhaling the comforting smell of stale cigarette smoke. The soggy newspaper is thrown on the passenger’s seat. With a rumble and a screech, I leave the dilapidated parking lot, forgetting about the damp newspapers. Finally, I’m home. The peeling paint and creaking front steps welcome me. I grab my belongings from the passenger seat, rushing into the lonely house. I need to hurry to take off my wet suit jacket before I get sick, accidentally knocking down that stack of newspapers. As I picked up the papers, I noticed the headline reads “WHO declares the Coronavirus outbreak a pandemic.” Huh? What is Coronavirus? I continue to read as the wind batters my house. The article says that the virus is likely to spread throughout all countries across the globe. So far, 1,000 cases have been diagnosed, and 29 people have died. Another paper tells of Lysol and mask shortages and the increasing mortality rates. The last one reads, “Nationwide Shutdown Imminent.” I turn on the TV, ignoring the basketball game playing on the screen, searching for a news channel. Finally, I come across ABC news. I await the headline about this mysterious virus as I warm up my frozen dinner. Nothing yet. I flip to another channel and then another. There is no news about a Coronavirus. I re-check the first newspaper to see if that article is from a fiction story column. 32
The first thing I notice is the date, “March 11th, 2020,” which can’t be right since today is November 1st, 2019. I look at my phone for confirmation; yep, November 1st, 2019, 6:32 pm. This must be a fake newspaper because how can this newspaper be from 4 months in the future. The others say similar dates, all in 2020. They look identical to newspapers I got earlier in the week that is now homed in my overflowing trash can. Tossing the papers on the already full coffee table, I don’t think about the newspapers again. But a nagging feeling still lingers in the back of my mind, questioning what I just read. It’s quickly washed away by the cool wave of the enticingly bitter beer. The weekend passes, and I’m back again at the building that exudes darkness and doom. I join the line of workers as we drag our feet, hoping to prolong our entrance into the gates of hell. Passing by the lobby, I see the blue newspaper box is gone, failing to leave behind any hint of its existence. I ask my colleague if he knows where the box has gone. He looks at me with a questioning gaze, with furrowed brows and a slight tilt to his head. He says, “We never had a newspaper box in the office.” Now I’m confused because I clearly remember the tattered, worn box that housed those peculiar newspapers. But looking back, I never saw the box before the day of the storm. That space was always empty, with the occasional dust bunny staking its claim now and then. My thoughts flee as my troll-like boss with shedding hair, and a crooked gaze passes by, investigating my colleagues and me, forgetting all about the peculiar headlines. A few months go by, and I’m now cooped up in my rundown house, hoping to outlive the dreaded coronavirus. Can you imagine the disbelief and anxiety that filled my mind when the headlines came true? Like the other panic-stricken people of the world, I hoarded bales of toilet paper, fighting off other gremlins with greedy eyes. When I left my house, I looked like a biochemist on the way to investigate a chemical leak in my homemade hazmat suit, consisting of a beekeeping suit, three N95 masks layered on my face, and red rubber gloves all the way to my shoulders. Today I don my homemade suit, preparing to buy groceries. As I stepped out of my home, I noticed a grey roll of paper tucked behind my dying rose bushes. It’s a newspaper that looks like it has been there for months with ripped edges and watermarks tangled with the growing weeds. I picked up the paper, intrigued by its sudden appearance. On the front page, tucked in the lower right corner, is a picture of me followed by the words “In loving memory of Michael J Stuart.” It continues with “he was born August 18th, 1979 and passed on November 1st, 2020, losing his battle with COVID-19.” My breath quickens. The world is spinning. Spots of darkness invade my vision. I’m going down. As my head touches the pavement, I realize today is July 27th, 2020. Khloe Gagen
We’re Tired: A Reflection of What it is Like to Live in NYC in 2022 Priscilla Mensah
We’re Tired I’m Tired He’s Tired She’s Tired They’re Tired Tired of pandemics That almost seem endemic Tired of being uneducated Because laws are not appropriately delegated, To fit our needs. Yet they claim to take heed
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Leila Assif / “Bite Me, NYC”
We’re Tired I’m Tired He’s Tired She’s Tired They’re Tired Tired of living in fear Tired of politicians pretending to care Tired of feeling unsafe Tired of having to move in haste Tired of mass shootings And then the focus going to mass lootings
We’re Tired I’m Tired He’s Tired She’s Tired They’re Tired Tired of protesting Tired of genuflecting Tired of war While caring very little for the poor Tired of hate That just doesn’t seem to abate We’re Tired I’m Tired He’s Tired She’s Tired They’re Tired Tired of it all
Forgetting Annalene Deleon Before exiting the salon, Mary asked to use the restroom. She took the tissue offered to her by the stylist whose chair she had just gotten out of and walked hesitantly towards the dingy white door. Mary had a bad habit of suppressing her bladder whenever she was outside; this time was no different. Her only mission was to locate a mirror and functioning sink where she could freely inspect her new hairstyle, and wash off the excess oil on her hands from constantly placing them in her hair whenever the stylist turned around to take a sip of coffee.
Sheanna Murray / “Hidden Paradise”
Mary decided to add an extra five dollars to the stylist’s tip after her compulsory inspection. As she stepped onto the litter-scattered sidewalk, the sun’s reflection on her diamond necklace caused her caramelized face to glisten; the deep center part that separated the large, jet-black curls flowing down her cheeks, made her eyes appear bigger and brighter; and her sprightly strides created a pulsating movement of her hips with each step forward. Mary felt satisfied, unburdened, light-hearted.
She entered the driver’s seat and closed the door of her gray Volkswagen Atlas just in time to escape the conversation of a strange man frantically crossing the street headed towards her car, yelling, “hello beautiful lady, may I have a word with you?” Mary laughed as she started the ignition, adjusted the air-conditioning to sixtyfive degrees, turned up the volume to Bruno Mar’s “Leave the Door Open,” and slowly merged into the traffic. Her loud and cheerful singing was interrupted by her mother’s caller id. Instinctively, she reached for the ignore button—but then she remembered, and a familiar bottomless feeling of despair came upon her. Her mother was at home waiting for her to return to attend her grandmother’s funeral.
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1950s Love Story Melissa Morales She wears a gingham dress Heels clacking on the marble floor Red lips lifting into a toothy smile Record player cackling a soft tune Smell of apple pie in the kitchen He wears a suit and tie Shoes tapping on the marble floor Mouth opening in a boisterous laugh He extends one hand to her Smell of apple pie getting stronger She walks towards him Blowing a kiss before letting him take her hand They waltz around the room Music getting louder Reverberating on the floor He leans in for a kiss She closes her eyes Whisper of wind drifts by as she opens them and finds herself touching The coldness of a picture frame Of a ghost from before
Semoy Booker
Khloe Gagen / “Fragments”
Searching (For Wholeness) Shannon Wong
Form Inspired by Tina Cane what I say I enjoy in life feels like they’re lies because I don’t enjoy those things anymore except the icebreaker question needs to be answered but it doesn’t have to be true they’re like lies because I’ve only sought to impress and the question of my existence rises up if anything I’ve done is real or for myself and if any of me is truly me and not just things I’ve picked up in search of acceptance a belonging for wholeness to pretend I have a purpose in life to seem intriguing yet unable to participate past surface-level conversations thoughts in a mess of jumbled puzzle pieces and the words of that horrid family member echoes at the back of my mind saying that I’m plain and bland nothing more or less and I further lose myself that I can never do anything anymore and everything goes over my head instead my thoughts elsewhere (unless forced to be present) because I feel like I’m lying to myself and because everything’s become emotionally draining instead and I know it’s only the fears eating me that I need to unlearn and to let go and to live as I like to stop letting others degrade me to stop destroying my own self before there’s nothing left
Carolina Rosa Martinez / “Lavendars”
Lavender Manny Perez A few miles ahead of the coastal town of Lingua Di Zweihander neighed loudly and bounced his head. Bronzo lies a small cabin on a cliff just as small, nestled Alejandro chuckled and sat up before between a field of lavender. The road to it is worn and dismounting his friend, leading him to a bag full battered, but it’s comforting, if not mundane, to the of carrots and apples by their cabin. Zweihander man who travels it most, Alejandro Dos Santos. munched away as Alejandro walked back to the field Alejandro found himself sitting on his horse, of lavender, sitting in the fauna softly. He stared at Zweihander, overlooking Lingua Di Bronzo. He was the ocean ahead of him, listening to the waves and ready to go but couldn’t bring himself to move. His gulls, imagining the lives of the tiny people on the armor was fastened, dagger hidden, sword sharpened tiny boats. He wondered how they felt. The wind and sheathed. He slumped forward and rubbed the was softer now, the smell of salt had grown. neck of his horse. “I’m tired of this, Zwei. I’m tired of this “Tell me, Zwei, what has become of us? We’ve ordeal we put ourselves through. Sorry, I put us never had this pause before. Perhaps it is the wind.” through. The man I’m supposed to see today, all he Alejandro closed his eyes and rubbed did was steal meat from the butcher. Apparently, his Zweihander’s mane, feeling the wind dance through wife was having cravings and the hunt hasn’t been their hair, hearing it skip and twice through the fields good. We stole too, no one ever came looking for me of lavender next to them, hearing the whisper of the with malice in their hearts or coin in their eyes. Who trees, hearing it try to guide the waves beneath them am I to pass judgment on him? His time will come with little success. the same as you and I.” His routine flashed before his eyes. To walk into Zweihander whinnied and turned, walking town and hang around the undesirables until someone towards Alejandro with an apple clenched between who’s grieving or scheming or seething approaches his teeth. His walk was delicate, with extra caution looking for a sword or a bow or a dagger in the night. around the flowers. He’d take their call and half-heartedly listen to their “Ah, yes. We did do a good job with the plights about a cheating lover or a betraying friend or flowers this year. They’ve grown beautifully. God, a hungry competitor. None of this mattered to him of the smell,” he said, plucking a flower and bringing course, he only cared about the who, when, and where. it to Zweihander’s nose, before moving it to his own He never asked questions about the why, and still they and inhaling with purpose, “We don’t have to go. We carried on. He would agree to it if he felt it was within can stay and lay here.” his skills, and then he would get wasted and spend the Zweihander sputtered, dropping the apple. night with whoever was willing to accompany him, in “If they come after us, we fight. Same as case it was his last day on earth. He’d complete the job, we have before. It should be interesting. I’ve never take no trophies, and return to his simple existence for fought at home before. But for now, we rest. We can a week before delving back in again. get more food later, the tree is still dropping apples, I And now, nothing. think.” “How selfish of me, Zwei, to never ask how Alejandro unhooked his sword from his you’ve felt. You’ve seen as much as I have. Maybe even hip, took off his boots and gloves, and leaned back, more.” resting in the lavender field, the waves crashing softly Zweihander neighed softly and trotted in place. beneath him. “Yes, yes. I’m sorry. How about we rest?” The salty wind grew even softer. 39
Nickname Diana Athena
Using Diana would be stipid It’s just my name I want to be mysterious Irresistible I always preferred Greek anyway Artemis? Too much. How about Athena?
Of confidence. She was the muse In the new land of materialistic insanity. She was a shadow identity burning through My tender skin with charcoals of realized
I named my shadow at seventeen She slipped into my consciousness To hold fast through the moments of dripping Insecurities, gliding the pen over paper I used her name to sign my poems She was everything I wasn’t: Fierce, persistent, striking She was the warrior by my side
Dreams. Whispering What’s next? As I dared to lift my eyes to the new world. She was my craft, hidden under protective Layers. Until I slowly shedded.
Sheanna Murray / “Above the Clouds”
In fourteen-summers-long Immigrant’s suspense, melting My collided mind into war tools While I trembled behind her shield
Nickname: Blank field.
As a part of naturalization Process you have an opportunity To change your name. Last name: Athena.
Final Destination Annalene Deleon Lisa sat on the second seat in the first row of all red chairs, staring blankly at the television directly on the wall in front of her. On the screen was an outdated program showing the rules and repercussions of immigration fraud, illegal travel documents, illegal border crossing, and unlawful extended stays in the United States. She wished there was something else, anything else screening instead, as she was currently being held in a temporary detention center while immigration officers scrutinized her Mexican passport. Lisa’s feet twitched as she inadvertently looked over her shoulders to the officers behind a large glass window trying to read their faces as they flipped through the pages of the little green book. While one the officers continued examining her passport, the other two glued their eyes to a nearby computer screen when Lisa heard the only female in the batch call for another colleague that was nowhere in sight at the time. She was sure then something was off and that she would be held in the detention center for the rest of the evening before she was deported back to Mexico. Lisa had been living in the United States for the past five years, the first three undocumented. She had finally received a pathway to citizenship through
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sponsorship from her employers where she worked as a house manager for the past four years, and was attempting for the first time since she arrived in the U.S. to cross the border to Canada. This is where Lisa got detained by customs officers. *** After a long but fun six-hour drive to the Canadian/U.S. border, Lisa’s excitement grew as she read the sign that said Welcome to Canada. She gathered her travel documents as the black SUV slowly approached a booth shortly after passing the sign. One of two men dressed in what Lisa thought were police uniforms asked, “Passports please?” Lisa, who was in the front passenger seat, presented her passport immediately after her friend in the driver’s seat whose passport was stamped and momentarily returned to him by the officer. While going through almost all the pages of the little green book, the officer asked Lisa if she had any additional travel documents, to which she responded “no, I don’t”, before he extended her passport to the second officer who, until then, had been quietly observing the procedure. Lisa noticed her passport hadn’t been returned like all her friends’. After another round of inspection through the shabby pages of the green book, the second officer said sternly, “Ma’am please step out the vehicle” looking directly at Lisa. Everyone was quiet as Lisa exited the car and followed the officer into a brightly lit building that read Canada Customs and Immigration. Lisa could see the SUV with her friends being directed to a spot in a nearby parking lot before entering the building
by a security guard. After intensive questioning by immigration officers inside the building, Lisa found out that the extra piece of documentation she needed and lacked was a Mexican visa to enter Canada from the U.S., and she would not be able to continue her trip to Ontario. She was to be immediately escorted across the border to the U.S. Immigration and Customs center where her situation would be assessed further. Lisa, under the supervision of another officer she hadn’t seen until she was ready to exit the building, was allowed to collect her luggage from the SUV with barely any explanations to her friends, except that she had a missing document, and they were to continue the trip without her. She promised to call them as soon as she could. *** Too stunned to display emotions, Lisa sat motionless in the white police car that took her across the Canadian border and back into U.S. territory. She was escorted all the way inside a little side room of a big building where she was called to a glass Khloe Gagen window and again asked for her passport. This time she was told to sit and wait to be called. Lisa sat in the second seat of the front row of chairs because she wanted to be furthest away from the glass window that separated her and the customs officers behind them, but she also wanted to pretend that she was viewing the television straight ahead. She didn’t want to appear nervous, even though she was unable to concentrate on anything but the occupied immigration officers, and whether that summer evening would be her last in the place she had now known as home for the past five years. 41
The Stillness In Silence Eliel Mizrahi
The Stillness in Silence Chasing after a ghost, Leaving footprints of the past – Circling around the caverns of the heart. Emotions arouse the dead memories buried in between the fjords of reality, tucked behind a stoic stillness; Sinking starry skies, Setting sizzling snakes, Seizing sunrises – Snatching sunsets;
That we fall into the abyss of dismay. Like petals, Memories sway in the winds of time Coloring the line of what is right, Drifting into the wake that we leave behind. When all is said and done, Let your senses relax, Calm the echo of your Being Let go of the ego clawing down your Humility And just be present – In the Paradise of Tranquility, Deep in the forest of your Shadow.
And as the last dawn drizzles down, Drowning desires, Submerging life, A burning desire to be remembered, A lasting call for inner peace, A dwelling of silence, Immerses the soul.
The Truth Lies North Let go of the past, Let your head rest on the shoulder of another, Never forget the hand that gives, Or holds you when you fall. Remember not to dwell too long on regrets, Just Be On emotions that don’t serve you well; Shattering glass floor Forget the limiting doubts that chains – Marked with a marble door, Coiling you into a cage without a key; It is the brilliant light that we seek: Forgive with compassion Within our soul Live with passion, Outside our hearts And never overlook the promising of a new Tomorrow – And in the eyes that connect Paradise and Delight. A Dawn filled with Hope, It is when the suffocation of thoughts, A day full of Pride; The overbearing emotions walking in the garden A life lived: True to your North. of the mind
Sheanna Murray / “Caged Sunset Part 2”
Forgive/Relapse after Sheila Maldonado Diana Athena
Forgive the dilated pupils as the dark Lord mixes with your blood Relapse into the agony of knowing that you are not enough to those you love Forgive yourself for all mistakes that ride your mind Relapse into the darkness of the bathroom Forgive the weighty burden carried through Relapse into the comfort and the buzzing and the humming -- they’re calling your name through the veil -and fall and fall and fall and fall Forgive the hands that break one way rules to choke you Relapse into the emptiness of life to shame to doors locked from the inside Forgive the heavy eyes that stare from the mirror in disgust Relapse to wasteful pleasure until it drowns you in the ice of broken trust Forgive the uncried fears forcing breath to stop below the neck Relapse into the moment over hope for better Forgive the built up tears that hollowed you Relapse to tangled lies that can’t be taken back, turned into truth, erased Forgive the dreams the young boy chased Relapse into the soft spoken loneliness Forgive the things you’ve done. They understand. Put. It. Down.
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(no) v ritchie never acquainted myself with (no) she seemed so impolite not at all ladylike i whispered her name a few times when she should have been a roar sticky fingers held her down hollowed
her
out
left our carved smiles on the porch to rot
Here We Go Again John Chakos / “Fun Times”
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Melissa Morales Salt on a fresh cut Prickling down to the crevices on my skin Unspoken words dragging backwards Clawing their way back down the bottom of my throat Wisps of emotion burned out By the stomp of your foot and a halfhearted smile
Sour-sweet Chelsea Forgenie
Sheanna Murray / “Blooming Skies”
You are the most difficult to write. And this makes sense because I have had the toughest time loving you. When I stare at the wall at night through closed lids, I wonder if you are happy. I wonder if you’ve been getting good sleep (you’ve always been a light and late sleeper). I wonder if you’ve finally been to the doctor for your aching eyes. Are you staying on top of your credit card payments? Will you ever leave him? Will you ever love me in a way that does not require me to hate myself. I often ache for you this way; with simultaneous longing and anger. I write because I need someone to give the pain to and I have a hard time holding on to the promise that there is a god. For a long time now, our relationship has rested on memories. But I’ve found that this is the nearest we can be. Our love is better in translation. Words let me be close to you. Your scent is a gentle sour-sweet. You often had to tell me too many times to go take a shower, and I was so strong headed that, instead of showering, I would lock the door to the bathroom, turn the shower on, yank the curtain closed and stand between the tub and the tile wall—thinking of how to pass time. I stood very still on the bathmat and tracked the droplets of water that smacked and drummed a random rhythm against the clear curtain. I stared at the slender bathroom window and its mildew layered sill. I slipped my hand behind the curtain, and flicked freckles of water across my face and forearms. It is a delicate balance of timing, for if I stay in the bathroom too long, I imagine you pressing your ear to the hollow wooden door, and putting together the acoustics of my 7 year old body just standing there and breathing slowly. If I am too rushed, I run the risk of being told to get back in and “do a proper job”. There was no way for me to know just how much time had passed, and so I measured the time in thoughts. I wondered if you would ask me to pray tonight. I wondered if I would ever figure out what The Farthest Away Mountain was really about. I wonder how I can get Keon Beckles to invite me to play marbles. There is a sandwich I am hiding from you that is sitting smooshed between my penmanship book, and my math book. I think of my blood and wonder if girls with long hair had pretty blood, because long-haired Vandana and her long-haired cousin told me that my blood was ugly. If I became lost in thought, it was safe to exit. I turned off the shower head, wrapped a towel around my mid-section, and used the water from the sink to make the skin that showed look moist from being in the shower. I opened the door to exit the bathroom and out of the corner of my eye, saw your bra dangling intermingled with your leopard print work shirt, my stepfather’s khakis, and everyone else’s raggedy towels. I was suddenly overcome with interest in this part of you. I reached my hand over and uncovered the black bra from the hug of the other clothes and brought the laced rimmed cup to my face. I held it as if I were drinking water from a shallow bowl. I drank your scent in—silenced by the awe of an experience that was always within reach, but only now noticed. The fabric that enclosed the underwire was grey from lint, sweat and the constant rubbing under your breasts. One of the clasps was barely hanging on and there were elastic strands dangling out of place. I did not want anyone to see me want you this way. I push the black cup away from my face and into the soft mass of cloth. The clothes sway at being reunited and you disappear into the fold. Whether or not I have spoken to you recently, whether or not we are on terms, you always find me. You linger in places I do not expect. I see you everywhere. And how could I escape? I smell just like you.
Excerpt From“Exchange” David Cesar
Day 1: It is something that no parent ever wants to experience in their life. We’ve all received an Amber Alert on our phones about a missing child but it hits so differently when it’s YOUR child that the Amber Alert is about. That is what Dan is discussing with a cop over. “When an amber alert goes out how often does a child get found?” asks Dan “Very often. In 7 out of 10 cases do children get found through an amber alert,” says the cop. “I can’t believe this is happening,” says Heather Dan walks to the dinner table where she’s at and puts his hands over her shoulder. He means to communicate with her through a gesture. Signaling everything will be fine, but deep down inside, he really doesn’t know and he’s scared out of his mind. “Do you guys know anyone with any sort of motive? Anyone who might hold a grudge?” asks the cop “No, no idea,” said Dan “Alright, then there is a high possibility that whoever did this may be looking for a ransom,” he said “I’m not saying that this is the case but if the person who might’ve kidnapped your daughter is looking for money, then expect them to make some sort of contact with you within the next few days. In the meantime we’ll continue our search and try to find some new evidence regarding this case,” Day 30: “Excuse me sir, could I speak to your manager?” asked Heather. The employee almost sucked his teeth when she asked this. “She must want to report someone,” he thought, “I am the manager,” he then replied “My name is Heather and this is my husband Dan. My daughter was kidnapped not too long ago and we would like permission to put these up on your window,” “Oh!” replied the manager, instantly regretting thinking that she was a “Karen”. “Of course, you can. Go right ahead,” They were very appreciative of his blessing. But deep down they felt like it would all be in vain. One day without their daughter feels like a million years in hell. They can’t live, they can’t sleep, and they have no appetite. The worst thing about it all is that they feel absolutely worthless. The fact that they can’t retrace their daughter’s steps to try and figure out what went wrong on her way home from school is so frustrating. The only thing they have to cling to is that the authorities are “trying their best” to figure out what happened. 46
“Good evening, guys” a neighbor says to them as they approach their residence. “Hey, Howard” replies Dan Heather on the other hand goes inside the house without acknowledging Howard. The thought of her missing daughter has her so zoned out to the point that she didn’t even hear him. “I put some notices on some stores earlier,” he tells Dan “Thank you so much, Howard. That means a lot, really,” “It’s the least that I could do. I’m so sorry that this is happening to you and Heather. You really don’t deserve it,” Dan thanked him again for all his support before heading inside. Day 100: It’s another hard day for Dan to get through. Even though he just returned to work at his brokerage firm about three weeks earlier, he is still reeling over his missing daughter. It doesn’t really take long for him to realize that no matter how much time has passed, the day his daughter went missing is always going to feel like yesterday to him. Being at the firm and socializing with clients and employees used to be so fun to him, but now it just feels like a regular 9-5 job that he’s just waiting to be over already. Though going home isn’t a treat either. How could it be when he knows that there’s a particular individual who noticeably won’t be there? When he enters the kitchen, he watches as his wife indulges herself into a bottle of liquor. Now others would probably encourage her to stop but not Dan. He quickly grabs himself a glass and rushes over to her corner to grab the bottle before it’s finished. They’ve both been depending on it for a while now to temporarily fix their depression, at least until the next day when they’re hungover. They can’t get through the night sober or else it’ll just be a night of tossing and turning. The drinking leads to a night of mood swings. One minute they’re telling each other they love each other and the next, they’re blaming each other for what happened, then back again. It all gets resolved the day after, when they’ll reminisce about how drunk they were the previous night. “You checked the mail?” Dan asks “Yeah, it’s on the counter,” replies Heather He takes a quick look at the pile. Some are addressed to Heather and others of course, have his name on it. The ones that do consist of bills, a bank statement, and a letter with just his name on it. He tosses them aside and figures he’ll take a look at them the day after. The Day After: It was another hard day at work for Dan (Mentally speaking) and he rushes home expecting Heather to be waiting for him with a new bottle of liquor. Instead, he’s surprised to see his wife completely sober upon coming home. 47
“What are you waiting for?” he asks “Bring out the bottle, it’s not going to drink itself!” She looks at him worriedly. “Take a seat, Dan,” she tells him “We need to talk,” he obliges and she says that leaning on alcohol is not the way to cope with what happened. “What are you talking about?” he asks “You were just as invested in it as I was yesterday. What brought on this change of heart all of a sudden?” “I’ve always felt like this,” she tells him “I knew that this wasn’t the right coping method ever since we started but I’ve just been ignoring it. I can’t anymore, Dan. This needs to stop. We need to find another way to manage our issues with what’s going on and we need to do that together,” she says while placing her hand over his. He takes notice of this and then moves his hand away from hers. “No,” he answers slowly. “She is my daughter too, Heather,” “I know that,” she replies “That is why you have to understand...” he pauses. “You can’t dictate how I choose to cope with what happened. You do what you want to do with the situation but don’t expect me to move at the same time as you,” he tells her. It’s not that he doesn’t agree with what his wife is saying, it’s just that the bottle is the only thing relieving him of all the stress and he’s just not quite ready to put it down yet. After he’s done speaking, she doesn’t say anything but she does give him a look. A look of disappointment. She gets up and leaves. He thinks about getting a drink afterwards (which he has been waiting for since he was at work) but after the conversation he just had, he feels too guilty to pour himself one. He doesn’t get why since everything he said was pretty fair. Though, he decides that maybe he should follow his wife’s plan and take a breather on the liquor, at least just for the night. Trying to take his mind off the liquor that he so desperately wants to drink, he decides to take a look at the mail. A lot more was added to the pile from the day before. Though, most of them are just ones that he sees on the regular. Bills, bills, and more bills. That’s what happens when you’re successful. Greedy companies want a piece out of you. He notices a letter that he didn’t quite pay attention to the day before. A letter marked with just his name and address on it. It was handwritten. He decides to open it since it’s the only letter that he doesn’t know who it came from. When he opens it, he doesn’t expect what’s written inside to be so short yet so impactful, and he finds himself reading it over and over again as if it’s going to read any different from the last time. “If you ever want to see your daughter again, tell the truth about what you did 15 years ago,” And after reading just these few words, that is when Dan knew for sure.. who kidnapped his daughter.
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Raisa Alexis N. Santos/ “Corridor”
The Day Ends With Blood On Your Sweatshirt Keshawna Mooney The day started out same as always, except I had to call him over and over and still got no answer. I was never one to worry and didn’t worry that day until I got home that evening and saw the sack of apples. He’d asked for them, said he’d come to pick them up. But they were still waiting patiently for him; waiting to eventually rot because I didn’t want them and wouldn’t throw them away. Because he was forgetful, I still didn’t panic and instead, ran upstairs and kicked and banged and kicked some more on his door the way I usually did when he forget to do something he said he would. I did this until I got a cramp in my thigh and had to stop, and only panicked when I noticed water pooling at my feet. Ignoring the cramp in my leg, I kicked and banged some more until someone shouted from inside the safety of their own apartment, I’m calling the cops! Yes, the cops. And then, there they were along with the EMTs and firemen: a blur of blue, red, yellow, black, shiny buckles, clicking belts, and more kicking and banging as they tore through the door. I barely remember floating into the apartment, staring at him in the bathtub, not seeing the blood trickling from his nose perched in the middle of his graying face; barely remember leaning over and hugging him until a rush of blue, red, yellow, and black with their shiny buckles and clicking belts pulled me into the hallway; barely remember standing in the hall glass-eyed, not seeing the people peeking out of their doors, grateful to the cop-caller. I stood there until someone touched me lightly on the shoulder and said, There’s blood on your sweatshirt dear.
Sheanna Murray / “Fleeting Hearts”
I Left My Heart In... Algie Todd
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“It’s like breadcrumbs, see?” she said, eyes bright with excitement at being able to explain. “So I can always find my way back.” I nodded and swallowed hard, fighting the urge to—to retch, or scream, or throw the bit as far away as I could. But she was so—so happy about it. So cheerful. So normal, like this was part of her everyday life. ...was this part of her everyday life? Tearing off bits of herself and leaving them all over the place? As though she heard what I was thinking, she beamed at me. “Only important places though. Places I need to be able to find. There’s home, of course, and my favorite little hole-in-the-wall cafe, and my best friend’s car, and the ferris wheel where...” As she rattled off her list of important places, I stared down at what she’d placed in my hands only a few minutes ago. It wasn’t bloody, at least, not ragged and torn and gory with viscera. It was still beating, though, like the neat little slice of her heart was still somehow pumping blood through her body. Maybe it was. “...but not too many,” she concluded. “After all, if I’m going to find them when I need them, I’ve got to have enough of my heart left to sing to them.” “To,” I gulped in a breath. “To sing to them?” “Sure.” She leaned forward and ran a finger along my wristbone, reminding me of how we’d met, how she’d reached out to me in the crowd, how she’d bounced with the joy of finding me, because she’d just known we were meant to meet... “Like calls to like. That’s how it works.” I curled my fingers carefully around the bit of her heart, knowing I could never throw it away.
Whatever You Do, Don’t Read This Melissa Morales Do not fall in love with a poet. You will become a phenomenon. Which I guess, isn’t a bad thing. You will have asteroids and planets and all heavenly bodies falling at your feet, a grand hero come to life. Golden and staggering and devastatingly, violently, tempestuously, perfect. They will keep writing and writing and writing about you, until their hands collapse with fatigue. Poems hidden in the back pages of a journal unfurling to become trophies and award-winning works of art about the sound of your laugh and the color of your eyes. Do not fall in love with a poet. Because you’ll also become the worst thing to ever exist. Distorted into a monster, Guillotined for breaking my heart You will become the villain, the criminal, a balled-up piece of paper thrown across the room. I Love You and I Love You and I Love You capsized into dangerous, pen-wielding killers of I Love Myself and I Love Myself and that is Enough. Do not fall in love with a poet. I turn my elegies into odes Because there will always be words, And the unspoken ones are definitely the deadliest.
John Chakos / “Fun Times”
A Shocking Procedure Khloe Gagen “So, this is your first time with us?” asks a cheery voice. A redhead wearing a hospital gown nods her head while the nurse takes her vitals in the exam room. She shivers at the touch of the cold metal stethoscope. Hints of wrinkles are etched around her fearful eyes, but by no means is she unattractive. “Do you know what to expect? No? That’s for the best. Don’t worry honey. It hurts, but it’ll be over before you know it. Just keep your eye on the prize. Okay? Now count backward from 10 with me. 10, 9, 8, 7, 6…” She wakes up, lying down on what feels like a doctor’s examination table, confused, head pounding. Her limbs are strapped down securely with leather restraints. With what little mobility she possessed, she feels out the table: metal framed, a reem of paper over a hard plastic cushion. An IV is in her arm., hooked up to a beeping machine with faintly glowing numbers – the only light source in the room. The way its dim display illuminates her without revealing any scale of the room makes her feels like she’s waiting to be interrogated in a CIA black site. A clock ticks in the distance. The pitch-black room feels claustrophobic, yet dimensionless, as she can’t see the walls – only herself. The stale air weighs on her bare skin. The IV hisses as a cool sensation spreads through her veins, leaving her uneasy and nauseous. The tick-ticktick of the clock slows, and her heart rate increases. 10 beats per tick, 100 beats per tick, she loses count. The awkward position cuts off circulation. Her legs fall asleep, but she remains wide awake. A UV light turns on, disinfecting her in a wide, sweeping beam. Her flesh tingles from the radiation. That can’t be healthy, she thinks. The large metal door creaks open and is carefully closed. A brief sliver of light enters the room, spreading from the hallway like a wave at the beach, bouncing off the walls then gradually dispersing as the door shuts. She sees a vaguely human form, though several feet taller than any human had the right to be. And the proportions are all wrong. What was it wearing – a bulky hazmat suit, an old-timey diver’s suit, maybe beekeeper’s garb? She can’t really tell – it must be the drugs. Surely its eyes couldn’t be glowing red. Adrenaline rushes, breaking her fearful paralysis; she struggles futilely against the restraints. The Thing holds a large glass container full of furious little lights fluttering around. They become agitated by her presence. Little electric sparks burst into being as these creatures smash against the walls of the container. It is not enough to illuminate the room, but it does help her orient herself in the darkness. The glowing container swings in time with the heavy, echoing footsteps. Its legs are shackled; a ball and chain scrapes on the ground behind it. Each awkward limp forward brings the entity a little closer to her. And now it’s here, standing above her. She feels its presence, sizing her up. A large hand unscrews the top of the container, releasing the little creatures. Are they bugs? Machines? Are they even alive? Who knows? They glide around the room, buzzing like a swarm of locusts. The humanoid turns on a blindingly bright head lamp; temporarily blinding her as it shines in her face. It directs the light up and down her exposed body, sending a shiver down her spine. Her eyes slowly adjust to the light pointing straight at her, illuminating about a half-square-foot patch of skin at any given time. Within several heartbeats, the drones have massed on her skin, following the illuminated skin as the light moves up and down her body. Like electric horse-flies, they search for the right spot, then bite down hard with their sharp, sturdy jaws that attach themselves to her skin: sucking, gnawing, feeding. She feels this legion of little vampires draining her energy – dehydrating her. The machinery beeps rapidly, triggering the IV to pump some replacement electrolytes into her body. The heavy, burning sensation spreads through her body. Vodka 52
Gina Rivieccio / “Trippyeye”
probably would be less painful, she thinks. This was surely how she die, entirely at the mercy of this invertebrate menagerie. Countless little legs leave her skin crawling. Each bite produces an electric shock; the intensity varying with the sensitivity of the target. Ouch! That was a particularly sensitive area. Wincing, tears well up and stream down the sides of her face. Once more she fights against the restrains – some bugs fall to the floor with a sickening little thump, leaving behind drops of blood. The entity gently pats her on the head and wipes the tears away with a rag, perhaps as a show of sympathy. This is surprisingly comforting. The procedure continues. Time has become meaningless. She recalls something she was told in the before-time, though she can’t remember exactly when or by who. “There are only two moments – the moment you start, and the moment you finish. Everything else falls into a fuzzy, timeless void of in-betweenness.” Dehydrated, dizzy, and faint, she thinks that there cannot be anything left to take. But there is; it continues. Her brain has turned into mushy applesauce, her teeth are clenched to the point she feared they might crack, and her hands are balled into fists. For the first time, she truly comprehends the phrase ‘biting the bullet’. At this point, a bullet would be mercy. Eventually, that second moment arrives. The tick tick tick begins to speed back up, as the creature inspects its handiwork and makes a clicking sound with its tongue. The drones detach and return to the container, where they deposit their harvest like honeybees returning sweet nectar to their hive. One by one, the lights go out as they enter a dormant stage. Time has returned to normal. The creature leaves with its mysterious bounty. Every inch of her body is numb. A mist, smelling like a mix of mothballs, earth, menthol, and pine trees, is released into the room from the ceiling. It burns her eyes and makes her cough, but each spritz is incredibly soothing on her damaged skin. Fluorescent lights turn on, and the nurse from earlier comes in. “Beauty is pain, my dear,” she says with a chuckle. She removes the restraints, helps her dress, and leads the disoriented woman carefully out through a maze of hallways into a waiting room. Sitting, she rubs her legs – silky smooth, permanently cleared of any hair. Her reflection captivates her – she looked at least a decade younger. The horrifying experience quickly fades into the past, filed away in some obscure corner of her memory, never to be accessed again. After some time recovering, she goes to check out. The receptionist hands her the bill. Ouch. Now that hurt. Beauty really was pain.
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The Girl In The Glass Remsha Mahmood My vision was blurred, so I put my glasses on and was faced with something sickening. And I found myself gazing over the ugly sight. Brooding under eyes and sunken cheeks, discolored skin, and thinning hair. Yet she stood there, staring back at me With a broad smile stretched across her face. I took off my glasses and put in contact lenses, and slathered my face with foundation and concealer. The girl in the glass did the same, but her smile shifted into a scowl. “Disgusting.” She grabbed a wipe and cleared her face, and I found myself doing the same. We stared at each other once again.
54
Khloe Gagen
“We are not ugly.” I threw the glass to the side and watched it shatter across the room, Only to be stared back at by a hundred more... of me?
The Chamber Of Secrets Trinity Lopez Unlike men our process does not go as such: identify a urinal, unzip, stare directly ahead, rezip, and (don’t) wash hands. Men are simply unaware of the debauchery hidden behind the swinging doors of the women’s restroom. It is not only a place for going to the toilet or reapplying makeup, there’s a culture to it; it is where women have created a solace from the male gaze, a space for new and random friendships, and collective validation. There is an unspoken solidarity between women that manifests itself in this space, especially since there are such few places where we as women feel uplifted and secure. I was reminded of the camaraderie of the ladies’ room this weekend as my friends and I entered the bathroom of our favorite nightclub. The typical sightings are large crowds of women chattering with wild hand gestures, the stumbles of women trying to find a toilet stall not occupied, and those checking if their makeup and hair had lasted the frenzy of the night; and almost always there is someone crying over their ex and drunkenly asking if she should text him. Every woman in the bathroom yells “NO!” in perfect unison, for we are all familiar with the humiliation that comes with sending such a regrettable text; even the lovely bathroom attendant advises not to and offers her solace in the form of a fresh paper towel and mint. After hearing some true and timeless relationship advice from random strangers, my new lavatory acquaintance pulls herself together and she leaves with twice the energy and self-esteem. We head to the bar to take shots in honor of our new friendship and make a special toast to the manipulative douche that is her ex, for at least he brought us together. As we wait for the next round of drinks, my male friends ask why we women take so long in the bathroom; I reply with no answer, for anyone with a penis is unworthy to know what goes down in our chamber of secrets. L.L.L / “Veil of Reeds”
“to my body” Hannah Lazerowitz i’m sorry you had to witness sadness turn to starvation. i’m sorry that i treated you as a box, placed too high on my shelf, collecting dust. i’m sorry i draped a cloth over your misery and misconstrued an aversion to emotions
Liz Larsen / “Flower”
for an abhorrence of nourishment. i’m sorry for accepting compliments on your behalf, while you were gradually deteriorating. i’m sorry for expecting you to infinitely exude light, while i descended into a darkness unexplored.
i’m sorry i set your entirety ablaze, while you were weeping for life. i’m sorry for treating you as transportation, allowing your bumper to continuously clatter with self-suppression. i’m sorry for holding your splendor to a standard unparalleled.
i’m sorry for shattering your brilliance into a shard of glass, jagged and fragmented. i’m sorry for all of the hurt, and i’m ready to heal can we be friends again?
Queen Uterus Shenece Boyce You upside down pear shaped beauty. I’ve always been fascinated by you yet you terrify me. I love the power you hold, like a queen ruling over her nation, not bowing down to anyone, the true powerhouse of my body. The lines you built, the walls you’ve created one can only fathom how and when you came into existence. I’ve noticed you have a sense of humor and love to play games. It’s obvious hide and seek is your favorite one, everyone’s in on it except for me. Why does she refuse to come out? I know she’s there, I can feel her. You’re small and do so much: my own personal housekeeper, you carry, you protect, all the while your dangling ornaments cause immense pain. Twisting, twisting two times around itself. I didn’t know you knew how to do a two-strand twist but I survived. You survived. So powerful and so delicate it took a five centimeter intruder to wear you down. Though, that wasn’t your end. You continued to serve and protect so I salute you. Thank you for being my personal alarm clock. With your quivering ring you make sure to remind me there isn’t a tiny me living inside of you. Evict the old, welcome in the new, you shed but never get weak. Held high by your arms on either side just below the pelvic bone you haven’t failed me. You, my dear uterus, stood face to face with your opposer and came out on top. You are Wonder Woman An eternal queen, the ultimate powerhouse.
Boys Will Be Snowmen Khloe Gagen They met at a rave in an abandoned factory in North Philadelphia. Was it love at first sight? No. But she was rolling hard and pitied him, lurking along the sidelines like a lost puppy. Hadn’t she once been a wallflower? “Let’s dance,” she suggested, loudly, in between the mediocre EDM’s waves of deafening bass. He couldn’t dance, but, after looking around, concluded neither could anyone else. So, they moved around next to each other as if trying to cross the sand dunes of Arrakis without drawing the ire of the mighty sandworm. But she was having fun, so where was the harm, she thought? Between the drugs and the laser light show, reality had slowed down to about a couple frames per second. Her brain was a computer running into RAM issues. “Wanna get out of here?” he asked. She did but knew she probably shouldn’t. “Let me find my friend real quick.” Unfortunately, her friend was nowhere to be found. Probably off with some guy. Why couldn’t she do the same? “Wait. There’s something you should know.” Particularly before we leave this crowded area where people might intervene if he should try to murder her. “I’m trans.” “Really? I’d never have guessed. That’s alright by me.” Perfect, he thought, no one would look too hard if she were to go missing. He had made his selection. She breathed a sigh of relief. He had taken that much better than she had expected. They left the still-raging party around 2am. “You look cold. One final drink for the road?” She emptied the flask he had been saving all night just for this moment. His apartment was only a few blocks away, yet she still managed to lose a shoe somewhere along the way. It was snowing. They were making fresh tracks. The entire walk, he had an unshakable feeling that he was being watched. Paranoid much? He reassured himself, “Relax – you haven’t done anything wrong” – yet that is. The route was carefully planned to avoid all security cameras. They passed an alley and a dumpster slammed shut. Must be the wind. Missing person fliers covered the fence of an abandoned lot, some rendered illegible from the elements, others still fresh and crisp. Rumor had it a monster lurked these streets. “It’s freeeeeeezing. Are we there yet? I’m hungry.” Her speech had become unintelligibly slurred. God, she wouldn’t shut up. “There’s plenty of food at my place. I’m actually a chef.” That was true if you considered Arby’s food. “Whoa! Did you see that dog? It was huuuuuuuuuuge.” He sighed. Drunk women… so annoying. He let the rage build, mustering every ounce of self-control he possessed. Patience was a virtue, after all. A strange silence settled over the snowy city. The hairs stood up on the back of his neck, and he looked over his shoulder again. No one. The footprints of the previous evening had been erased by this white blanket. A streetlight flickered and burnt out with a pop and some sparks. They arrived. He unlocked the door to find his apartment freezing. The window was wide open; the floor was wet with melted snow that had blown in. Had he left it like that? He bolted the door shut behind him. The place was a mess – unwashed dishes piled in the sink, clothes all over the floor, suspicious stains here and there. The smell of dead cats lingered no matter how much bleach he used. He shut and locked the window before grabbing a knife and quickly searching the small apartment. No one here, nothing stolen.
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Sheanna Murray / “Snowy Ends”
Damn crackheads downstairs. The whole neighborhood had gone to shit since Mother died. But the place was rent-controlled and allowed him space to indulge his various passions away from prying eyes. She fell into his bed. Just as he closed the bedroom door, he heard the window slam back open. “What the hell!” He grabbed the knife and opened the door. Before him was a woman. As if she could read his mind, her silky voice purred reassurance that she was indeed real. She was radiant, a Cleopatra with shaved legs, wearing a dress leaving little to the imagination. Sitting on a couch apparently unfazed by the nauseating surroundings, she beckoned him to come closer with a finger. Her perfume, spicy with floral undertones, drew him towards her like a cartoon character who caught a whiff of a pie cooling on a windowsill. How had she gotten in here? Shouldn’t she be out having Greek dudes fight wars over her beauty? He’d already forgotten about what’s-her-name, who was now comfortably asleep in his bed. This new woman says, “I’ve been waiting for you. I’ve seen you around the neighborhood.” She must live in the same building. Her accent was unplaceable – Scandinavian perhaps? The room glowed, becoming more vibrant by virtue of her presence. She pours two glasses of amber liquid, hands one to the man. He of all people knew better than to accept strange drinks from stranger people. Noticing his hesitance, she commands him “Drink!” He drank – it smelled vaguely of mothballs and honey and went down smooth. Warmth spread through his body; he melted into the couch like butter on a baked potato. So comfy… The world went dark. Snow drifted slowly down in the dawn light. The wind lightly tugged his scarf. Where was he? Had he seriously passed out on the street? Ugh… his limbs were stiff; he could barely move. Wait, he couldn’t move at all. Frostbite? He tried to look down at them, but it was like he’d become a statue. His eyes darted around this limited field of vision, as panic swelled within him. How was he even standing? He screamed for help from a group of morning commuters passing by. He had no voice. No mouth. So cold… he couldn’t feel his heartbeat. More and more morning commuters passed him. Some gave a quick glance, but most just carried on with their days. The city could be indifferent to the constant suffering seen on the streets, but surely a frostbitten body should draw a little more attention than this. Two kids came up to him – their voices distorted. One child grabs his eye and removes it from his socket, tossing it aside. For the first time, he can see himself. A snowman! How? One yanked the carrot nose off his face and took a bite. The pain was unbearable. They wrap his scarf around him so tight that he was sure he would suffocate. His arm is yanked out of its socket, broken in half, and stuck into his head like a reindeer’s antler. Whatever had he done to deserve this? It was all happening so fast. The child replaces his eye, and they run off, leaving him alone. Was he dead? Last night… What had happened? Everything had gone according to plan. Until… The front door of the building opened, and he heard the voice. “It’s cold out. You must be freezing dressed like that! Please, keep the coat.” “I couldn’t! It’s so nice.” The young woman stroked a mink fur coat, draped over her little black dress, fishnet stockings, and heels. Huh. She looked thoroughly out of place with her fluorescent rave make-up in the light of day. “I insist! I haven’t needed that thing since the Middle Ages.” She cackles. “You remind me of myself when I was your age. I’m sure there’s some cave painting of me and the girls before a night out somewhere around here.” The young woman laughed politely, before asking, “What happened last night?” 59
“I found you passed out in the hallway, brought you inside, and tucked you in safe and sound.” “This is so embarrassing. I honestly don’t remember anything after leaving the party. I’m so sorry.” “Don’t be! You did nothing wrong. Just please be more careful in the future. There are all sorts of monsters out there who wouldn’t have hesitated to take advantage of your situation.” “I’m really lucky you found me first then.” “Us shapeshifters must look out for each other, eh?” The young woman looked puzzled. She’d probably gone on about her theory of how transfolk were shapeshifters during her missing hours. If she was also trans, that would explain the kindness. She loved her community – almost as much as she loved her new fur coat. They said their goodbyes. After a long hug and some fresh baked cookies in a tin (She was so thin after all! Was she eating right?) the young woman walked home. The voice was unmistakable. This old woman was the same one who’d interrupted last night. Had he been that drunk to mistake this old lady for that young beauty? He couldn’t remember anything after that drink, as if hours had passed in the blink of an eye. The old woman looked him directly in the eyes as if she was reading his thoughts. And suddenly, the old woman’s body melted away, shifting and reforming, shedding her skin like a snake, folding it up and tucking it in a kangaroo-like pouch. Time stopped; the light snowflakes pausing their groundward descent. The drugs must still be in his system. He wanted to run, to scream. Her proportions grew to an exaggerated length, her joints bending unnaturally, shadowy whisps steamed in the cold air and dark liquid oozed off her body. And the smell – even from here, through his stuffy, carrot nose, he smelt death and decay. Red eyes sunken deep into an almost canine face flickered, and a monstrously wide smile, from ear to ear, displayed rows of shark-like teeth. She moved quickly, covering the half-block distance in seconds, getting up in his face and letting out a horrible laugh. Without moving her horrible mouth, she addressed the sentient snowman. “Not so tough now, eh? Good thing you aren’t the type of person who will be missed. Just another meat puppet for my collection. It’s the only way my children can manifest in this realm for the extended periods of time needed to complete their works. Hmm, you don’t like it when someone uses your body without your consent?” The monster pouts mockingly and morphs into the young man before continuing. “You’re wondering, why a snowman? Well, your soul had to go into some container. If put into, say, a doll, that angry and possessed doll could still wreak havoc on the human realm. Nothing wrong with a little havoc, but too much chaos could draw the attention of the Masters. There is always a bigger fish; one must always cover their tracks. You understand, yes? Unlike a doll, a snowman will melt, diluting the essence of your existence down to a molecular level. Entropy is a bitch. It will hurt. A lot. Soon nothing will remain except for two hundred pounds of water molecules that know nothing but an eternity of suffering. Have fun with that.” With a long claw, she slices open a portal and slips into the void. Time resumes. The sun was rising, the clouds dispersing. He felt like a vampire in the blinding sunlight, sweating. With each drop of water, he sheds a little piece of himself. These possessed droplets collect dirt as they flow down the sidewalks into the sewers. Each splitting feels like a tiny nuclear explosion. Through this, he remains aware of his surroundings, in unimaginable pain, forever contemplating the choices that led his life up to this moment. Long after all the earth’s matter had returned to stardust, he would endure, trapped, drifting through space. Death’s sweet release would forever elude him. 60
There Are Monsters In The Woods John Chakos / “Fun Times”
Algie Todd They say not to go into the woods. Or, if you must go into the woods, do not go in at night. Or, if you must go into the woods at night, be careful. Be quick. Bring a light. You have a light, at least. The candle flame licks at your palm, a line of wavering too-hot on your skin, but still you cup your hand around it. The woods are dark. The night is cold. The wind is sharp. You have to protect it; you can’t let it go out. Something rattles in the bushes and you turn, startled, careful still of your candle flame. A rabbit hops out of the bushes, and you relax. “They say not to go into the woods,” you whisper to yourself, your voice still startlingly loud in the quiet woods. “They say there are monsters in the woods.” “Who says that?” a voice asks from behind you. This time when you jump, your candle light splutters. It recovers after a moment, and you turn, slowly, letting the weak orange light spill over the face of the... person? standing there. He smiles at you, mouth full of teeth. “Little girl,” he asks again, “who says that? That there are monsters in the woods?” You hesitate, gulp in a breath, think about running. But you can’t run and keep your candle lit. “E... everyone,” you tell him. Maybe if you keep talking, he’ll keep talking. “The whole village. Don’t go into the woods, especially at night, because there are monsters.” “There are no monsters here,” he says, walking towards you, slow, purposeful. His footsteps sound like the sharpness of the wind. “Just me. And you.” You take a step back. It sounds like a normal footstep. A twig snaps under your foot. “I don’t... Are you sure?” “Very sure.” He reaches out, and his fingers brush your wrist, cold as the night around you. “I’ve been in these woods for a while, and I’ve never seen a monster.” There is that bush behind you, and you’re not as small as a rabbit. “But I... Are you really sure?” “I just said I was.” There is a dark edge of anger in his voice, in the woods. “Why do you keep asking?” You take a breath and stare, stare, stare at the flickering candle in your hand. The tiny orange flame is all there is in the world. You blink, and see it still behind your eyes. “Because everyone says—the whole village—I know—” The candle flickers, and flickers, and goes out. Everything is dark, and cold, and sharp. Especially you. You don’t need light to see him, anymore. Or the look on his face, when your shadow grows, and grows, and grows. “There are monsters here,” you tell him, as you reach out. The village says not to go into the woods. Or, not at night. Not without a light. If you do, there will be monsters in the woods.
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This Place Feels Familiar Keshawna Mooney
John Chakos
A dingy evening light cuts through the gritty window into the darkening room, causing shadows to scurry and lurk in every corner. The hissing sound of the baseboard heater hums and sputters as though the shadows are whispering to each other. Miniature objects, figurines, and other knickknacks are perched on nearly every surface. One has bulging eyes, another with a slash of a mouth, some crouching almost defensively, while the rest are huddled together practically leering at each other. The faces in the photos on the wall are unsmiling, sallow with eyes that seem to follow one around the room. A couch, sagging in the middle like a perpetually turned down mouth, is pushed into the corner leaving a large empty space in the center of the room. In this space, facing the window, is an empty rocking chair shifting back and forth, stirred by the draft creeping across the floor and up the walls. An unusually large television is hanging on the wall, pitched forward, making the actors on screen seem as if they might to reach out and grab you. The movie is paused so they are frozen mid-expression, their mouths stretched open in silent screams. Sitting on the table positioned directly underneath the television is a cherry-wood box, the only thing not covered in a layer of dust. The box is almost beckoning in its shininess, its twinkling visible from the gaping mouth of the doorway which appears to be waiting to swallow someone, anyone, maybe you, into the grimness of the living room.
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Mind-Throb Semoy Booker
I don’t know why you’re here, but you TH-THUMP In my brain plenty enough. I can’t seem to concentrate let alone smile When you’re around. If you were my boyfriend You’d be a shitty one. My mind throbbing, eyes pulsating Can’t seem to make the, TH-THUMP stop. STOP. TH-THUMP. STOP. TH-THUMP. You follow me everywhere I go Everywhere except in my dreams. Sleep, I say, sleep. You made me a pessimist Seeing the world clouded and greyish. Maybe that’s my mind, one big perfect storm.
If you were my boyfriend You’d be a shitty one. But at least I could dump your ass When I have the chance.
Jose Casillas / “Office”
The shock of lighting when you TH-THUMP The thunder I feel when my brain is being SMASHED! And the waves that overflow the anguish From my temples to the back of my neck.
Bad Brownie Joshua Randal Leonard
64
The feeling started slow. A tingle in the tips of my fingers. A buoyancy just beneath my fingernails, snaking up my arms. Two hours had passed since our last bite at B’s birthday party. The dark brown squares were innocuous and warm in a blue Tupperware, resting on a paper towel spotted with oil. They clashed with the black and gold of the Great Gatsby themed buffet table—bubbling flutes of champagne, tiered platters of finger foods, a glass bowl of classy salad. “I made ‘em real weak,” the Chef said to the crowd eyeing them. “You could ‘prolly eat a whole one and feel nothing.” We discussed in hushed tones. “I’ve never had one before,” I said. “But I’ve done a bunch of coke before and never felt a thing.” “I just get paranoid,” you said. “Let’s do it.” So, we did it. We split one at the party. Then chased it with several flutes of the bodega champagne. Then, for good measure, we split another one in the cab home. Because, I’ve done a bunch of coke before and never felt a thing. I sat on the couch and decided nothing would happen—I’d never feel a thing. You sat on the opposite end, drinking whiskey I don’t remember you buying. The cats sat between us, yawning and annoyed. But then gravity seeped out of my hands. I laid back on the couch and watched it evaporate around me, rising like a fine mist, and disappearing. My arms stayed at my side, but I knew if I lifted them, they’d carry me to the ceiling. A smile crept across my face, wrapping past my ears and around my neck like a scarf. “Oooop, gunna get paranoid,” I heard you say. “I’m gunna lay in the bedroom. I’m gunna see ya’ tomorrow.” I think I said “Okay,” but gravity had left my tongue. I opened my mouth, and the slippery thing tried to fly away. You glided across the room and through the door. Then I was alone. But I wasn’t alone. The couch cushion folded around me, holding me tight in place. Warm and soft. The furniture gave a little bow before dancing around the room, a wonderful ballet to a soundless symphony. I was so sad you were missing it. Without the weight of the world, the air tasted clean in my chest. I felt clean. Muscles relaxed. Colors sharpened. I wondered what water would taste like, but I dared not move. The couch would be sad if I moved. Then I would be sad, and it felt like a bad time to be sad. Not with the ballet going on. It would be so rude to interrupt the Hoosier chest waltzing with the cats. I blinked, and it took a year. I wondered what all I had missed while I was blinking. Hopefully work didn’t miss me. What won the Oscar for Best Picture? Oh no, I missed my birthday! That’s okay, I hate birthdays but just my own. I let other people have fun. Were you still in the bedroom? Were you having fun? I supposed so. I decided I couldn’t waste another year blinking, so I grabbed my eyelids and held them up. Too much to see! Wait. Something changed while I was away. The room stopped dancing. The furniture glared at me. Was I rude? Gravity returned, but it came back wrong. The room tilted forward. I knew the couch had a hold of me, but did the room have a hold of the couch?! This isn’t right, I thought. The wall became the floor, the floor became the wall. This isn’t right! Weight crawled back into my body, burrowing in through my pores and digging into my bones. It felt
angry. Resentful. How dare I cast it away? It would never leave me again. I knew it as it settled into my marrow, locked around my cells. An instinct kicked in. A visceral need for survival, something gravity couldn’t reach. My phone finished its tap routine with a flourish. I gave it nervous applause, and it jumped in my palm, calling B for me. “Yo.” Her voice was smooth. Weightless. “B, this isn’t right. This is heavy.” She laughed. It slithered into me. “Is the Chef there?” I asked. “I don’t think I did this right. Were these good?” “How many you eat?” the Chef asked over B’s oily laugh. “Two. Wait. One. But two, so one.” “One what? One whole piece?!” He sounded heavy. “You said to eat one whole piece!” “Want me to call your sister?” B asked. “NO!” I hung up. I had to move. The couch wasn’t my friend anymore. The weight was corrupting it. The linen started to fuse with my skin. I leapt to my feet and fell to the wall-floor. Was gravity after you too? I couldn’t get to the door. You were on your own. “This isn’t right,” I said to the room. My jaw flapped around as I spoke. My scarf smile had unwrapped itself. My mouth was stretched out, the elasticity gone. I picked it up and held it in place. “Fis fisn’t fright,” I said again, but the furniture wouldn’t listen. The cats were bored. Bren Tawil / “Mariana”
Instead, the furniture melted. First the colors, then the shapes. An oozy slop puddling on the wall-floor. It pooled around my feet, the creamy remnants of our bookshelf rising to my knees. Words floated and bobbed around me. “And whatever walked there, walked alone.” “I could not help feeling that they were evil things—mountains of madness.” “If I cannot inspire love, I will cause fear.” “Harry – yer a wizard.” An eye peaked up at me through the sea, then disappeared beneath the surface. Was it my eye? No. Both felt in place. I trudged to the door. “J!” I screamed. “Fit’s sall melting!” I couldn’t hear you. Could you hear me? I hoped you could swim. My phone floated past me, and I plucked it out of the mess. The cats floated by after, still looking bored, but I couldn’t get to them. Panicking, I clung to the door frame as a tidal wave of liquid cushions and lamps surged against me! I couldn’t lose my phone, so I decided to eat it. Then, I would never lose it. Then I could eat my glasses, then the cats! I couldn’t lose any of those, either. Just as I was one-handedly putting my phone in my mouth, the world snapped back. I stumbled, settling against the wall-wall. The floor was the floor again. The furniture was solid. I let me jaw go, and it stayed in place. I dialed, knowing I only had seconds. Gravity was growling. From somewhere behind the door, I heard your heavy mumbling. “Just sit down. Don’t call 9-1-1.” A pop in my ear. “9-1-1 Operator. What is your emergency?” “IT’S ALL MELTING! NONE OF THIS IS RIGHT! YOU HAVE TO HELP US!” Then gravity was back, punching my face. It tore through reality, a blackhole ripping from my chest. My mouth slammed shut and sucked my lips inward, down my throat and into the void. It tore at my cheeks, inhaling them. I dropped the phone and tried to pry my mouth open, but my hands were sucked down into the abyss. I collapsed to the floor, screaming and writhing. I couldn’t close my eyes—couldn’t blink for another year and let this hell pass—my eyelids had been pulled down my throat with everything else. My eyes jumped from my skull and rolled around on the hardwood before sinking into the rug. I couldn’t see, but I didn’t need them anymore. It was all over. *** “Sir, can you hear us?” I shot forward and my stomach heaved out of my mouth. Great tidal waves of sticky vomit covered my legs and the gurney. The paramedics in the ambulance fell backward with an “Oh, shit!” and a “Fucking hell.” One of them was holding a plastic bucket. Too late. You sat on the bench seat, clearly not surprised. Only a little heavy. My face hurt. My eyes were back. I could open them just enough to see a small piece of brownie floating in the thick soup between my legs.
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The High Roller Ryan Cooks Raymond Winters has a wonderful life. He graduated at the top of his class from high school and was the valedictorian in college. His grades landed him a high paying job in the business world, he was famous on the 6th floor for his ability to make consistent sales and never seemed to lose a dime in his career. He had a wife who loved him very much, who was with child and was due in another 2 months. Winters took pride in his achievements, as he felt they were only possible through him and himself alone. He was never one to rely on others or feel as if others were better than him. He also had an insane hunger, an appetite so intense, that once he was full, it was never enough. Winters had the Bentley, the house, the Gucci designer suits, but still wasn’t satisfied. Something was missing, he felt, something that would finally make him feel at peace with himself. He tried doing sales differently from his normal routine, he chose to not work extra hours, he bought another summer home in the Hamptons, but was still greeted with tons of success. The hole would never be filled, he greatly believed, so he decided to spend his weekends doing what he also did best: throwing house parties. Winter’s house parties were massive, he was able to afford the finest liquor and entertainment. Winters throws this party, drunker than a sailor and high as a kite, hoping to relieve this pain. However, with him being the center of attention and future clients coming to his parties hoping to do business with him, he realized that he will always stay on top. After the party ended, Winters was shaking hands and hugging everyone on their way out until he shook hands with a strange businessman. The businessman gave a tight handshake, one that made winters feel that something was very off. The businessman introduced himself as a worker from a company that winter’s job was rivals with. The businessman asked him “How does it feel to win?”. Winters, with a confused look, slowly replied, stating “Uh…. It feels good I guess?”. The businessman responds, and says “Come on now Mr. Winters, we all know that you’re bored of this modern yuppie lifestyle”. He laughs and says, “You hate to win Mr. Winters, as in you hate having pretty much having your whole life be nothing but triumphs over triumphs, you miss the grind”. Winters quickly replies saying “No No No, I love where I am in life, all of the hardships and struggles were well worth it”. The businessman says, “Was it? Doesn’t seem like it if you’re gulping bottles and making more big purchases out of boredom”. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small white business card. “If you want to know how it feels like to truly win again, give this number a call, it was nice talking to you, great lawn by the way”. The businessman shakes winter’s hand one more time and walks out of the house to get into his car. Winter, still confused, glares at the business card, and takes note of the phone number in small black print. A part of him wants to call to see if whatever it is they offer can help bring some excitement back in his easy life, but another part thinks that there is nothing that will ever satisfy his hunger. He puts the business card on the coffee table and begins to tidy up the house before heading to bed. About a week later, Winters is sitting at his desk on the 6th floor, dozing off to the sounds of the copy machine, mindlessly scrolling through his phone looking at expensive watches. Once again, he is trapped in the cycle of materialism, hoping that another purchase will satisfy him but before he can click the purchase option, his whole body froze. He looks up from his phone and his eyes quickly dart over to the business card again. “I’ve had enough”, he says in his mind, and he grabs the card and starts punching in the numbers. He patiently waits for someone to pick up, while it rings for a few minutes and then a deep voice goes, “Is this Raymond Winters?”. Winters responds, and the caller gives him the address to a Thai Restaurant. After work, Winters enters the place and goes up to the cashier. 67
Before he could say anything, he hands the card to the cashier and the cashier yells at someone in the back in Thai. The person that the cashier called was in fact the businessman Winters had spoken to at the party and he told winters to follow him into the back. He was taken down a lengthy flight of stairs, and through a door with nine locks. Once the door opened, Winters couldn’t believe what was in front of him, it was an underground casino full of men dressed in business suits and puffing away at Italian Cigars. The businessman called this place “The Conqueror’s Domain”, a place where those a part of the business world have a chance to make more money through playing games. However, the businessman specifically wanted to introduce him to a game that many of the casino goers refused to touch, and that game was Rock Paper Scissors. The Conqueror’s Domain was already full of games that are common with gambling, such as Poker, Blackjack, Texas Hold Em, etc, but those games had a learning curve, and anyone willing to adapt and had the drive to win, would fare well at it. Rock Paper Scissors on the other hand, was surprisingly difficult to most players. It had the lowest success rate of all the games, although the rules were simple. What made it so menacing was that it was the game that paid the highest, meaning if you lost, you also lost the highest amount of money. With this fact on the line, it made players overthink and second guess their strategies, only to end up losing more and more and leaving without a job. However, the businessman explained to Winters that he loved this game because it was the one time where he felt true excitement in his life. Winters loved a good challenge; he was tired of everything working out fine for him and being bored of everything. Winters was hesitant to try the game, but he gave in and decided to bet $50 as a starting point. His opponent was the businessman, and winters won the first 4 rounds. By the fifth round, something exciting happened to Winters, he lost to the businessman and had to end up paying a large amount of his winning sum. To most gamblers, this seemed like a very unfortunate thing to happen, especially being on a 4-way winning streak, but to winters it felt like relief. He had something to work hard for again, he enjoyed chasing the high of something after having everything he wanted for so long. Winters was addicted, he increased the money and he sometimes tried to lose on purpose to gain the money back. His visits at the Conqueror’s Domain became more frequent and then eventually it was every day. He was so into gambling that he started neglecting his duties, he wasn’t making successful sales, he didn’t pay much attention to his wife as he should have and pretty much all his money was going towards the game. Two months later, His savings were running dry, and he practically lived at the domain. The businessman and others were getting concerned about his behavior and told him that he was going too far with gambling, but winters didn’t care. He would continue to chase that high: win money, lose money, win money, lose money. Nothing mattered in the end if he had something that kept him distracted from his easy and monotonous life. One night he lost a massive bet, and the casino goers couldn’t bear to see him lose anymore. They dragged him out of the restaurant and banned him from going there again, making winter have a massive breakdown on the silent street. He angrily gets into his car and drives back home to relax, but all he comes home to is an empty house full of urgent letters. notices, and unpaid bills. The letter that stood out the most to him was in a cherry red envelope, with the words “Raymond” written on the front. He rips the seal off and begins to read the letter. It was his wife explaining how much he’s changed over the past two months and that his addiction to gambling had not only destroyed his financial career, but also his marriage. He also found out he missed his own daughters’ birth and that the one person that should have been there for her leading up to the delivery was himself. Inside the bottom of the envelope, he also found the wedding ring that he used to propose to her years ago. Winters was devastated, not only did he lose his family, but his career, his respect, and most importantly, he lost sight of himself. He could never be content and appreciative of what he had, and before he realized, it was already too late. He gambled all his happiness away, only making him feel emptier than before. Raymond Winters used to have a wonderful life. 68
All’s Fair In War Angel Shaji
But I am already calculating the distance between my safe spacethe cemeteryand this hellhole, when an unknown voice beckons our attention. “Excuse me, can I see your wristbands please?”
Muskan Cheema
It is bad enough that my friends insist we visit the site after the sun has set. It is worse that we have to sneak in. “It’ll be fine, Viv,” promises Kathrina. “You won’t get in any trouble,” comes Micah’s reassuring voice. Their eyes blink in perfect, unwavering confidence. I am not about to prove them wrong. **** The getting in, it turns out, is the easy part. The event is just beyond the cemetery where we are used to lighting candles and summoning demons under the witness of the blank night sky. Really, if I’m being honest, it is quite fun. The eerie, fast-moving lights pulsing excitedly just beyond the graveyard seem like one big demon-summoning. Kathrina, Gabe, and I, with Micah and Janaki in the lead, were in before we realized. Something still feels wrong, though. When it is just us, silence is our sixth companion. We move in whispers and talk like feathers. The cemetery is our quiet zone. Here, the noises are almost as assertive as the lights. They make home in my chest and pulsate as one with my nervously throbbing heart. Everywhere I turn, red and purple bulbs blind my sight. The cacophony of machinery and human squeals make my palms sweat unlike anything I have never known. There is movement everywhere. Herds of people heading in all directions, some excitedly stomping past the slow ones. The slow ones being dragged along by the excited ones. I swear i see someone with lips tainted blue and pink, as though he has just devoured a freshly-killed peacock. I am temporarily interrupted from my nightmare by the comforting sound of Gabe’s voice. “Ooh, can we go there?” He asks, pointing straight at what seems to be a large table with holes drilled into the top. Children are crowded around the desk, mallets wielded, as though expecting an enemy to jump out from the ringed shadows. Sure enough, what seemed like a gopher—groundhog?—peeks its head out of the holes every now and then, prompting the little soldiers to slam their weapons down on its head and shriek with animal delight. Above the table are rows and rows of stuffed toysbears with blank stares and dolls with silver eyes. Prizes? Spoils of war? I am not about to be whisked into combat. “Let’s wait til the crowd dies down.” Janaki’s voice of reason slows my breathing for just a second, before she adds, “Let’s visit that in the meanwhile.” It’s big. And round. It’s far away enough for me to not be certain, but I think it was carrying mini cages. I squint, trying to get a closer look, and realize with a start that the hanging cages are holding people! And it is gyrating in a slow, intentional circle. Kathrina, sensing my hesitation, shakes her head. “Come on, it’ll be fun, you’ll see.”
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Into Dreamland Sheanna Murray
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The never-ending forest engulfs me with its monstrous trees bringing with it fear and curiosity. The dark jungle of the Amazon welcomes me like a lost daughter. Calling me. Whispering. Telling me to walk deeper. Come closer to the edge. Explore my hidden world. I tread closer with bated breath and a pounding heart, excited to know more about the world I come from. I hear a bird singing a familiar tune, but I can’t remember the name of the song. Another is laughing at what I don’t know, but he continues to laugh. He flies toward me, laughing. The highpitched laugh grows closer and closer. Whoosh, he’s gone now, but I still hear a faint chuckle to my left beside a coconut tree. The tree is rotten and limp. Its crown gently kisses the ground as its infected body bends towards the green brush, asking to be consoled as it realizes that their days are numbered. Suddenly the bush behind the dying tree shakes, and a low, almost demonic growl echoes through the dense forest. I’m frozen. I can’t move. My heart beats faster. I feel it wanting to jump out of my chest. “THUMP” “THUMP.” Is that the slow steps of the hidden beast watching and waiting to devour me, or is it my heart fighting and losing against my iron breastbone? I don’t know what to do. What do I do? Do I run? I’m trying, but my legs won’t move. I’m frozen. The growl comes closer. The trees whisper, “RUN” “RUN, DON’T MAKE HER CATCH YOU.” An electric shock spreads throughout my body, waking me up from my trance. I start to run, running into the unknown. The dense forest with its fallen trees and roots deep within the earth’s core seems to be holding me back, wanting me to fall victim to the unseen predator. I hear the heavy, taunting footsteps of the approaching beast. Her steps give warning to my impending doom. The trees still whisper “RUN,” encouraging
me, keeping me stable as my legs have already gone weak. I keep on running, hoping and praying the beast gives up on this prey. The strange whispers are joined with a peal of mocking laughter, rejoicing in my despair. The whispers were low and calm, the laughter wild and joyous, and the forgotten steps of the beast powerful and deadly. The sounds fill the air, driving me deeper into my mind, drowning me from reality. The orchestra suddenly stopped as I realized there was no more land beneath my tattered feet. I’m falling. The humid forest air is replaced by a rushing breeze, pulling me down to the depths of the earth. Below me, the ocean blue threads of a rushing and thundering waterfall slap against the stubborn and hard surface of the forest rocks. The water bubbles violently, releasing a steady stream of ghostly mist and cloud-like foam. The only sound I hear is my heartbeat. The mocking laugh is gone. The comforting whispers cease to exist. I’m left alone, suspended in the air, slowly falling to the hungry earth below. Unknown tears escape my eye, providing one last comfort before the end. “BANG.” I awake with a startle. Heavy panting breaths fill my ears. My body is drenched in sweat, slowly dripping into unseen crevices. Where am I? I’m no longer in the labyrinth of trees, but in the stuffy one-room apartment I call home. My coffee-stained journal still sits on top of my crowded desk, overrun with stories of fantasy and far away lands. The sun is peaking through my thin dollar tree curtain, illuminating the emerald green bottles, reminding me of the drunken night before. Relief fills my mind as the towering canopies and the mysterious beast is left behind in dreamland. Where fantasies are born and laid to rest among other unremembered quests, unable to infiltrate reality, or so I hope.
The Dreamers Annalene Deleon Now I hear a few horns honking. Hmmm! Something must be on the horizon, even before the sun gets to shining.
Before the sun is actually shining, some tasks have already begun. It’s 3 am and people are quietly dreaming.
Visible lights through the windows of few buildings. Some people have even come out jogging, but barely is anyone visible to outrun. Their days I imagine must be long! It’s 3 am and people are quietly dreaming. The sun is actually not yet shining. As the brightness of the day is about to start beaming, many check off their to do list, done! Before the sun was actually shining, at just about 3 am, whilst some were quietly dreaming.
Jose Casillas / “Take me back to the beach”
Still, listen carefully, there are a few conversing! Perhaps they’re deciding on a plan! It’s 3 am and dreamers are quietly dreaming.
Mood Slides Hannah Lazerowitz i don’t have mood swings i have mood slides my feelings scream in extremities i am calm i am droplets
of pure rain i am bliss on an empty beach i am peace i am calamity
i am tempests tirade on an island i am destruction, chaos, a heart turned cold i am hostility 71
John Chakos / “Fun Times”
like father, like daughter v ritchie
knotter of shoelaces maker of face-shaped holes and lies and lies and impressively well-hidden lies i pushed you up the hill until you came tumbling back down “sins of the father” my burden my damnation one day your anything but-midas touch would petrify the next boulder— your legacy my greatest fear the inevitable came and the shock set in upon inspecting the wound i nearly went blind the blood ran
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one&twofour&three v ritchie
two is me but i thought i was first can you call it serendipity? when a long-expired dream ties your laces together & you fall face first? four was two until i was sixteen then our family tree expanded horizontally then four was three back when i was still one now four is four & the only other one to survive the plight of our very own long day’s journey into night
one is perfect mystery a name without a face an awkward intro left on read left me to wonder does she even know i exist? & does she know she was always my wish?
three is third but he was two for ten years until of course one magically & suddenly appeared now three’s in the midwest with his husband & his dog maybe i could’ve known him sooner but it took me too long now one & two & four & three share half the blood and half the grief our father’s unfortunate progeny
Soul With Soul And Souls Fifa Atef The story begins, maybe thousands or millions of years ago We met not in earth but in the unknown world Where all souls were, and got along Miles and miles away from other worlds The souls were there long before they were in bodies The distance between them was far Some souls would be attracted to each other, and stay together Others would repel from each other, trying to stay far away No matter what the distance between them It was like magnets attracting souls and repelling souls This is all happening in the magnetic field of the unknown world This may be why we get along with some people but not others Souls that we feel like we knew from that age of the thousands of years ago The age when our souls met and united **** As time goes on, the souls would move into a smaller world Where some would be united again to become one soul To grow and shine brighter together Even when they’re not a close distance from each other They would still feel it within themselves We might not see that soul for years but we still know that we are one It will always stay the same unchangeable, loving and caring soul Although we are all unique, we still have souls that long to be together, Even when thousands of years pass, our souls will still be united It is a soul just as your soul~
Serena Gezmer / “Flower Bath Vol. 2”
Jose Casillas / “Sunlight”
regarding the remains Algie Todd I found the bone of a long-dead god (don’t ask me where; I wouldn’t tell you) and it
“
spoke.
“ “
(I wouldn’t tell you.) I cradle it close, my mother’s mother’s mother’s mother’s mother’s god, tucked inside my chest. (you’re not supposed to carry bones around in public. or gods.)
I was not raised Catholic (a different flavor of ex-Christian guilt rots under my tongue) but I know they keep the bones of saints: holy relics. When Spain came to our islands planted ownership in our name wielded conversion like a sword (and also, real swords) to cut down our gods
“
There are others with bones hidden: under their ribs in pockets pressed between the pages of a book polished to an ornament shine and worn in their hair in plain sight. I met someone once with nearly a whole skeleton, and light in her eyes called knowledge. Sometimes I wonder if she’s found the rest yet? I hear that is how some gods come back to life.
did they not consider what those bones would become? 75
This Song Is Not About You Melissa Morales
Podría escribir una canción para ti Con cómo me siento ahora mismo ¿Debería mantenerlo corto y dulce? ¿O debería hacerlo largo y profundo? Escribiré partes de nuestras conversaciones en la introducción El sonido de tu voz en la melodía Hablar del color de tus ojos a la luz del sol Y cómo te— But you probably wouldn’t even listen to it, would you? Because you’re writing your own songs, but not about me. So I guess I’ll finish this off with a goodbye and make this a twisted type of elegy instead
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Journey Freeman Every step you take is a step towards something Maybe better or for worse Some come with baggage, it’s what you carry in purse Want something to sell? Sell hope with your merch Don’t think less of yourself nor highly but know what your worth Some travel a distance, and some stop on the way I skipped some stones and met The Rock on the way Had I stopped traveling, there’s no telling where I might be If it wasn’t for the rest, there’s no telling where I might sleep If I didn’t lose there’s no telling who I might keep And had I never found God, there’s no telling who I might be This journey isn’t easy, I’m still walking because the two still works That’s good but some days I feel worse Broken, sometimes you have to heal first But last, sometimes you wanna feel first So, if it’s for better or for worse Then I’ll still walk on this journey Because truth is can’t nobody else walk it for me
Carolina Rosa Martinez / “Road”
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Growing Pains Sheanna Murray Growing pains.
As I shed old thoughts, memories, feelings, my old self And invite new beginnings and adventures, Pain from never being able to return to a time of what I’m still reminded of the past as the dust of forgotten was. memories What was my ah-ha moment? My moment of surrounds me, realization that I can dotting the air with stifling particles illuminated by the never return to the innocence and vitality of my youth. setting sun. Was it the subtle creaking of my knees as I walked As echoes of my past begin to fade with the passing down so many breeze, I reflect on familiar paths my growing pains. that I once ran and leaped with joy and excitement? Pains for the future, pains from the past, pains for a Or was it the pieces of my memories strewn together in new me. my ragged photo album that began my moment of eureka? “We grow. It hurts at first,” something I’m beginning to learn. The distance between my past self and my present Learning how to mourn the coldness of my past while stands light-years embracing the apart, colliding with the hot bursting stars of my future. warmth of my future. This is where my growing pains are born. By acknowledging my growing pains, I place honor on A product of miniature big bangs sounding alarms to my endless my decaying journey to this point, a new starting point. youth. Lost in a cosmos of regret and longing. I’m learning to enjoy my growing pains as they stand as a reminder of what will always be. Not what was but what will remain. My growing pains. Carolina Rosa Martinez/ “Lights”
A special thank you to Professor Roni Natov for her leadership, trust, and unwavering support.
Sheanna Murray / “Sunset Travels”