The Junction 2010

the

Junction English Majorʼs Annual Literary Zine Volume 28, 2009-2010

SUPPORTED IN PART WITH FUNDS FROM THE RIVERRUN CLUB

STAFF THE

JUNCTION

staff Alana Linchner Ashley Cohen Jacob Somers James Rodriguez Joseph Fritsch Mariel Suarez Rachel Weissman Sabina Santiago Stephanie Kammer

with the guidance of Prof. Roni Natov

A Tale by Busha Wazed

Fishhead Metals by Stephanie Kammer

the Junction

TABLE OF CONTENTS THE

Scatter in the Wind by Bushra Wazed

Photograph By Michael Prettyman

JUNCTION

Joseph Fritsch “satori the morning”

4

Christina Squitieri “Julia & John”

5

Stephanie Kammer “Is Rose Hobart Blue or Purple?”

6

Esther Naamat “Summer Night Puzzle”

8

Andreia Boyar “The Potato and Me”

9

Zena J. Murphy “Touch Me With Your Sound”

10

Ashley Cohen “You with your rickets”

11

Owen Rodda “You Loved the Game

12

Joseph Fritsch “detritus of a dissolved earth”

13

Jacob Somers “Interverse”

14

Daniel Cohen “Company Man”

18

Victor V. Gurbo “Jocasta”

19

Carole Ver Eeckeʼs Haikus(“Bargain,” “Illusion” “Commute”)

20

J.D. Crawford “Cold Tea”

21

Clifford Drouillard “Why girls fall for players”

25

Rachel Weissman “Game”

26

Kerri Byam “Iʼd Rather Die a Thousand Deaths”

29

Hana Malia “Love Note to Aileen Wuornos”

30

Esther Naamat “Old Jerusalem”

31

Celia Vargas “Wild Dreams You Make My Heart Free”

32

Joseph Fritsch “Ice Fox in Later Autumn”

33

Natalie Nuzzo “Sixth Grade Sestina”

38

Celia Vargas “Wishing Highway Dust of a Lost Girl”

39

Becca Fink “Scattered”

40

Steven Liebowitz “Fatherʼs Blues Bad News”

42

Theresa Dietrich “The Humble Hermit”

43

Cindy Jordan “Sheʼs With the Band”

44

Christina Squitieri “Told”

45

Jordan E. Franklin “It Must Be”

48

Alex Scelso “Contemplation of Urination”

49

Michael Prettyman “Tree”

50

George Del Valle “The Solitude of the Hours”

51

Alana Linchner “An Endearing Tornado”

52

Alexandra Fildere “Moving On”

53

Ingrid Feeney “Sister Sleep Deep”

54

Kerry Gertner “Summer”

55

Zena J. Murphy “Fall”

56

Kadida Adula “Sunny Afernoon”

57

Joe Pugliesi “Narrative of Steampunk Willie”/Brooklyn Lovesong”

58

Yevgeniy Levitskiy “Cruci-Fiction/Eggshell Antics”

59

Jacob Somers “A Love Poem”

60

Ocean Vuong “Kissing in Vietnamese”

61

Ocean Vuong “Masturbation of Men

62

Miriam Harari - Savdie “Haikus from the Nursery”

63

Miriam Harari - Savdie “Quest for a Dress”

65

Victor V. Gurbo & Joseph Fritsch “A View, A Verse”

66

Alana Linchner “A Shade Of Reality”

67

Photograph by Radelys Carmona

SATORI IN THE MORNING JOSEPH FRITSCH Satori the Morning after a year's sleep a dream year on the window the ice spider has stitched a filigree of morning frost as the cotton curtain dances like a cnidarian wraith of some arctic deep death mouth bacillus yawn and cold dawn chips off inside of me this taste collapsing to a pit and does anyone remember the flavor of nepenthe? a pit and a new space where boreal winds rattle a halyard against a flagpole a relentless stream the draught that cascades through the window

Joseph Fritsch

Something has been sipped from me blood and offal excavated breathing freer the bronchi melting exsanguinating like everything tall does after a rainstorm for at least a minute gone are bones no longer a need to fear the weight of dirt for i am tomb The gap between the palms of prayer hands no more lungs nor larynx leading immuring speech the rampart collapsed and temple plundered hypoxic is the ether that now settles between the trees night's shade an anaerobe that will burn off with the dawn what had escaped

and now all that remains

Photograph By Rachel Benun

THE JUNCTION 4

JULIA & JOHN CHRISTINA SQUITIERI Julia & John i I knew nothing— Weaved in a hut, hot sky, My skirts atwitter, swimming With wind Between nothing & nothing.

Then I died, and some called me prophet.

I heard his consumptive voice, One evening, crying out as he Went collecting stars Off the water; catching Only ripples. Hat dipping, Hair dripping. He scooped Again and again and again and again (a star is a star is a star is reflection) But caught nothing, stars wavering. Wet & empty hands. But When the water grew still— They looked so close, So steadfast.

I was carried away, Coiled rope around My neck, Braided blonde Like infant hair. The Phoenician City— An accumulation of debris, Mad medley, dirty hands, Bare bonefeet. Blisters On false idols. There I slaved and saw, In curves as sudden as lips, How much we fragment our days: Morning, evening Moonshine. Night & all Its transient physicalities (hair, breasts, thighs, lips, a girl is a girl is a girl is a Julia, Julia, Julia) A door shut; footsteps.

Curtains blowing in the wind.

I, blind and all-seeing ghost Lynched up by my hair and burned On a cross Have seen the future in a glass of water, Ice cubes melt in Carthaginian fires.

I foretold the story, A whispered ruffle through his hair, Cool breeze on fevered face. He Inhaled Too much blood, So I told him of Paris, how the “A” Looks like the tour dʼEiffel. He, whose

THE JUNCTION 5

Name was writ on water, wild eyes And the glitter of sweat on bare chest, Coughed Red onto white sheets (I foretold this Story, one summer, when father called Julia, Julia into my foreign hair. I told him Papa, he is not long for his world, His words Are like red roses. Papaʼs tears, Warm, the cross on my neck pulsing Like another heart, Julia, Julia): Listen—This is the part where I die.

He died that night (I was led to the west in coils) The heat Too great (My breath Was ice) His English laughter Brittled to shivers (I have seen faces Melt in Carthaginian Fires) Oh I, charred and all-seeing ghost, Was young as him, blue-lidded, Held breath, tensed shoulders. Julia, Julia, and there was blood, Blood in the fire, blood on the bed, And there was so much of it, Twenty-five years of it, my hair Gone, his locks cut, stuffed into envelopes.

Blood on his hair, blood On the pillow slip, ohtohaveseenwhatIhaveseen I, raped and all-seeing Saint, Little dead girl next to little dead boy, Placed poetʼs palms into my own And writ his name on water. My bones Splintered, cracked In unwillingness. Dust to dust like dust From stars, those he Could never catch, Hair wet as that night As they placed Him into the box, palms Empty.

Little dead boy Next to little dead girl—Julia, Julia John, John.

Overhead, the stars Were so close, So steadfast.

St. Julia of Carthage: ca. 419-440 John Keats: 1795-1821

Christina Squitieri

IS ROSE HOBART BLUE OR PURPLE? STEPHANIE KAMMER

Is Rose Hobart Blue or Purple?

I met Richie at a pizza shop on Bay Ridge Parkway- the Richie with the massages at 347 755 7938. I ordered garlic knots- four of them- and I ate them in his basement gym and watched him do sit ups in the dark. I offered him ten dollars to walk me to 18th Avenue. Nah, Iʼm old school he said, Iʼll walk you no problem. It was raining and the rain mixed with the gel in his hair and ran into his eyes poor guy. I walked into Shoe Bug and bought a pair of five inch heels- translucent like the French doors in that one bedroom apartment in Park Slope? Sunset Park? Clinton Hill? I took the shoes with me to a pottery class where all the women wore pastel bandanas around their heads like milkmaids.

Lilac. Teal. Pink. Ann? Yellow. Evelyn. In their living room in Vermont Rhode Island New Hampshire, itʼs cold and Iʼm under a crochet blanket on the sofa and I read a crispy newspaper meant for the fire. They bring me smoky tea in a porcelain cup- oh thank you so much! Itʼs as Stephanie Kammer pale as the adorable asian girl with the severe bangs. I think about that straight black line as I walk across Paulʼs back in the translucent heels- heels the color of a baby growing inside. Paul calls me a bitch and I see a slice of the New Jersey? skyline from his window. His penis looks like the whitefish tuna sashimi in the Time Warner building for seven dollars a piece and I feel it smush against the carpet under the ball of my foot- he cums- a thought of a farmhouse with a faded patina- comes. Do you think your wife is having lobster bisque? I ask him. We donʼt put anything with labels on the dinner table she tells me. Katie needs to be picked up at 3:15. Robin likes to talk about dinosaurs. Heʼs very bright. Did you have fun today? Did you have ice cream? How much was the cab? How many days a week are you free? Do you like being beautiful? Yes, why? Why “yes”?

Because it makes me more afraid of death and people smile at me across subway cars and at the bodega. The building and streets were all wet like seal skin, my knees buckled under me and the Brooklyn Bridge cut it all into triangles. I miss connections. I missed them. I miss you Alice. I'm sorry I missed your call. I miss you Eloise. Itʼs the shade of the half and half in the tea that makes me want to cry now. On my way home I stopped to be used up and thrown away like a Dixie cup. I planted kisses on Devinʼs chest but nothing grew there which isnʼt fair. I mean whatʼs his problem anyway? When I walked out onto Broadway I may have left a trail of

THE JUNCTION 6

IS ROSE HOBART BLUE OR PURPLE? STEPHANIE KAMMER

thick blood as black as tar. It felt like the train of a wedding dress but the air was all new, which was good. I am the custodian of my human frailty. I hate this job. Is the self unchanging? Oh I hope so!

Dear god I hope so! I looked up to the custodian constellation. I have no idea where it is. Where is it? Two days later I was sitting in front of the box that held the body of my little Eloise. She was vulnerable and brave.Iʼd like to have someone give me a bubble bath. Iʼd like you to draw the bath and test the water to make sure itʼs very warm, almost hot, and then youʼll take me by the hand and lead me into the bathroom and Iʼll be wearing a robe that weighs me down so Iʼll feel safe and warm and youʼll pull it from my shoulders and hold out your hand and Iʼll step into the bath and youʼll sit near me and roll up the sleeves on your frost blue dress shirt youʼll lift my leg and run fragrant glycerin soap along it and along my back and youʼll hold my head and shampoo my hair and Iʼll close my eyes and you will say very nice things to me that you mean like “you are the picture and I am the frame” and that Iʼll hear echoing underwater and youʼll carry me to bed and bury me under the feathers of a hundred geese and Iʼll fall and fall and never stop falling into a dream where he will say to me “She isnʼt dead, itʼs all in your head.” And when I awake Salvador Dali will be sitting on top of me straddling me like a woman and heʼll scream into the center of my face real direct with his real breath- You stole my thoughts! And for all the interiors it will be projected through a blue glass.

Pigeon Love By Bushra Wazed

THE JUNCTION 7

SUMMER NIGHT PUZZLE ESTHER NAAMAT

Summer Night Puzzle

As summer crickets sing their lullaby, sleepy-eyed, we tumblea box of puzzle pieces turned upside down, upon our living room floor.

Leoraʼs leg, Meirʼs arm, my head, all jumble together.

We are close enough to smell the summer sweat forming on our sprawled out bodies.

We donʼt bother with mattresses or blankets or pillows; we just lay, my hand touching Arielaʼs hair, my leg pressured by the foot of the coffee table.

We all sleep.

But the air conditioner does not stop.

It mustnʼt.

We all sleep, a life-sized painted Picasso, of different hands and knees all touching each

And somehow, we all fit right into each other.

Labored breaths, cricket songs, and the kitchen clock ticking are muffled by the loud rattling of the only air conditioner we own.

But, sleep is strong, and one by one we fall under her spell into the soft world beneath the eyelids of slow deep breaths and half-smiles.

Together, we form a puzzle on our living room floor.

Photograph By Victor V. Gurbo

THE JUNCTION 8

THE POTATO AND ME ANDREA BOYAR

The Potato and Me

Deep underground, amidst tangled tree roots and soft worms, grows the potato. He cares not if the earth around him is sour with dirt coarse and dry from drought. He will grow none-the-less. Like many potatoes before him, he will be harvested and sent away, off to a market far from where he was before. It was fate then, or luck, as some may say, for this particular potato to find himself in the very same store as me. Had it been another potato, sown in another field, heaven knows if I ever would have fallen in love.

It was a Thursday like any other Thursday. I went walking down the florescent aisles of my market in search of something to bring home. It was in a peculiarly dim aisle that I glimpsed my potato. He was perched upon a pile of vegetables just like him, or so it would seem.

I had chosen the potato in particular for his humility; he was neither too clean nor too dirty. He just sat there, patiently, willing to be brought home. He was of my dreams. Knowing that I was to have him and only him, I wrapped him up in brown paper and home we went. It was later, in my tiny kitchen, that I boiled him in water with salt. He crooned to me from the pot, happily bubbling up and down, turning this way and that way until we both were certain that it had been long enough.

I will not go into what happened next. I think we all know. After all, he was a vegetable, and I was a human. It was good, while it lasted, but before long our affair was over - he was consumed, and I was destined to be hungry again. Sometimes I would hope that if I was to go out walking down some other aisle, in another market perhaps, I would find a potato to rival him. Yet it is in my heart that I am certain of this; there will never be another such as he. Alas!

Photograph By Bushra Wazed

THE JUNCTION 9

Andrea Boyar

TOUCH ME WITH YOUR SOUND ZENA J. MURPHY

I get that it is all the rage but I hate that my thoughts, ideas, and emotions are limited to what I can fit into THIS tiny, electronic cage.

Spoken word isnʼt just something performed on a stage.

See here, I get that you canʼt be here, but that donʼt mean you canʼt make me feel otherwise.

Make me feel like youʼre with me here; make me see you at night when I close my eyes.

Zena J. Murphy

Touch Me With Your Sound

I want to have your pitch and tone caressing me through the phone when I lay alone, not a damn text!!!

What about my unlimitedness?!

Touch me with your voice.

Move me with your sound.

I need the vibrations to reach out from your vocal chords and play rhythms on my ear drums that will send my mind into a trance causing my womanhood to go into a crunk dance until it is drenched in its own wetness.

Please donʼt forget this next time you flick open your sidekick, think quick, use your head and push that green button instead.

Photograph By Alana Linchner

THE JUNCTION 10

YOU WITH YOUR RICKETS ASHLEY COHEN

You with your rickets‌ A humble posture, compressed in subservience to your world of shadows No vitamin D‌ E- Enthropy? A form stable for disorder.

Harrowing suites from heart strings, played with bow legs Movements through winding passages, eyeless recipients like cave snakes Adaptation, vibration Communication for those sightless, blinded by habit Slowly to close from others into stagnant pools, Their genes a curse, corrosive brine Salt their bodies like foreign meats Unearthed, enjoyed as delicacies.

Ashley Cohen

Photograph By Ashley Cohen

THE JUNCTION 11

YOU LOVED THE GAME OWEN RODDA

You Loved The Game ʼ57 was the year Dem Bums left you.

The blow was fundamental, dizzying.

You felt as if the earth were a spinning top Losing its momentum, precariously Wobbling, its axis of rotation shifting.

I know. I felt that way the day you died.

When I was growing up, I seldom heard The name Dodgers mentioned in our house. You took Your loss like a man, as you always did, But you were also once a wide-eyed boy.

You wanted to share with your son the joys of baseball, Because you loved me—and you loved the game.

We wound up breaching that fortress up in the Bronx, Since you hated the very idea of the Mets.

I remember the sunshine, and peanuts, and Murcer making An error, and your frustration showing when, Pulling your cigar from your lips, you gave Ralph Houk some advice, shouting, “Send him to Cleveland!”

You could never be a Yankee fan. I still Admire you for that. Now you have your reward In your heavenly Ebbets Field, where itʼs always ʼ55, always next year. It was only down Here on the spinning top that the Dodgers left Brooklyn—for that infernal replication Of paradise.

Photograph by Radelys Carmona

THE JUNCTION 12

DETRITUS OF A DISSOLVED EARTH JOSEPH FRITSCH

Detritus of a Dissolved

Earth, the two of us emaciated riddles whose hip bones thud and clack together like claves

flesh spreading to a blemish upon the struts and staves that constitute form the orrery of systems within the broken heavens protrude and shift the future is subtly announced and the stars at the centers self-nova into fractured constellations of absence and dark matter

the stellar paragons becoming half-beast half-god now half-us in a peculiar cold we cannot resist the cold that blankets cannot keep out the chill and rime that does not settle upon us but shouts from our cores in the decree of chasm mouth emanation boundless nothing birthing carnal definition we are the need for fire and the living petroglyph that crawled from off of the dark cave walls weeping with ground water

quick slivers are our eyes that see only shadows infinitely thicker than their casters

Photograph by Victor V. Gurbo

THE JUNCTION 13

INTERVERSE JACOB SOMERS Interverse

Jacob Somers

When I was sixteen, my grandparents ported. They might have lived on for years, but there was no sense in taking chances since no one knows when death might come knocking.

Nevertheless, Mom was kind of ticked. She thought that they should have at least waited until my graduation since I was their only grandson.

“It wouldnʼt have killed them to stick around a little longer,” Mom said.

“You never know, it might have!” Dad quipped, and thus began a family joke.

In those days, Interverse was in its infancy, but TVR (true virtual reality) had been around for decades. I was born into a post-TVR world, so space shifting and shape shifting was second nature. By the time I was ten, I had visited nearly every country in the world in TVR. It was entirely indistinguishable from RWC (reality with consequences), except for the fact that no harm could come to you.

Growing up, the most popular TVR company was AvatarInc. Their software developers imagined mind boggling landscapes and they owned patents on all the best Avatars. A childhood friend of mine, Chia, developed an Avatar with 360 vision. She sold the rights to AvatarInc. for enough credits that she never needed to work again, but I donʼt know what type of program it ended up in.

They offered both passive and active TVR programs. The passives were like movies, but where you became the character. All actions and feelings one experienced while within a passive were preordained by the programmer, thus, they were the same every time.

The passives could be fun, but the actives were where the money was. The actives offered anything from TVR vacations to video games, where one was totally immersed in an alternate reality. The vacations made sense, because they were a lot cheaper than physically going on vacation, and the living world was too polluted for most vacations, anyhow. I thought the vacations were fine, but they were much less interesting to me than the games.

My friends lived all over the world, but we would link-in to AvatarInc. to hang out and play games. I had never actually met any of them “in the flesh,” but that was normal. We liked the deathmatch games where we could assume various Avatars (soldiers, cyborgs, aliens, etc.) and then work together to kill the opposing Avatars.

Where AvatarInc. offered entertainment, Interverse offered something more compelling. “Why face the mystery of death, when you can choose the certainty of eternal life?” their advertisements asked.

Unlike AvatarInc., Interverse did not offer alien landscapes and TVR combat games, but they did offer something unique.

TCP. Total Consciousness Porting.

Interverse had been a low budget option for TVR vacations. I think my parents did some TVR vacations with Interverse back in the 30ʼs. “Vacations so great, youʼll never want to come back,” was the slogan of a competing company, but the programmers at Interverse took this idea to task and actually managed to develop a method so that their customers never

had to “come back.” TCP. My grandparents were part of the first generation to port. I used to link-in and visit them. It was no different than meeting up with my friends in AvatarInc. except for the unforgettable fact that, somewhere in the world, my friends had living bodies while my grandparentsʼ were dead.

Nearly every time I visited them, I would find them living in different houses. One day it would be a stone cottage in Tuscany, the next, a modern home in Malibu overlooking the Pacific circa 1967. They changed homes like I changed socks. I would sit with them and watch the television, but there was something unsettling about the way they kept shape shifting into younger versions of themselves, or actors from their youth. There was something unsettling about the fact that their bodies were dead.

At least the television stayed the same. There was a technology bridge between Interverse and RWC. Cable television and the internet were exactly the same in the land of the living as in Interverse. I could pick up the telephone in my parentʼs home and reach Grandma with the same ease as when she was alive. If I was watching the World Series in my parentʼs living room, Grandpa was watching the same game at the same time. He in his universe. I in mine.

It started getting really weird when Grandma and Grandpa got remote robots. They werenʼt cyborgs. They were basically video conferencing monitors on wheels. My grandparents could drive the remote robots around our reality and interact with us. Throughout the world, it became commonplace for the talking heads of dead relatives to join the living at the dinner table.

Everything started to seem insane. People vacated their bodies and ported to Interverse, but they continued to own money and property in the living world. They even maintained the right to vote after the Supreme Court ruled that ported individuals remained citizens with rights.

Instead of going away to college, I went to Interverse. I lived in a TVR dorm and went to TVR classrooms. I had TVR sex with girls I met at TVR parties. Some of my professors still had bodies in RWC, while others had completely ported.

It was cheaper than running a real school. There was no need for janitors or maintenance. Electricity costs were a thing of the past. The only time I left Interverse was to feed

THE JUNCTION 14

INTERVERSE JACOB SOMERS and wash my body, use the bathroom, and do my daily allotment of exercise. It got to where RWC felt like a vestigial tail.

Interverse was becoming the true universe.

The physical world was left to rot. Office buildings were almost completely abandoned. They quickly fell into decay. It was amazing to see how RWC came back like a tide to undo all that humanity had rendered. The cities were abandoned.

Wild animals returned to fill the void. Hungrily, they roamed the empty streets.

Officially, the economy was “in transition,” but the euphemism belied the fact that RWC was in economic shambles.

People had mostly stopped buying things. Clothing stores, for instance, became a thing of the past. No one cared to buy clothes when they could wear whatever they desired liked within Interverse. In the land of the living, all people desired was the bare essentials to keep their living bodies healthy. Eventually, they didnʼt even care about their health all that much. It was often cheaper to port to Interverse than it was to pay a doctor, or invest the energy required to be-

Portrait of a Monster By Bushra Wazed

THE JUNCTION 15

come healthy.

Cars. Planes. Trains. They all ceased to be necessary to the majority of people. The only place anyone was going was Interverse. Instead of waiting until old age, people started porting in their twenties. Porting was simply more convenient than constantly returning to RWC just to maintain the living body. Moreover, it was getting to where there were no jobs to be had in the land of the living. The ported souls soon outnumbered the souls with living bodies, and so, they controlled the elections. They had the money, the property, and control of the government. For them, RWC was an afterthought so long as the servers were maintained and protected.

I graduated from college with a masterʼs degree in computer programming, hoping that I might be able to hire on with Interverse or one of its subsidiaries, but the competition was stiff. Strangely, Interverse required applicants to apply and interview in person. Thus, at twenty-five years of age, I found myself in Manhattan, a pale, timid creature, walking down an empty 5th Avenue on a sunny afternoon in June.

A shuttle was supposed to be waiting for me, but after an hour of waiting in the deserted station, I decided to walk. Tall buildings of a dead age towered above; tombstones of giants that would never walk the earth again. Windows were broken and birds flew in and out of the lightless monoliths.

Grass had broken through the pavement. Cars rotted along the roadside.

I wore a mismatched sweat suit with sneakers. When I caught my reflection in the dirty windows of abandoned storefronts, I felt ashamed. I had become a frail, ugly thing.

It made me want to vomit.

Pressing on, I became aware of the graffiti. Brief epitaphs waited to be discovered like atoms that appear only when looked for.

Unplug. Wake up. Live here, now. Death is Life. Have faith. Life without death is light without darkness. Let go. Be the reason. I walk in the valley of the shadow of death, but I have no fear, for the lord is my shepherd. There are fates worse than death.

I walked through the empty city as if I was walking through a museum, seeking out the graffiti. Voices spoke through the graffiti as I became lost in RWC. It was thus that I came upon the pack of wild dogs.

They were mutts. Household pets returning to their natural state as pack hunters, but I was a weakling in no way prepared to deal with being hunted. The dogs howled with bloodthirsty delight as they clambered to pursue me. Without thinking, I jumped through the broken window of a department store, cutting my arm on a shard of glass in the process.

This was reality with consequences. I placed my hand to the deep gash, but I felt no pain as the hot sticky life drained into my bare hand and ran through my fingers. There was no time to think about my injury as I stumbled through the vandalized department store, tripping on overturned mannequins and garbage as I raced for the stairs.

INTERVERSE JACOB SOMERS Meanwhile, the dogs were cutting themselves as they tried to climb in after me. The first two had impaled themselves on the broken glass. I looked on in horror as the rest of the pack climbed over their dying as though they were nothing more than a rug thrown over a barbed wire fence.

The store smelled of mildew and rot. Barks and growls echoed off the walls as I heard the claws scrambling up the stairs after me. For some reason, there was water all over the second floor, and it slowed me as I tried to get away, but there was no escape. I turned to face them just as they tackled me into the water. This was different than being overwhelmed in an AvatarInc. deathmatch. This was real. This was how I would die.

Gnashing teeth pulled me in every direction until something unexpected happened. I heard a sound like metal bending, and the sound hit such a unique pitch that even the dogs, with their bloodstained muzzles, paused to listen. For one suspended moment, my bloody dying self sat in the black water, circled by the ravenous dogs, their heads cocked at an angle to listen. Let go. The next moment, we were all falling through the ceiling, and that was the last time I remember inhabiting my living body.

Someone saved me from death. I do not know who. My dying body was rushed to a porting facility and my consciousness was uploaded to Interverse. The body died.

When I regained consciousness and discovered that I had been ported, I did not feel relieved. Knowing that I could never leave made it feel quite different, for there is only one thing a person cannot do in Interverse. They cannot die. I would not simply spend the rest of my life there. I would spend forever there.

Decades passed in the living world, but it felt like one long dream in Interverse. I spent my time alone. One day I lived in a lake house, the next, in a cabin atop a mountain. I woke up in the cabin and morphed into a bear and fished in the

river for a season, and then shape shifted back to my human form.

There was some kind of revolution fomenting in RWC, but I was trying to cease existing by refusing to think. Paying attention to the news meant thinking, so I ignored it as best I could, but eventually, I was forced to pay attention.

Later than most, I discovered that communication with RWC had been severed. For whatever reason, we were isolated.

While speculation spread like wildfire, there were no answers to quench the flames. Although I avoided the news, I found our dislocation disturbing.

Our isolation persisted for days that became months, and the months rolled on by, but Interverse remained adrift until a woman appeared in the sky.

She looked down upon our world as if she were looking into a fishbowl. She exuded power and compassion. “Good afternoon, my friends. I am Arunja Gupta, and We the Living have taken back control of earth. Your home, the Interverse has been declared an abomination and we are going to shut it down.”

I had been dreaming of being released from Interverse for decades, but the sudden realization of my dream filled me with dread. I space shifted to Times Square so that I would not be alone. It was not the decaying New York where I met my end. It was New York at the close of the 21st century, when it was at its apex.

“I know this will be difficult for some of you to accept, but I hope that you can understand. We are liberating you. This is all for the best. God be with you. May you find peace.”

Just as suddenly as she had appeared, she disappeared.

There was a prolonged moment of silence, and then it was as if every individual in Interverse began to scream and wail.

I was sickened to discover that I was wailing along with them, and once I regained my senses, I space shifted back to my mountain cabin.

Photograph By Ashley Cohen

THE JUNCTION 16

INTERVERSE JACOB SOMERS I stood in front of the cabin and looked out over the mountain range and down upon the valley. The clean mountain air filled my lungs, but I knew there was no air entering my lungs, just as I knew there were no lungs to receive the air. It was all a computer program. It was all ones and zeros. We were self-aware data stored on a server somewhere, and what did that even mean? This existence might have been indistinguishable from reality, but I knew it was false, and knowing made all the difference.

My soul was at peace when the lights went out on Interverse. I do not know how long the darkness lasted. It might have been a couple of seconds. It may have been centuries. There was nothing, not even awareness, until somewhere in that timeless darkness, I found my voice and the strength to say one word.

Light.

It was blinding white, but form eventually emerged from the light, and I found myself in front of the cabin in the mountains. Had it not worked? I wondered. Had Interverse survived? Had it been turned back on? I space shifted back to Times Square to see the reaction of others, but it was deserted. I space shifted to London, Paris, Tokyo‌ there was no one.

I did not know if I was the last person left in Interverse, or if I had died and this was my afterlife. I began to feel insane. My memory of a life as a person who had a living body in one world and a virtual self in another began to feel like a dream that no longer makes sense after waking.

Was this the afterlife? A place where I would live eternally, or was I still in the machine? Except for the fact that I was alone, it seemed just like Interverse, for I could do anything but die. I tried. There was no way to harm myself. I called out to God, but only silence responded.

It felt like a sin, but I was lonely. I made a man, as best I could, so that I would have someone to talk to. At first, it was good to have company, but he was very curious and pestered me with questions I could not answer, so to distract him, I made a woman. She turned out to be even more curious, but it was better than being alone. They were as innocent as babies, although fully grown. One day they asked me if they had names, and, feeling ironic, I named them Adam and Eve. They left, pleased with their names, but the joke sat ill with me. My intestines turned into a freefalling wheel.

Had God, the creator of my world been nothing more than a lost soul like myself, bored and lonely? Where was this eternal, omnipresent God? And then it hit me. Time and space collapsed as the repetition of revelation rolled back endlessly. There is no greater disappointment than remembering that you are God. The madness of it would have killed me, if only I could die.

Photograph by Radelys Carmona

THE JUNCTION 17

THE COMPANY MAN DANIEL COHEN

The Company Man

They turned me away from hell

wasting away on barb wire

so I went back to No York where

counting stains on the ceiling

I haunt the cracks

losing track

of the side walk

figuring how many on me

the only people who talk to me

the only paper in pocket

ask for change

is one with my name on it

as technology destroys hope

and its crumbling

holding whats left of it in my hands

hop

the lights go out

malign

for the last time

hope

the shows been sold out

rip

the band was awful

ride

but the cheering was so loud

shake

no one noticed

you cant fake where youve come from

the only thing to rely on

or where youre going to

is automatic doors

Im good at what I do

everything else has gotten so much

nobody does it better

smaller small is the new tall

filling the back ground

wrong is the new right

keeping the place

green is the new black

a little white noise

ugly still wont get you nowhere

in between the stations

Daniel Cohen

listening to the sounds growing wary of the end

watching the moves

would I know if I got there

from the window

would it creep up

orange wipes the sky away

or hit me like a--

tomorrow it will again

not there yet

the thing I am best at is being alone

all disappointment aside

alone

voices cut through the night

the profession that chose me

somewhere nothing is wrong depends on what you see when you look

THE JUNCTION 18

JOCASTA (SING ME BACK HOME) VICTOR V. GURBO Jocasta (Sing Me Back Home) (Music & Lyrics Copyright Victor V. Gurbo 2010) Play me the song of the wind my love And rock me back and forth from above Like the tassels on the reigns of the mare In Jordan every game is the same From the watchmen, the tired, the sick and the lame Crossing out the crossroads that I dare Our breath is a mesh on the wings and the flesh And our bodies are strewn in awkward distress While our eyes slowly roam I loved you then and I loved you now Like an idle glance on the sacred cow Jocasta, sing me back home…

There are bailiffs in the bedclothes bailing bay And if you listen closely you can hear them say Itʼs just a rose on the nose of the face that shows But sometimes thatʼs just how it goes And itʼs that or, its just decay…

I kissed you like a monsoon Your parted lips blocking the moon Your body like the chorus spiraled free I donʼt care about your motherʼs pearls Or how youʼre from a different world My dark eyes are all you can see The satyr sings of licks and things Too terrible beneath our bed springs Still bloody and tasting like bone I loved you then and I loved you now You canʼt even imagine how Jocasta, sing me back home…

There are bailiffs in the bedclothes bailing bay And if you listen closely you can hear them say Itʼs deal or no deal creeping up to your heel And that pain in your chest youʼre too numb to feel But thatʼs all that keeps my dreams at bay…

Youʼll feed me lies and Iʼll pull out my eyes You donʼt need another disguise Your body to me youʼve already shown I loved you here and Iʼll love you there Till white as marrow is my hair Jocasta, sing me back home…

THE JUNCTION 19

Photograph By Victor V. Gurbo

COMMUTE / ILLUSION / BARGAIN CAROL VER EECKE

Carole Ver Eecke Commute Q Train rises as Lady Liberty Moon Walks on the Brooklyn Bridge.

Illusion Crystal reflections orderly repetitions mock infinity.

Bargain The discount rack keeps me humble. I take home the stray cats of fashion.

Carol Ver Eecke

Photograph By Carole Ver Eecke

THE JUNCTION 20

COLD TEA J.D. CRAWFORD

letme By Bushra Wazed Cold Tea Heʼd been traveling for almost a full day now. His black hair was tangled and unruly; he was dressed in dark blues and black. A straight sword was strapped to his back. Korasu* Kenji wasnʼt sure what heʼd find at the end of this road, but he was sure of one thing: he had come prepared.

The trees that lined the both sides of the dirt road gave the path a claustrophobic feeling. Kenji tried his best to keep focused on the task at hand. When his superiors issued him this mission he felt as if fate had thrown him a golden opportunity. This kill would be one that he savored. Completing his other missions gave him little to no satisfaction. Kenji had slain his fair share of monsters in his day, but this would be different.

From the information heʼd gathered, Kenji pinpointed that today would be the day that Yasunori would stop for tea at the Haku* Teahouse. The man never broke pattern, something that pleased Kenji. Kenji had recorded enough eyewitness accounts of the man they called “The Hundred Man Slayer”, a name Yasunori obtained by killing one hundred trained samurai in a battle that lasted nearly three days. He was a monster among men, but his habits would prove to be his undoing. After every successful kill it was as sure as the passing of time that Yasunori would find himself at the teahouse. Kenji banked on that.

The sun was low in the sky when Kenji reached the teahouse. The day had been warm and comfortable, just like any other day in spring time. But a feeling of icy insecurity

THE JUNCTION 21

spiked through Kenji. He had the training, he had the resolve, but still his nerves were getting to him. The air became frigid as he stood before the teahouse. Something in the back of his mind whispered for him to turn back, to forget about revenge. He took his sword from his back, still sleeping in its scabbard, looked at it for a long while and took in a deep breath.

He stepped forward into the teahouse.

Inside the Haku Teahouse was small, but not overly cramped. There were five large braziers that lined each wall, four of which were lit. There was something very intimate, very tranquil about this place, Kenji thought. One of the waiters came from the back. Kenji eyed him for a long while and the man nodded to him. Kenji took a seat at one of the vacant tables and rested his slumbering blade on his lap. He felt at peace.

He closed his eyes.

His mind took him back to a time when he felt such similar peace. When he was with his father. His mother died in child birth, his father was always in debt, they were poor and pitiful, but through it all he was still happy. It wasnʼt what most would consider a normal life, but it was his idea of normal and he was comfortable with that.

Winters back then were the hardest. Making a living as a farmer in the Edo period wasnʼt the easiest of tasks. In those days Kenji never blamed his father for doing what he did. What choice did he have? He couldnʼt let his son starve after all. A little rice here, some vegetables there, his father would always get Kenji what he needed.

COLD TEA J.D. CRAWFORD

Back then, before he questioned anything, Kenji never cared where the money and food came from. He was just happy to be with his father. And then spring came and with it came death.

The demon that killed his father could barely be called a man.

He was an ogre, a mound of contorted muscle and yellow eyes that turned Kenjiʼs stomach. Kenji never actually saw how his father was killed, but he found the result. His fatherʼs severed head.

Till this day Kenji had nightmares of two giants clashing in his dilapidated childhood home. The house was ablaze and two ogres fought inside a ring of fire. The dream would always end with one giant losing their head. Kenji would approach and find that the head was his fatherʼs. Heʼd awake every time without fail.

Kenji blinked open his eyes. Darkness had taken hold over the skies. The strategically placed braziers offered a bit of light. The air had grown colder. Kenjiʼs stomach tightened. Heʼs here, he thought.

A blistering wind blew through the teahouse snuffing out the braziersʼ flames. It was pitch dark; Kenji couldnʼt so much as see his hand when he lifted it to his face. He heard a shuffling of movement and the light of a torch returned Kenjiʼs vision. The torch bearer lit all ten of the braziers.

A man sat in the far corner. Kenji scowled. The black kimono the man wore made his pale skin look all the more white. His platinum, pale blue eyes and pallid flesh put Kenji even more on edge than heʼd already been. He looked like a Shinigami*.

Suddenly he heard a clinking sound buzzing in his ears. Kenji looked down. It was the sound of his sword clattering in its sheath. His leg was shaking uncontrollably. He grabbed the sword with one hand and steadied his leg with his other. There was no time for fear, no time for hesitation. This was his chance.

He stood and walked over to the manʼs table. The pale man tilted his head to the side but never looked up. “Korasu Kenji, I presume,” he said, the words sounding like ice.

Kenjiʼs eyes went wide. “How did you—” The ghostly man tapped his nose. “You have a unique scent. Just like your father.”

Kenji frowned and gripped his sword tight. “Youʼre Yasunori, correct?”

The man raised an eyebrow. “Youʼll have to be more specific.”

“The one they call ʻThe God of Deathʼ and ʻThe Hundred Man Slayer.ʼ” The man folded his arms. “Ku, ku, ku,” he laughed.

“Some people have called me that, among other things.”

Kenji gripped the hilt of his sword.

“I know why youʼre here,” Yasunori said. “But before we commence with the pleasantries, shall we have a cup of tea?” Yasunori looked over at the waiter and put up two fingers. His eyes met Kenjiʼs and he nodded for him to sit. Kenji

did, his hand never leaving the handle of his sword. “So let me guess,” Yasunori began. “Youʼre here for revenge, right?”

“Iʼve come to kill a monster.”

“Me? A monster? Ku, ku. That sounds funny coming from you.”

“And why is that?”

Yasunori smiled. “So who was it that Iʼm supposed to have killed?”

Kenjiʼs raised an eyebrow. “Is that a joke? You just said I had my fatherʼs scent and now—” “Iʼve killed many fathers in my day, boy,” Yasunori said with a smirk and a shrug. “Iʼll need a bit more information than that.”

Kenji scowled and worked his jaw. He felt like heʼd burst a vessel in his head. He took in a calming breath.

“Twelve years ago. A small village outside of Kyoto. Korasu Kaneha. My father.”

Yasunori rubbed his chin. “Kyoto, Kyoto…Itʼs not ringing any bells.”

Kenji shot up from his seat.

Yasunori put up a hand. “Calm yourself. You almost spilled our tea.”

Kenji looked to his right finding the waiter carrying two cups of tea on a platter. He frowned and took his seat. The waiter placed the one cup in front of Yasunori. The waiter eyed Kenji for a moment before placing the tea before him. Kenji looked at the waiter then pushed his cup away. “Iʼm not thirsty.”

The waiter went to take the tea away but Yasunori pushed the manʼs hand away and placed the second cup in front of him. “I do seem to remember someone I killed near Kyoto,” Yasunori said. “Though I didnʼt know him as Kaneha. The one I killed went by the name Doki. A true monster. I was lucky to find him before the anyone else could take his head.”

Kenji raised an eyebrow. “Whatʼre you saying?”

Yasunori grinned. “He had a considerable bounty on his head.

I was surprised that he was still breathing after what he did.

Had my chance to kill him twenty two years back, but slippery bastard that he was, he got away.”

Kenjiʼs eyes widened. Just before I was born. He shook his head. He tried to convince himself that what Yasunori was saying were lies. Kenji felt a knot in his stomach. “Why should I believe you?”

“Because itʼs the truth, boy. I have no reason to lie, why should I? Iʼm doing you a courtesy. Your father was too afraid to tell you the truth.”

Kenji smirked and did his best to hide his fear. “So youʼre saying my father had a false identity? Youʼre full of shit.”

“Am I now,” Yasunori said with another toothy grin.

His teeth were as white as his skin. “Your father was the same as me.”

“Do you always speak in riddles?”

“Doki and I were apart of the same clan. The Onikage group from Ryukyu.”

THE JUNCTION 22

COLD TEA J.D. CRAWFORD Kenji snorted in laughter and shook his head. But Yasunori wasnʼt smiling anymore. The smirks and grins had faded from the manʼs face. He was serious. Kenji gave Yasunori a smirk of his own. The Onikage were a group of monsters that had once terrorized all of Japan. There was documented proof that the creatures did in fact exist and that Yasunori was once among their ranks. But his father? That was a stretch.

Kenji chuckled and Yasunori scratched his nose. “So you want more proof. Fine. Tell me, howʼd your mother die?”

Kenjiʼs eyes widened and he clutched his sword tighter. “Did you…”

Yasunori scoffed. “Youʼre not pinning that one on me. What did your father tell you?”

Kenji ducked his eyes. “She died giving birth to me.”

“Hmm, perhaps the one thing your father told you that was the truth. All human mothers of half demon children always die in childbirth.”

Kenjiʼs heart rumbled in his chest. Sweat drained down his cheek. Was it true? Did he cause his motherʼs death? Did the nightmares he had truly happen? They were questions he couldnʼt afford to answer now. He had to focus on the task before him now. He eyed the tea on the table. “Your teaʼs getting cold.”

“Thatʼs the only way I drink it.”

Kenji cursed to himself. “Let me guess, this is how you got all your opponents to drop their guard?”

“You presume you know all there is to know about me. But in truth you havenʼt even touched the surface. Many men have come to take my head,” Yasunori said taking a sip of his now, likely, cold tea. “What do you think makes you different from all the others before you?”

Kenji watched as the man drained the cup of tea.

“Iʼm not as stupid as the others.”

“So confident. But confidence isnʼt going to save you from your fate.” Yasunori took the second cup of tea in his hand. “Iʼve been killing men for over two hundred years.

Most fell with ease; few were just barely able to keep up before I cut them down. Do you think your twenty years of smarts will help you now?”

“Iʼm smart enough to know one thing,” Kenji began as he watched Yasunori gulp down the second cup of tea, “having habits can get you killed. Thatʼs the one chink in your armor.

Your pride.”

Yasunori let out a raucous laugh. “You are certainly one of my more amusing preys. But Iʼm afraid itʼs time for our little talk to come to an end.”

The fires of the braziers began to flicker with movement as another gust of wind flowed through the teahouse.

Yasunori began to rise to his feet as did Kenji. Kenji began to relax a bit now. Fighting was the easy part. The preparation before it was always the most difficult part of the job.

Kenji looked down at the katana Yasunori wore at his belt. The “God of Death” made no movement, yet his eyes told a different tale. Kenji looked into those pallid blue pools and could see something there.

THE JUNCTION 23

Killing intent.

This must have been the look all those others saw before their deaths. Kenji smirked. Iʼll be the last to see that look.

Yasunori leapt at Kenji, drawing his sword simultaneously.

The blade passed over Kenjiʼs head as he ducked the slash while at the same time waking his sword from its slumber. He cut at Yasunoriʼs leg, but hit only air. Kenji watched as Yasunori sailed through the air and landed with the slightest thud at the teahouse exit.

“You have some nice reactions,” Yasunori said smiling.

“Maybe you are a bit different than the others.”

Kenji threw his sheath aside and returned the smile. He took two deep breaths and charged Yasunori with such speed that he looked to have teleported before the “God of Death”. The two clashed swords in a deadlock. Kenji disengaged and struck once, twice, and soon strung together a complicated thread of strikes that had Yasunori moving backwards.

Kenji watched as the “Hundred Man Slayer” showed signs of fear on his face and reveled in it. Kenji pushed the action and stomped his foot into Yasunoriʼs chest knocking him off his feet and out the teahouse.

The pale moonlight shined down on Yasunori like an omen of death. Kenji slowly stalked Yasunori. The man who had been called a demon seemed very human to Kenji now. “I thought monsters never showed fear,” Kenji said.

Yasunori chuckled and flipped up to his feet. “Stop talking like youʼve won already.” Yasunori stabbed his sword into the ground and closed his eyes.

Kenji was wary to approach. Whatʼs he planning?

Yasunori opened his eyes. The pale blue irises that were there were gone now. In there place were glowing golden eyes. The manʼs hair became increasingly shaggy and began to grow in length. His face contorted into an cruel mask. His muscles bulged to an inhuman level. Gone was the man that stood at average height. In his place was a pale hulking giant that stood nearly eight feet tall.

Most men wouldʼve lost their composure before such a sight.

But Kenji wasnʼt most men. His breathing was steady, his mind clear. He reached into the pouch at his side and took from it a small vile filled with a dark blue liquid. He uncapped the vile and downed its contents.

At first nothing happened. Kenji closed his eyes for a few moments, then opened them. His eyes shone a haunting violet.

His vision was different now, stronger. In fact all his senses were differently attuned. He could smell the tea and baked goods inside the teahouse. Hear the birds and night animals that filled the forest. He looked on the ogre before him and felt no fear.

Yasunori let out a deafening roar and rushed forward. Kenji stood his ground. The beast slammed into him sending Kenji crashing through the teahouse out the other side. Kenji lay on his back for a minute.

COLD TEA J.D. CRAWFORD His ribs were crushed; his arms and left leg were twisted. But he felt no pain. Kenji stood up on his good leg. After a moment his arms and legs righted themselves. He could feel his ribcage bend and contort until they were back to normal. The potion he drank made him invincible for a short while. Now was his chance to defeat the beast.

Kenji walked forward slowly through the teahouse and back to the front of the establishment. He picked up his sword and spit.

Yasunori stared at him for a long while. “Youʼre more of a monster than your father,” he said in a guttural voice. Kenji brandished his sword and Yasunori snorted. “That blade wonʼt cut me. Not while Iʼm in this form.”

Kenji dashed forward and cut the ogreʼs Achilles tendons. Yasunori fell to his knees in wide-eyed astonishment. “How did you—” Yasunori convulsed in a coughing fit. Kenji walked before him casually and smirked. Yasunori wiped his mouth and found green blood in his palm. “You? The tea?”

Kenji nodded. “Very good. Do you know Ganju, our waiter? I came here last month and he told me a little tale; about how you come here for tea after every life you take. Apparently Ganju wasnʼt so impressed by you. You went blabbing about how brilliant of a killer you are and it made him sick. I told you your pride would get you killed. I left him the poison and some money, tracked you down and waited for you to complete your mission.”

Yasunori grinned. “You let three people die so you could get to me?”

“It was hard to accept at first. But I knew I had to stick to the plan. Exposing myself meant missing a chance to kill you. I wasnʼt going to let this opportunity pass me by.”

“So you care about nothing but revenge?”

Kenji waited a moment before answering. “This isnʼt just revenge. This is justice.”

“Ku, ku. Youʼre as good a liar as your father.”

Kenji frowned and lifted his sword. Yasunori roared and rushed forward in a last ditch effort. Kenji slashed his sword once and removed the beastʼs arm. He slashed again and removed the monsterʼs head. Yasunori body crashed into the ground in a limp heap. Kenjiʼs breathing was steady, his expression calm and serene.

But his mind was anything but calm.

All he can think about was his parents. His fatherʼs lies, his motherʼs death. Part of him truly believed Yasunori was lying, was trying to catch him off guard. The other part of his mind, the rational part, knew that what the monster said was true.

He thought back on his youth and how his father used to stare at him. There was something there in the manʼs eyes.

There was anger in them at times, but most of all Kenji saw fear. Anger that his sonʼs birth meant his wifeʼs death. Fear that his son would end up being a monster like him.

He was right to fear.

Kenji had become a monster slaying monster. Yasunori fell to him with such ease that even Kenji was frightened at his own power.

“Youʼve done it.”

Kenji turned to find Ganju at the teahouse entrance holding his sword sheath.

“You killed him,” Ganju said wide-eyed.

Kenji walked over to the man and took the sheath from him.

“Thanks for your help.”

Ganju shook his head. “No. Thank you. Youʼre a hero.”

Kenji smirked. “Iʼm anything but that.” He sheathed his sword and strapped it to his back. Looked back at Yasunoriʼs corpse.

He felt no pleasure in the sight; just as always. He walked down the dirt road into the shadow of the forest. He had got his revenge. He had gotten more than he bargained for. He was a monster, just like his father.

Just like father. A smile crept onto his face. I can live with that.

Photograph By Radelys Carmona

THE JUNCTION 24

WHY GIRLS FALL FOR PLAYERS CLIFFORD DROUILLARD

Clifford Drouillard

Why Girls Fall For Players Now ladies I donʼt Mean to be rude or Judgmental when it comes to you But these are the things That are evident As to why you fall For fools full of game That aim to get what Is most precious to you See itʼs the love novels That youʼre in to Zane got you amazed Caught in a dreamy daze Where you hopping that Maybe Iʼll be loved Like this someday These days youʼre a prisoner of Of your self having insecurities Cloud your judgment Your emotions take the best of you And you donʼt admit it Because of this you fall trapped In a web construed by

THE JUNCTION 25

Stubbornness and lack of self worth At this stage itʼs easy for players To engage in seductive speech For the ears are weak Youʼre only willing to hear what You want to hear and they give it To you just how you want it You start filling what is empty With the empty I love yous And promises hoping that heʼs Real even though at times you Feel he just playing games but The thought of being alone Terrifies you so you rather This than emptiness I am a witness to what you suffer And canʼt say its all you Society has a role to play too They say a perfect life is One with marriage and children Which means a husband and you Theyʼve placed this image in your Head since you were a youth From Snow White To Cinderella Being swept off your feet Has been created to be your Destiny So itʼs only natural for you To follow in those foot steps Even with out societies Manipulation The urge to be loved by another Will push anybody to do things Out of the norm such as Becoming submissive To one who is vicious Your lust for love causes illusions Driven by confusion causing Division between thoughts Of the heart and thoughts Of the mind A sound mind is your best Bet for a proper solution To avoiding the conclusion Of falling for a player In the mean while go through The many layers and rebuild Self worth For one canʼt love you Unless you love yourself first Remember ladies the key

GAME RACHEL WEISSMAN Game Everyone was checking her out.

Thick black lashes framed green eyes. Long black curls fell on pink, lightly freckled cheeks. A Jessica Rabbit sequined red dress delineated feminine contours, and five-inch, black patent leather pumps boosted the narrow frame to a respectable 5ʼ6”. A regular Scarlett OʼHara, nineteen-year-old Melody was every bit as desirable, and for the first time in her life, she realized this.

She wouldnʼt have known this if she wasnʼt this inebriated. Vodka ran through her veins, warm and soothing, rendering inconsequential vain insecurities that regularly controlled her existence. No longer were her freckles too prominent; her skin was not too white. Men were ogling her, she was a prize. She was powerful, confident; she wanted to seek and conquer.

So when she encountered a man with a mildly intriguing cowboy hat (intriguing because it had a thin band of leather dangling off of one end), the fermented-grain-induced-confidence compelled her to hold it in her hands.

“Hey, cowboy. I like your hat. May I try it on?” Her green eyes glittered.

The cowboy smiled generously.

“You most certainly may, maʼam!”

He had just stepped out of the bar to get a smoke. This was probably his worst Halloween ever, but maybe he was about to get a lucky break.

Less gently than heʼd anticipated, she took his hat from his head and set it sloppily on her thick black crown. “How do I look?” Her voice tinkled.

“Gorgeous.” He answered honestly. Her inebriated clumsiness endeared her to him, imperfection lending a sense of accessibility to her otherwise flawless being. “Whatʼs a beautiful woman like you doinʼ all alone on Halloween?”

Pursed crimson lips, “Just doing her thing.” She eyed him coyly and turned away.

“Hey!” He started after her. “Whereʼre ya goinʼ?”

Melody glanced over her shoulder, tossed her head, and continued walking.

“Hey, whatʼs your name?” The cowboy quickened his pace, his Timberlands gaining easily on her heels.

“Iʼm sorry. Do I know you?” Melody was the poster child of innocence.

“No, but you can get to know me.” The cowboy winced inwardly at his own cliché.

“You wish.”

She spoke with such contempt that the cowboy instantly lost all interest in acquainting himself with her.

“Hey, just give me back my hat.”

Spurred by the vodka, a mischievous temperament surged through her. She grabbed at the hat.

“Hey! Donʼt take my hat!”

Was she for real? The cowboy had had about enough.

“Cʼmon! Give it back!”

“Help!” She raised her voice. The tinkling lilt now rang abrasive, jarring. “Get off of my hat!”

A nearby drunk, poorly costumed as a police officer, dashed over from a group of smokers and slammed the faux cowboy

noheads By Stephanie Kammer into a brick wall.

“Donʼt you ever lay your hands on a woman!” He bellowed.

An unidentified voice from a fast growing crowd. “Hey, I thought you guys settled this at the Oscars!”

“You realize youʼre not a real cop, right?” The cowboy shoved his assailant.

“And you are certainly no cowboy!” The inebriated, copwannabe spat back.

“Brokeback Mountain? Crash? Nobody?” The voice called again.

The brawl intensified.

Contrition threatened to vanquish Melodyʼs playful mood and she wedged herself between the two brawlers.

“Itʼs alright! Really! I was just kidding!”

She tossed the hat over the back of the red- faced boozer, and watched it bounce off the shoulder of its indignant owner, who responded with a string of expletives, but drunken hubris reigned and she heard none of it.

If the brief altercation accomplished anything, it successfully brought her presence to the attention of a former acquaintance, Mikey, who had been loitering outside a neighboring bar. She hadnʼt noticed he was there, and if she had, it was unlikely that she would have behaved differently, although perhaps his presence would have distracted her from noticing the luckless cowboy. Anyway, too late for spilled milk, and her feistiness would have likely emerged one way or the other, and here she was, the wilder for her recent antic, suddenly acquainted with a power she was heretofore unaware she possessed. Granted, two months ago, she would have not even spoken to Mikey, famous as he was for a long rap sheet and a longer list of girlfriends, but tonight she was boundless.

“Mikey, my daaarling!” She cooed, sauntering over and planting a wet kiss on each of his bristly cheeks. “Where have you been all my life?”

THE JUNCTION 26

GAME RACHEL WEISSMAN Ever the opportunist, Mikey put a tattooed arm around her shoulder and steered her gently away from his small group of societal rejects.

“What are you doing, babe?” Concern was always a good strategy. “Youʼre acting like a crazy chick.”

“Crazy is good sometimes.” Melody was still indulging. Irrespective of where it took her, she would ride this wave of confidence, it felt so incredible. Now she wanted more and she had to have it.

She brushed her index finger softly across the rugged manʼs cheek.

“Mikey.”

“Yes, chick.”

“I want to mug someone. You must have done it; I know you have. Iʼm going to mug someone.”

Mikey laughed warily. “Youʼre nuts, chick. Iʼm not doing that. I havenʼt done that in a long, long time. Iʼm done with that stuff. I got a job, Iʼm in college—I have a 3.7.”

He focused his eyes on hers, but the sparkles appeared glinting and her pupils were unfocused, distant.

“You alright, chick?”

“Come with me, Mister.”

And it was neither her beauty, nor his prospects of a night with Jessica Rabbit, but the command in her tone of voice that compelled him to follow.

A latent cold chill tinged the unusually warm October night air with the smell of winter. Mikey half-listened to Melodyʼs drunken rambling as she pulled him off of the barspeckled main avenue and onto a darker street, shaded in trees, parked cars, and rows of brownstones.

A boisterous group of teenagers outfitted as the cast of Harry Potter passed them and turned onto the main street, leaving a startling silence in their wake. A mother and her softly whining son, presumably on a late night trick-or-treating run, approached them from a distance. The little boyʼs face mask hung off the back of his shoulders and his costume was hard to make out in the dark-lit street. Melody pulled Mikey past the duo.

Up ahead, a young, round man crouched on the sidewalk, inserting a lock through his bicycle chain.

Melody advanced on him, a warm smile plastered on her face.

“Hey, Mister.”

Wiping chubby hands on black sweatpants, the man straightened and smiled expectantly. He was short and round, his hair curly and unkempt. Tiny beads of sweat dotted his forehead.

Melody hopped a leg onto his bike and seated herself on its long, narrow banana-seat.

“I like your bike. Whatʼs your name?”

The man stuttered, taken aback. “Uh, Andy.” He stopped, confused.

“Iʼm Jessica Rabbit.” Melody smiled magnanimously.

She reached out and stroked his sweater. “I like how this feels. Is this cashmere?”

“Umm, no.” Andy responded uneasily, suddenly catching sight of Mikey. “Itʼs a sweatshirt. Are you drunk?” To Mikey, “Is she with you?”

Melody ran her manicured red fingernails across Andyʼs

THE JUNCTION 27

right cheek. “He is with me, and he does what I want him to do.”

Short brown eyebrows furrowed over hazel eyes.

“Huh? What do you want?” Andy responded reflexively, hardly processing what was happening.

“Iʼm very poor.” Melodyʼs endearing smile remained on her face. “So Iʼm gonna take your money.”

“But I donʼt have any money.” Andy protested wearily.

“Anyway, I need to get home.”

He turned toward Mikey who had suddenly taken up residence awfully close to where he was standing. Mikey looked powerful and imposing. Andy took a step back, bumping into Melody, whose hands were sliding slowly down his sweater and into his sweatpantsʼ pockets.

“Hey!” Andy objected.

“Oooo…look what I found, Mikey.” Melody purred. “Itʼs a wallet.”

She opened the tattered brown piece and wedged her index finger between the folds.

“And lookee here!” She pulled out two bills of paper.

“Forty dollars!”

She grinned beguilingly at her victim and stuffed the money messily into her purse.

“Thank you, Andy,” she sang, handing him his belonging.

“No wait. Let me get this right.” She opened the wallet again and pulled out his license. “Thank you, Andrew Pierre Gomez. Oh, look! You live right here!”

She flashed her teeth again and returned the item to him. “Nice picture. You should keep your hair short; it suits you.”

Andy accepted his possession wordlessly and watched dispiritedly as the sequined woman hopped off of his bike and linked her arm through her silent cohortʼs muscular bicep.

“Cʼmon, babe.” She led him away from the dejected cyclist.

They walked another block and crossed a street before Mikey turned to Melody.

“Youʼre crazy, you know that, woman, right?”

“What do you mean?” Melody responded airily. “You were right there with me.”

“Yeah, but I didnʼt do anything.” Mikey countered. “Itʼs not my fault if people are scared of me.”

“Please, you know you look like youʼre threatening.”

Melody replied dismissively, and before he could respond, she had walked up to a passing girl and was fingering her necklace.

“Heeey,” Melody cooed. “I like this necklace.”

The girl was in her mid twenties, petite. She had mousy brown hair, dull, insecure eyes, and an unassertive posture.

“Thanks.” Below a plaid Gap sweater, one jeaned leg was positioned ahead of the other, frozen mid-step. She waited unconfidently for Melodyʼs next move.

Melody caressed the white-gold chain and bent down to scrutinize its crystal flower charm.

“Itʼs a shame to deprive you of the only thing that makes you interesting, but Iʼm going to take this.” The assailant informed her subject authoritatively.

GAME RACHEL WEISSMAN peared menacing and ominous. She did not want to leave her bed, she did not want to be in her skin, she did not want to be.

Too frightened of death to take her own life, she passively experienced her morning routine in alternating states of paranoia and dejectedness. She mechanically ate two slices of burnt toast for breakfast and washed it down with a cup of milk. She went to her room and put on a sweater and a pair of jeans. She sat down on her bed, stood up, paced the room, sat down again. She walked up to her mirror, looked at herself for a while, then sat back down on her bed. Finally, she took the necklace and the forty dollars from her nightstand, put them in her pocket, and walked outside.

The air was still brisk; the sun was out. Across from her apartment complex, in front of a local deli, a man in tatters sat cross-legged on the sidewalk, Styrofoam cup in hand.

Looking around cautiously, she shuffled over to the mendicant and deposited her loot in his cup. His crazed blue eyes addressed her darting green ones.

“Theyʼre gonna be here any day now.” He whispered loudly to her, confidentially.

She inhaled sharply and walked away.

She walked down the block, around the corner, down another street, walked, walked, walked, arrived at the Hudson River, walked alongside it for a half hour, turned, kept walking. For one hour, for two, she kept walking. Every few minutes she looked over her shoulder, every time a car turned into the street she was crossing she froze momentarily in fear.

She passed many people as she walked, businessmen, schoolchildren, nannies wheeling strollers, old women carrying groceries. Construction workers hammered boards onto scaffoldings, fire trucks rolled down streets, city busses crawled heavily down potholed roads. And as she ambled her way alongside the horseback riders in Central Park, as she passed the dog walkers on the Upper West Side, as she walked by groups of taxicab drivers in Harlem, no one even saw her.

Rachel Weissman

“My sister gave it to me.” The desperate woman stuttered, half- informatively, half- pleadingly.

“How sweet,” Melody flashed a hypocritical smile and unhooked the necklace from her resigned victimʼs neck. She unzipped her purse, crammed it on top of the forty dollars.

The frightened woman eyed Mikey fearfully while the couple linked arms and walked away. When Mikey looked back, a half a block later, he could see her sitting on the concrete, her back against the stoop of a brownstone, still watching them go.

They turned another corner and approached a subway station.

“Lady, youʼre nuts.” Mikey addressed Melody again. “Letʼs stop this. Iʼll get us a cab and we can go back to my place.”

He placed his hands on her small waist. “We can have a good time together. Iʼve got a hot tub in my basement.”

Melody removed Mikeyʼs hands from her waist and snickered.

“Really? Go back to your place? Not a chance, big boy.”

“Aw, cʼmon, girl. I donʼt mean anything by it; we can just hang out. Really.” Mikey appealed, weaving his fingers through her curly black hair.

Melody smiled condescendingly and pushed his hand away.

“I donʼt think so, Mikey. Donʼt think I havenʼt noticed that you donʼt even remember my name.”

He laughed nervously.

“Aw, donʼt take that personal. Iʼm so bad with names.”

Melody placed her index fingers over his lips, and wrinkled her own pout derisively. “Ha. I donʼt care, Mikey. We donʼt even know each other. Have a good night.”

She turned toward the subway station.

“Cʼmon, girl! Letʼs just go to a bar.”

Her hips swayed alluringly as she began her descent into the station.

“Hey, arenʼt you even gonna tell me your name?” he called after her.

She turned around and regarded him contemptuously.

“Donʼt beg, Mikey. Itʼs really not becoming of you.”

And he watched her till she vanished into the shady labyrinth. *** When she woke the next morning, it took her a few seconds to remember the previous night. For a few moments she lay in bed thinking it had all been a peculiar dream. But when she sat up and noticed her open purse on the nightstand, she saw the necklace and a feeling of dread overwhelmed her. She lay back in her bed for another twenty minutes, denying that she was awake, attempting to recover the insouciance of sleep. But the ceiling of her bedroom threatened to crumble on her body, her crimson, carpeted floor portended to crumble under her weight. The Angel of Repose was unmerciful to she who had denied it of others; respite would not be hers.

Timid brown eyes, wide, frightened hazel eyes, reflected off the prisms of light seeping through her window. A world she had once respected as altruistic and empathetic now ap-

THE JUNCTION 28

IʼD RATHER DIE A THOUSAND DEATHS KERRI BYAM

Iʼd Rather Die a Thousand Deaths Where the hell is she?

Who the hell are you?

Is she driven towards a galaxy, Of verisimilitude?

Or paradoxical orbitals An oxymoron within itself A tear of joy, a laugh of thunder A disguised but sudden death Alas! She is none other Than her own self But the walls surround and choke her Canʼt hear her feeble cry for help Lovely is the wallflower Dainty is the girl She is ignorant of her power And terrified from the locks of her curls Her heart was open With words unspoken With stories untold Left sore and exposed Yonder behind the yellow moon Confessions were made too soon The fool was told to be wise And watch the morning glory of the sun rise But the fool was fooled once more With a satin of red lips From the intensity of that kiss Thy soul was left bare Eureka! Has thou found it?

The forbidden chambers of her hidden heart?

Wilt thou ride with her into the sunset, Or leave her here to fall apart?

She is fragile, she is weak Her hands are delicate and tend to speak With subtle nuances, a brush and a stroke Will leave you speechless and weeping with hope That she may be released From this unspeakable torture For yea, it is too much for her to dream And so adhere to this simple plea Hold her hand on the carousel

Stain her cheeks, ʻtil she cannot tell The stars from the ocean, the wind from the sea Love is a wonder, a profound entity Arouse her from the sleep That has left her brain tousled Impossible possibilities that she keeps In her outstretched unfolded hands But nay, she cannot say How itʼs come about this way ʻTwas the light in your eyes That strengthened her disguise For she is terrified The truth turns into unkempt Validated tendencies of raw innocence With this she lies and doth says goodbye For the truth is more dangerous than the unreal Pretense is more believable than the innate She is left in an inferno, an unreasonable place That burns deep in the abysmal vacuum of her beliefs She is wounded by the touch of you Senseless, when your eyes meet hers Broken, for she cannot give Helpless, for she wants your lips On her delicate skin The broken strands of gold That have weaved her tenuous anatomy And dyed her heart indigo But oh! How sheʼd like to be a temptress With eyes that could dart fire And carry you across the moon With your soul weak with desire Nay, she will not convey this way How you have made her sway So rest thy weary heart and lend Sometime, my sweet, she wants to mend The key and rent you a room That grows up into a house with flowers to bloom But to risk that bittersweet ecstasy and mingled breath “Lo!” she cries, “Iʼd rather die a thousand deaths.”

Photograph By Radelys Carmona

THE JUNCTION 29

LOVE NOTE TO AILEEN WUOMOS HANA MALIA Love Note to Aileen Wuornos A sestina in memoriam

Hana Malia

Grandma once told you, When your mother hits you, Donʼt hit back.

Just ask nicely for the kind of marks You can hide. Just say no With your eyes. Your heart is just a heart.

When dadʼs heart hangs from a belt Donʼt tell grandma where youʼre headed Hide the ugly side of your face Walk highways until the slap turns to broken blue Then a dry yellow mark you can pull off, Like glue on fingertips. Donʼt hit back.

You canʼt hit back under that weight His heart was just a heart.

Your bruises wonʼt shake in the wet Florida heat And you told him. Tell them you told him three times.

Tell them you thought he was your baby And no one ever loves you. No one.

Finally. Her hands are not like yours, Aileen, Donʼt ruin this. Scrub away the ugly side, kiss This woman who loves you like a mother wonʼt.

Lick her eyelids when you get hungry Tell her you love her— sheʼs the only Ask her if she can take it just a little harder.

Before you fry, inmates will map the names on your body With stick and poke ink. Richard Mallory In cursive on your right foot. Troy Burress Repeated down your spine. Charles Carskaddon

On your perfectly pink tongue. Dick Humphreys Somewhere small in the cavernous chambers of your third heart. mother or slap marks or ask eyes or heart hide or no Donʼt hit back. Aileen, Donʼt hit back.

Told I would have told you to slap me, to leave a mark I would have hidden your hearts in my panties They told me Donʼt too

Photograph By Radelys Carmona

THE JUNCTION 30

OLD JERUSALEM ESTHER NAAMAT

Old Jerusalem You walk her Absorbing old Jerusalem You step gingerly Over cobbled paths, white From the millions who have Polished her stone You take your index finger And let it run along The wall— Home to many Beside you You let your feet fall Apprehensively Afraid of the footprints You may erase Footprints of someone More important Than you Walking through old Jerusalem You try to bow your head To the shadows In her alleyways Of pious men Framed in glowing beards And swaying locks And simple women Who were more beautiful than you For their deeds dressed them well And children, Little frolicking sheep Who are today your heroes And then epiphany Whispers in your ear And you want To gather the dust From your shoes And hold them in your palms Like Aharon the priest

And dance your feet Into a circle And your arms and hands open Offering your dust to G-d Faster you spin And nobody gawks Because this is old Jerusalem And because you are alive You are the vibrant link Connector of past and present The umbilical chord That still flows With life Infused by your matriarchs This city That holds all Is only old Because you are young You can Cartwheel Through her tunnels of time And see the way it was You can Look on breathless And breathe new Into her lungs You puff your chest too Suddenly Jerusalem Is not about them But about you, today And how your song Will harmonize the old Jerusalem

Photograph By Rachel Benun

THE JUNCTION 31

WILD DREAMS YOU MAKE MY HEART FREE CELIA VARGAS

Wild Dreams You Make My Heart Free Stubby fingers, sticky and small, fidget beneath the parent grasp, They wish for release to grasp something more unfamiliar, But the aged parentʼs hands never falter.

Small relentless hero you have been conquered, So His head reels back, and just takes solace on the illusions of bright yellow green balloons.

The grey suited Worker across the child just grips his briefcase tight, Time tables and checklist of the to doʼs just mechanically playing in his head.

The wristwatch in his pulse ticks the seconds by, and he counts along.

He is constricted, and fades out of thought from the routine, A break.

The wanting breaks through, to expand and cut free the strings of the taxing work, the Workerʼs legs begin to move, he wishes to move, yet stays.

Unaware of the thoughts of others, the Student starts to skim the boorish letters, The ink on paper made to reproduce archaic ancient thoughts.

The bright young eyes wander, and resolve on nothing in particular, An idea floats over and settles, nestles, itself among the mind of the academic.

What would it be like to contemplate the stars?

Not the black sky of night ironically made pitch dark by the lights of the city dwellers, But the real stars…

The sway, the sway, bodies methodically move and shift to the Rhythm of the metal snake, the evolved transportation far from serene carriages.

A passing thought.

“This is Blank Stop; please stand clear of the closing doors.”

The masses rush out—Child, Worker, Student All file out destined to escape for now the constricting cramped space.

But their day dreams stay behind, lagging and insisting.

These free ephemeral thoughts all linger, but indeed retreat, Defeated, Pushed back to the farthest points in the busy mind.

“He dreamed of being free. Wild dreams…”

That they all did dream, and freely so, but unfortunately they will have to come back; back to the cramped train at the next rush hour.

Perhaps their lost day dreams will return too.

Photograph By Christina Squitieri

THE JUNCTION 32

ICE FOX IN LATER AUTUMN JOSEPH FRITSCH

Ice Fox in Later Autumn Dead in nature, because her prey was clever or scarce. Dead, because her eyes were not keen enough, or a leg broken forced her to hobble and collapse.

stones

Her joints have all stopped now, rigid beneath a colorless sarcoptic pelt.

Her muzzle, frozen. Forever open, attempting still that elusive meal that would have kept her together, regal ruler of copse and glade.

She sinks. Beneath the roots. Becoming the slow stretch of branches, the growth of berries and leaves, the adding of rings upon rings, the ache of bark.

And she rises.

Inside of beaks, between teeth, loose fur caught by the wind, transcending, piece by piece.

Photograph By Ashley Cohen

THE JUNCTION 33

Artwork By Victor V. Gurbo

Photograph by Ashley Cohen

IExist by Bushra Wazed Artwork by Ariana Costakes

Artwork by Kenneth Swaby

SIXTH GRADE SESTINA NATALIE NUZZO

Sixth Grade Sestina Years away from becoming this woman they'd ask: "What is it with all that frizzy hair?!" desks behind me rang middle school voices, screamed pacified strands with No More Tears sprayed by Mom who concocted experimental gels matted into my rat's nest on days I wanted to stay home with Richard Bey forever, Wanted to sink into sweetened hot tea and toast forever, thought banning bras would stunt bouncing breasts of a woman I'd hide as Steven o' Hara would ask if that was a bird in its nest who made his home in the tangles of my hair as taunts made me dial lunchtime busy signals to Mom in alphabetical order, these coarse hair voices Continued in fat Ms. Wenz's class, "Medusa!" said the voices they sang, "It's not the 70s, Afros have been out forever!"

I'd ask, "Why isn't our hair shiny, straight, Mom?" behind aprons she'd say, "Oh stop it!

You're a beautiful young woman!" but why didn't the white collar families have big hair?

LL Bean and Land's End Blonde was never aka bee's nest

Natalie Nuzzo

Hives of couches and there's safety in the den's nest, a lucky sprained ankle with no home sick voices no girls with speech impediments, "Do you even brush your hair?! it looks like you haven't combed that thing in forever!"

The sixth year hormones ripened my hips round like a woman I read library books on sex, delivered with meatballs and Mom, Given rosary beads and tampons from wooden spoon Mom who like Madame Sosostris would predict at eighteen I leave the nest, wondered what to do as I rebelled overnight a runaway woman, tried shopping trips to fight off table for one cafeteria voices hours passed with Italian shouts in bathrooms battling us forever she tried her best to conquer my will knotted up in curly hair,

But the homemade stench of lye embarrassed sixth grade hair.

She took an iron to her strands, my Mom to find a man, and keep him forever she insisted curly hair makes a better nest but I couldn't ignore those stupid voices, couldn't cook them up in pot of gravy like the good Sicilian woman You are. You are the woman who loves her curly hair who makes ziti for loud guinea voices, you are my mom.

I see myself in the strength of your nest as I comb forever.

Photograph By Christina Squitieri

THE JUNCTION 38

WISHING HIGHWAY DUST OF A LOST GIRL CELIA VARGAS

Wishing Highway Dust of a Lost Girl Before being middle aged I was young, and young for me meant driving far into dust, the dust of the bitten down air, the dust that stings the eyes. I just kept speeding that one time. A day after graduation, congratulations and college was in everybodyʼs minds—except mine. That day I dropped into Arturoʼs auto shop and bought a 1971 powder blue Camaro. The year was 1992. A great crappy deal, six hundred bucks, and a free cherry air freshener that no longer smelled of cherries but of aged paper: musty and dusty just the way I liked it. I wanted to leave fast. No school no cares. Just drive away.

I was seventeen that day, and I had just graduated from high school. I had five hundred bucks in my pocket, my guitar in the back seat, strawberry lip gloss and a suitcase full of clothes—thatʼs all I needed. I stared at the trailer home that had sheltered a young girl full of promise. I stood still, held my breath for a second and hopped into the car.

Key in ignition. Nothing. One more time and a prayer. Good to go.

I drove for twelve hours no stop. Slept that night on the roof of the car counting bright stars and laughing at my bravery or my foolishness. In the morning I kept driving, all the time listening to Sinatra tapes. Old Blue Eyes had a way to make my senses soar, something not many men could do. Tightening my knuckles on the wheel and pressing down I drove faster. The orange blurs on both sides gave a sense of traveling into another dimension. Rushing blood feeling, and out of breath I saw the fuel pointer lowering. Shit.

I made a stop at a gas station/bar called Lucky Wishes Louie—great name. Pulling up I saw the man who, at the time I had no idea, would become one of the good voices in my head. Sammy Lee: short man with a bulbous belly and rosy cheeks; the tufts that covered his otherwise balding head were matted down with good working sweat.

He wore faded out jeans and a mechanicʼs shirt that read Bobby. Not the first person I expected to meet in my road trip.

Yaʼ need a fill?

Yeah.

Alright, give me a minute. Oh and by a minute I mean half an hour or so.

He chuckled. I laughed back.

Alright I have plenty of time to kill, take your time.

I left Sammy Lee to his minute and went inside the bar. It was small, nothing fancy: a counter on the right, seats and tables on the left and a small stage at the end. It was empty

except for the old woman cleaning the counter and an old brown hound dog under a table.

Hey, can I get a coke please?

Sure honey, just take a seat. The woman said friendly enough and handed me a coke. I went outside and saw Sammy Lee working on my Camaro and panicked.

Hey, no! I said I need gas thatʼs all!

Calm down, Chickadee. Iʼm a mechanic; I know what Iʼm doing. And that was all I needed to hear. I let him work.

You know there is a contest tonight. Musical. Prize is hundred dollars, if youʼre good you should sing.

What makes you think I sing?

I can just tell.

Whoʼs Bobby?

My father. The name is Sammy Lee at your service. Where yaʼ headed to?

I donʼt know Sammy Lee. I donʼt know Iʼm just going wherever.

Well the car is old but it will last yaʼ a couple of years. Never doubt the power of all things.

If youʼre good you should sing. And I did. That night I won a hundred dollars and a saying I will never forget. If youʼre good you should sing. Now lets fast-forward to me present, Iʼm middle aged and have sang enough. All people have power enough and should do what they do best.

Sammy Lee said once that my car had a couple of years left, and it did a good couple of twenty-five years.

Celia Vargas

THE JUNCTION 39

SCATTERED BECCA FINK

Scattered Time wasnʼt moving, no, time didnʼt exist. I couldnʼt tell. Everything was so strange, not one thing made sense to me now. I knew I was supposed to be somewhere, or, wait, maybe I had to do something, work on something, finish something, start something, end something. I donʼt know and I honestly donʼt care. I feel good now and that is rare so Iʼm not going to let what I canʼt remember bother me.

There were a good amount of people around me, but I only focused on him. I wasnʼt there only for him but he kept me there, he kept me alive, he kept me breathing—even when I didnʼt want too. Iʼd do anything for that guy and he probably doesnʼt know the half of it. He probably wouldnʼt even care. But that doesnʼt matter.

Drugs were available and flowing freely, if you can handle it you can take it. I can handle it. There was no end to my using; I do not think I can get high enough where Iʼll be at the point of saying, “No more, Iʼm good.” That doesnʼt happen for people like me. Happiness is so unattainable that regardless of what you do, how much you use, who you are with, and regardless of whatever good is really happening in your life, you canʼt see it, you canʼt feel it, and it is not real. If anyone else was living this life theyʼd be happy, my depression is completely mental—itʼs my own insane mind that keeps me from happiness. Iʼm not even worried about it.

I donʼt understand why I canʼt figure out anything right now. I have completely forgotten what time is, I really have. I know theyʼll be here at 4, wait 4:30, uh, around then, but what time is it now… itʼs 3:30, is that enough time? What? I donʼt know how much longer there is. When does this all end? When will this all end?

Everyone is so different. No, that canʼt be true. Iʼm so different. How did I change this much in this short a time? Where did I go? Why am I questioning everything that goes through my head? This isnʼt going to end soon. Everything is moving but Iʼm standing still. I donʼt get it. Make a call, tell them everything is okay, youʼre safe. “Donʼt worry about me, Iʼll see you tomorrow. I love you too.”

Lie. I keep doing this and I donʼt know why. This isnʼt how my life was supposed to be, I wasnʼt supposed to turn out like this. I was going to be happy, in love, work hard, be successful. I had plans. I still have plans but Iʼm not doing a damn thing to accomplish them. I can sit here and say Iʼm going to do this and that, but at the end of the day I wonʼt have done a single thing to get me any closer to that “goal”. Can you call it a goal if you donʼt try to get there at all?

Why is my mind racing like this? They must know Iʼve taken too much because Iʼm not saying a word. Say something, talk to them, and stop talking to yourself. I canʼt speak, itʼs not worth it. I donʼt know what is happening. I donʼt know if I like this feeling right now—maybe I just need to take a break, take a breather. Go to the bathroom, I donʼt know, anywhere to be alone for a second.

Alright, breathe, calm down. It is okay, everything is going to be okay. This feeling will go away; tomorrow everything will be exactly the way it was before. This canʼt last forever. Iʼm okay, Iʼm okay.

Keep going—take more, do more, donʼt stop. Itʼs so easily accessible Iʼd be crazy to turn it down. This is insane. No one else lives like this. I canʼt imagine life without this. What do other people do? Iʼve been to parts of my brain you canʼt Becca access without a drug; Iʼve been places most people will Fink never go in their own mind. Maybe Iʼm crazy, but I know Iʼve

THE JUNCTION 40

SCATTERED BECCA FINK

seen and figured out so many things that for most people are unattainable. Some things I remember, some things I canʼt. Iʼve figured out everything before, Iʼve been to that higher consciousness and felt I knew everything. But right now, I know nothing.

Something is different tonight; it must just be me because everyone else seems fine. This is way too much to handle—I canʼt be here with all these people. He is here so I want to stay, but I know I canʼt, I know I canʼt. Leave, just leave.

What was I thinking? How could being alone possibly make this better? Man, this is horrible—oh my god, I think Iʼm losing my mind. I canʼt be alone right now, this is so bad. Iʼm going to get too far into my head, oh no oh no oh no. This is not good, this is not good. Stop crying, please. Why did I let myself come home? What the hell was I thinking; Iʼm nowhere near strong enough to face this alone. Go back, go back. I canʼt move. This hurts so badly.

I donʼt understand what is happening to me, please just fall asleep. If you fall asleep I promise to take better care of you tomorrow, I promise body, I promise mind—but you have to fall asleep now, otherwise Iʼm going to lose it.

Why is this happening to me?

Breathe, breathe, breathe. This hurts so bad, Iʼm the only person who will ever feel and live through this kind of pain. Why is this happening to me? Everyone else was fine. I took too much, too much. I always do this to myself.

I always forget these moments; this isnʼt the first time Iʼve been in this exact situation. Donʼt forget this, donʼt forget this. I know Iʼll forget it, I always do. How can I forget this awful pain, this awful moment? I need to stop doing this to myself—what happened to me?

Photograph By Ashley Cohen

THE JUNCTION 41

FATHERĘźS BLUES BAD NEWS STEVEN LIEBOWITZ

FatherĘźs Blues Bad News He was just a boy, he didn't ask for this his father came home drunk, bearing fists these black and blues, he didn't choose he was born under the wrong roof... in walks his father, his father walks out how the hell was he to know what this man was about? all that he knew was he'd just never stay in his father's eyes, his boy was just in the way just an excuse to misuse and abuse he ripped out his heart and replaced it with the blues the beatings continued and the boy just seemed worse the way things were going they'd soon need a hearse not for the boy, but more so for the father for the boy was now growing, ever larger and larger larger with a hate so strong it was burning his anger and sadness had halted his learning his father was drunk and the next beating came swift now the young boy was on the edge of his cliff when the beating had stopped the father lied down only to receive a hot pan to his crown with the blow to his head the father was stunned dizzied, bewildered and undone he fell to the floor with the pan's blows repeating smashing and cracking and beating and bleeding as the father started crying the boy had no feelings just a life time of hate, anger and seething caused by this man who just never gave a damn who's life was a sham from the time it began luckily nobody left that house dead but his mother now knew what had come to a head so she packed up and left and gathered her kids off to a new life in a new place to live with his father now gone you'd think all would be well but now he had entered a new kind of hell he found himself working a diner at twelve mopping up floors, stocking up shelves supporting two siblings and his sick screwed up mother these poor helpless souls could not turn to another nor turn to themselves for the strength to impel so the boy found himself in the work force at twelve

Steven Liebowitz

over the years this angry young boy grew up into a man a man hardened by the dark side of life who would now cut down any who dared cause him strife but after a lifetime of bitter withstand he finally found the most marvelous companion a woman who showed him how great life can be a woman who extended his family tree she gave him a son and she gave birth to me looking back on his life he made himself swear that the life of his son would not ever compare to the misery preceding the life he now had he made sure he gave his son all that he can yet the effects of his life always stayed in his head he made it out alive, he no longer bled with such intimate knowledge of the darker side of life he cherishes his family, for they are his light

THE JUNCTION 42

THE HUMBLE HERMIT THERESA DIETRICH

The Humble Hermit ĘťWhat thoughts I have of you, tonight,Ęź sand crawlers For I stumbled carelessly into the cedar table That your clear world sits atop, Shaking and breaking your sandy universe.

I heard your hard shell Break upon the white tile floor And I spied your soft belly That long, supple abdomen Quivering and vulnerable In the absence of your pink painted shell.

I watched you retreat Beneath the shade of the rusted sink Your whiskery antennae trembling in Disoriented fear you searched for your Faithful companion with those round glassy eyes Like two perfect pebbles fixed upon brown eyestalks.

Theresa Dietrich

I quickly restored your fortress to its original splendor, Spreading sand and colored gravel at varying depths So you could stroll lightly or dig deep down to the dark I hope that I scattered the shells to your liking And that the acropolis was properly positioned.

I inspected your Plexiglas domicile Before plucking and placing you gently Back into your shoddy, Hellenistic artifice.

Do you know of wise Athena That great goddess of wisdom?

What think you of those Dancing dolphin Statuettes At the foot of your tight-fisted temple?

Does this all seem silly to you, My humble hermit?

Do you long for the tide pools Of your homeland, dear decapod, The shallow reefs and shorelines, The deep-sea bottom of your ancestors?

Do you yearn for your primeval kin, And that watery womb where All life began?

Photograph By Radelys Carmona

THE JUNCTION 43

SHEĘźS WITH THE BAND CINDY JORDAN

SheĘźs With The Band Sugary vice, she comes free with heavy metal attachments.

There be sinewy stars in her eyes; the leather-clad kind with voice like Wolfmother, hair like ocean tides.

This particular pandemic causes hemlines to reach for the sky.

Armed with shards of red nailpolish she scratches out eyes of jail bait that may find their way toward the deep end; that means anywhere near her boyfriend; lead singer, naturally.

Back-stage pass in hand, she'd rather watch from the mosh pit.

A sea of bodies dripping salty, dimly-lit limbs flickering.

A peircing soup of tattoos; ace lighters turned up to hellfire and it feels like the center of the universe.

How could she refuse?

Wearing a tight tee that reads, "Not to be confused with groupies."

Home is the road and life is show after show after show.

She's their muse and she'll keep going as long as they do.

Music runs through her veins and it will sustain her long after the sound fades.

It's a tough life but she'd say, "And, I'm a tough broad I wouldn't have it any other way."

Photograph By Cindy Jordan

THE JUNCTION 44

TOLD CHRISTINA SQUITIERI Told “He ate canned spaghetti and meatballs with his shirt off and drank lukewarm soy lattes alone at his dinner table in summer. I never understood why he ate without his shirt on. I mean, it was completely disgusting. But kinda charming, I guess. God, did I just say something totally negative? Iʼm a horrible person, arenʼt I? Jesus Christ. But no, I donʼt mean that. Itʼs just what I remember most. And it was charming. Really. I guess.”

“I remember, he got sick once, on our way to work—when we worked at Strand together—on the Uptown 6 train, and someone went to pull the emergency stop. And heʼs puking and like screaming, ʻDonʼt pull it!

Donʼt pull it!ʼ because you pull those things and then the whole train stops and we were in the tunnel, like…before Spring Street. And so heʼs being sick and Iʼm trying to help and I go up to the girl about to grab the brake because sheʼs like…totally not listening to us and is terrified of this huge 6ʼ2” man puking on the subway and finally I scream, ʻFor the hundredth time he said donʼt pull it!ʼ And heʼs still throwing up but he turns to me laughing and coughs up, ʻThatʼs what she said!ʼ Which, you must admit, was brilliant. Even when violently ill he never lost his sense of humor.”

“What I remember was he…Iʼm sorry, Pete, this is a little weird for me. Just…just pretend the tape recorder isnʼt there? Okay…okay. Umm…well, what I remember most about him was…well, one night, after a show at school, he drove me home. And we sat under the stars and he asked me, you know, to name some of the constellations. And I really couldnʼt, you know? Because thatʼs not what they teach you in astronomy class.

So he decided to name one for me, The Pleiades. And he told me the story of them, the Greek mythology story, of the seven sisters that Orion loved, and who were first turned into doves, then stars, and stuck in the sky, where they remain. And Orion, whose constellation is next to them, next to the sisters, is destined to pursue, but never catch, them, the ones he loves, for eternity. He is stuck, forever, running toward something he will never be able to grasp. And, as he told me this, his eyes shimmered, shimmered in the moonlight. That night, that story, that is what I remember most about him.”

“Eh, him, yes? Well…we met…we met en France while he was studying eh, abroad…and…ah…well, he wus ʻelping me learn my English, wile I wus ah…helping him wit his Frence, and ah, he wus a…a good man…I remember. But he…he never smiled. I told him, ʻsourire!ʼ But…ah…but he never really did. But he did know how to cook…he made me bouillabaisse wunce wen I wus sick. He…he wus very kind to me.”

“How old was he? 22? 23? 21? What a waste.”

“What I remember about him? Well his taste in music was…peculiar. He listened to Jimi Hendrix and Hank Williams and The Band but thought Bob Dylan was crap; he had 8-Tracks and LPs and the smooth, smooth vinyls nestled safely inside their cases—and he played none of them. But whenever I was over, and I was over more than a few times, the one thing he did play was a scratched record of Billy Joelʼs Piano Man. It kept skipping in the 2rd verse, but he never got up to fix it. So it was stuck on the ʻBut itʼs better than drinking aloneʼ line.

Over and over again.”

catvoid By Stephanie Kammer

THE JUNCTION 45

TOLD CHRISTINA SQUITIERI “He used to baby-sit my two daughters, lived right down the street from us. God, he really seemed to love those girls. The best thing about him was how good a father he would have made; he was so nurturing, coloring with them, doing puzzles…. And thatʼs hard for a man whoʼs only 21! When I was a college boy I could barely take care of myself, let alone someone elseʼs kids. Man, theyʼll miss him like hell. Especially little Ellie, she used to tell her friends he was her brother. Drugs, right? Yeah, yeah me too. Yeah, I heard drugs.”

“He used to drive like a maniac—right, Alison?

Al, come on, you remember that! Youʼd sit in the back seat with me and Jimmy and heʼd go like—90 miles an hour or something—on the freeway. Which was just ridiculous. And heʼd drive with these horrible blue shoes that he just adored. They were hideous and old and ruined, but he never went anywhere without them. Al hid them once while he was sleeping. He freaked the next morning. That was back was he was 17. Itʼs been 4 years and now, even now, he still wears—well, still wore—them.”

“Well, what I remember most about him was, after his death, having one of his best friends, whose name is Pete, and who is also my brother, go around during his post-funeral quote unquote ʻluncheonʼ and record everyone saying their memories in some pseudoMartha Stewart way of grieving while I was trying to hurt in peace. How is that, Pete? Is that what you want?

Some stupid fucking shit I made up on the spot? There, I participated, I said my amazing memories of my amazing friend as if everything was cheerful and wonderful and that heʼll just waltz through the door any minute with that stupid grin on his stupid face and a three-week too late ʻApril Fools!ʼ or some shit like that. Are you happy now, Peter? Is that what you wanted? Then leave me alone.

All I wanna …I just wanna have some wine.”

“He was a good guy, I remember. We went to high school together. Played B-Ball. He sucked at it.

Even though he was so tall. And he wore a belt to gym class.”

“He was…very, very lonely, I remember. Terribly lonely. Lonely like Jesus was lonely, you know? Something about him couldnʼt be a part of everyone else. And he knew it. And he knew he couldnʼt change it. No matter what. And a lot of people at work didnʼt see that. So yeah, he was lonely. Lonely like that.”

“He was hilarious when he got drunk. Oh my God like, me, him, and Kelsi, weʼd do jello shots together. And first he was, like, completely against it. Ya know? ʻNo drinking ʻtil Iʼm 21!ʼ heʼd say. One of those.

Yeah. But damn, one day Jack slipped him some cranberry and vodka, and heʼs like, oh my God, his face was like this, and heʼs like, ʻWhyʼs this taste so funny, guys?ʼ Man, he got hammered. But he was so funny after that, ya know? And weʼd totally do jello shots as long as they werenʼt the black cherry kind. ʻCause man, he hated black cherry! Hahaha, I remember this one time…Emily, Em come over here! No, here, get away from the shrimp cocktail for once. Yeah, yeah, Em, you remember that one time, right? When he started dancing on the table at

Charlieʼs? Hah, yeah, yeah, that time! Haha, man, he was one of a kind, now wasnʼt he?”

“His favorite book was Hamlet. Wait. Well, thatʼs a play, right? Yeah…well then, his favorite play was Hamlet. I dunno what his favorite book was. But if Hamlet was a book, thatʼd be his favorite. Unless it was well…well, not by Shakespeare. Actually, Hamlet as a book wouldnʼt be the same as Hamlet as a play, so maybe even if Hamlet was a book, it still wouldnʼt be his favorite. But anyway, he loved this book, or this play, or whatever, probably because he loved Ophelia. He used to think she was tragic. He loved tragic things.”

“Hmm…what can I say about him? This isnʼt an appropriate time to talk about the fact that we fooled around, huh? No? Didnʼt think so. Iʼm joking, Iʼm joking!

He was too prude for that anyway. I doubt he ever fooled around with anyone. He wanted a serious girlfriend. ʻSerious as cancer!ʼ Yeah, thatʼs what he wanted. Not sure if he ever had that, though. Which is a shame.

21…psshh…21. Stupid fucker.”

“Why are you asking me anyway? Iʼm not writing the obit. For hell I am not. What do you want? A headstone response? ʻBeloved brother and friend?ʼ Is that it? Heʼs gone now, it doesnʼt count for shit was he was like. He could have been the greatest man alive, he could have swum across the Thames in three minutes or something, and it wouldnʼt matter. Youʼre too late. All that matters now is that heʼs dead.”

“He was…damn, what was he anyway? I think he was a Libra. Seriously, though, how am I supposed to summarize the entire life of a person while sitting here?

How can anyone summarize a life? We grew up together, we played with blocks. We used to sit on this same couch and share his NES. He cheated in Duck Hunt when we were seven and I donʼt think I ever forgave him.

I hope he didnʼt know about that.”

“When I got sick, that one time I was really, really sick, you remember? In the hospital, with pancreatitis. Yeah. Acute. Yeah, well, you know what he said to me? This is the kind of guy he was. He came to visit me when they still thought I was dying and said, ʻLil, donʼt worry. Who the fuck needs a pancreas anyway?ʼ Ha…yeah. That, now that, was just the type of guy he was.”

“He…he was my son. And, and no matter what he did, that stands. Of course I loved him, I mean, Iʼm his mother, how could I not? But he was…he was exhausting. Even as a child. Everything about him. Even now, even now heʼs exhausting. You know he used to sharpen his pencils 50 times before heʼd get them right? The day before his SATs—which, by the way, he got a 1250 on— he spent 3 hours—and no, I am not exaggerating—3 hours trying to sharpen pencils. Heʼd put them in the mechanical one, the one over there, by the fridge, and then even them out with a manual sharpener. And heʼd stop, in between, to inspect them, and if they werenʼt even heʼd sharpen them again. I tried watching him once, heʼd do this for hours, and look closely, and blow on them, and sharpen again. He was exhausting. He even…used to make me nervous. And…and I…I know you, Pete,

THE JUNCTION 46

TOLD CHRISTINA SQUITIERI youʼll understand. But…but everything he did was like that. Like those God-damned pencils.”

“I think I was a little bit in love with him when we were in 7th grade. He used to wear this…this blue Pink Floyd shirt, even though he hated them, because his best friend Robbie went to a concert and got it for him.

Because it made Robbie really happy to see him wear it.

Even though he hated it. So yeah, he was a good guy, and he always wanted people to smile. Even though he never smiled much himself. And then, well…with what Robbie did and everything…but yeah, but, even so, I think I was—always little bit in love with him.”

“I honestly hate the fucker. Yeah, heʼd talk about cutting himself, but then who the fuck doesnʼt nowadays?

We were stressed, we talked about it. He liked this chick named Holly Hunter, from his Modern British Poetry class. But he never talked about drugs. And yeah, he drank sometimes, but he never took sleeping pills in the first place. ʻAccidental overdose.ʼ Yeah right. You know they found like half a bottle of pills still in his stomach?

His blood was soaked with them. That is not accidental.

He promised heʼd come to my wedding, whenever it will be, like, 50 years from now, wearing that horrible powder-blue suit he had to wear for that show we did in high school. And the fucking jackass goes and ODs instead.

So yeah, I fucking hate him. Because he fucking broke his promise to me.”

“Wanna know what his favorite short story was?

It was that six-word long one by Hemingway: ʻFor sale baby shoes never worn.ʼ First time he read that story I told him Hemingway was implying the kid was simply born with big feet. I think he believed me for a second.

Not because heʼs an idiot, but because he wanted to.”

“He…he used to smell like…suntan lotion and the rain. At…at least to me. And when…when he would hug me, and because, because I really, really thought we could have had something, and because…because when he hugged me I knew I never wanted to be hugged by anyone again, just him…only him…and…I…more than I could explain…I just…but now—whatʼs even—why even…? He was…he was always there for me. And I— we—werenʼt we all always there for him? Didnʼt he know that I was always there for him? Why didnʼt he come to me, Pete? Why…why didnʼt he come to us? If he was hurting so bad…why…Iʼm sorry, Iʼm…sorry…Itʼs…Itʼs just…I…I told him everything, why didnʼt he…come to me?”

“Youʼre asking me to summarize him? I donʼt think thatʼs possible. I donʼt think itʼs possible to summarize anyone. You know, we always tell stories about people, about going to the beach one day and getting stung by a jellyfish or falling out of a tree and breaking your leg or another stupid anecdote. But those arenʼt the person. I could tell you about the time he bought me ice cream after I broke up with Dave, or how I dragged him onto a rollercoaster at Six Flags and he lost his sunglasses or something like that, but I couldnʼt tell you about him. I canʼt give you the story you want for the perfect obituary or memory album or whatever. Because every story I tell will be the wrong story. Every story I tell you will have an

THE JUNCTION 47

element of him, but wonʼt be him. So do you really want to know who he was? If you did, then youʼre too late. He was a boy. He lived. He died. Nothing more to say on that.”

“You know I cried when I found out? Lillian called me and gave me the news. But I think I cried because she was crying. Which is a terrible thing to say, I know, but he just…he was nothing special to me. He sat next to me in Chem Lecture. Heʼd draw starfish while taking notes. I borrowed his notes once, they were meticulous, except for the starfish. So thatʼs all I can really say about him. The only reason Iʼm here is for Lil. I mean, 21 years…21 years of living and breathing, and all I can think of…all that I remember about him…. Is that how you sum up a life? Thatʼs how I sum up his life. Starfish kid. The guy lived for 21 years and was friends with my girlfriend and thatʼs it. Thatʼs all I remember. Thatʼs all he was to me. He never moved me or touched me in any way. He just…was that kid. The one that used to draw a bunch of fricken starfish in the margins of his chem notes.”

Artwork By Ariana Costakes

IT MUST BE JORDAN E. FRANKLIN It Must Be It is customary to leave Your slippers at the side Of the bed when you Are creating First the left Then the right And with a shove To the backburner You are prepared To descend upon The mattress and stare Into the void of painted White walls The windows must be silent Their blinds not taking The appearance stolen from Chattering spring birdsStill and inviting They must beUnable to communicate Until the wind works The voice box.

Your eyes must

Be open and breathing Discerning every fragment From itself while your nostrils Must force in desperately Sought peace All the while you mutter To yourself in Surrealist binary code Taken from the Nearest muse.

Your toes must be Sleeping on their nails Only then can the floods Take over.

Photograph By Bushra Wazed

THE JUNCTION 48

CONTEMPLATION OF URINATION ALEX SCELSO

Contemplation of Urination

Photograph By Jacob Somers

THE JUNCTION 49

To pee or not to pee,---here is the problem: The rule states to not leave class During an exam that begins at the bell, Though my bladder screams out against regulations Freeze, stop pain, HOLD IT! To urinate— Ecstasy—Alleviating the painful tingling That makes time cease. The alarm rings In my mind—code yellow—No dam Can be built to hinder the path of the waterfall.

The tapping of my pen coincides with the anxious Shaking of my leg. In a flash I can Spring into action and the deed is done.

Nay, five minutes pass, yet the exam lays Blank, and insignificant. The task at hand Is not a superiorʼs form of torment But, that which my body inflicts To fight anotherʼs will with mine own.

To raise my hand and plead my case, Before a jury of my peers, subject to the same Restrictions, the weight of their stares on my bladder.

The teacher or judge, role interchangeable, states the verdict Aloud, saying to myself that which I wish to hear; It is yes, though only in my head.

Wishful thinking influences not reality, my face reads dread.

Can this be ignored? Is mind over matter potent Enough, to simply place the focus elsewhere?

Trembling leg be still--- the faster the page is filled With hurried words, the pain will disintegrate to nothingness.

But alas—forced concentration does not procrastinate Urination, the release and bodyʼs way to exhale.

Iʼve held it for much too long, and discomfort Outweighs the onus of nervousness. I run For the door, head down the stairs & rush to do The natural deed. Deliberation comes to a close, For if at once I do not speak, Upon the floor there be a leak. But soft— Jove, let there be hand soap!

TREE MICHAEL PRETTYMAN Tree The love blowing in my hair Makes green fire in the sky.

What will happen, when scurrying stops?

I始ve seen it, many many many many times.

The days and nights strobe by!

They are as water is to a fish.

The dark earth moves, and moves.

I eat and move into seedsthe little facts of me.

I become them, become them, and become them and send them into the clear light.

Everything about me, I send up.

But also down. Take a peek.

There are worms under my skirts.

It rains, or it doesn始t.

I make sugar, or I don始t.

Test me.

The ones you love will bury you.

They will plant you beneath the turf line And wail their tiny griefs.

Exalted one! Which one of us is the more aggrieved?

But you will grow up.

We will grow up and up Together With the love blowing in our hair And together shade the rubble Of your broken cities.

Then comes the clear light Here it comes Here it comes Here it comes.

Me: bat home bird home And a refuge for squirrels.

Moons and moons and moons go by.

I was busy, what can you do?

Here comes you again.

With your notebook.

I beg of you: from what are the pages made?

What made up your Mayflower?

I ask you: which one of us was flowering in May? You look at me with your eyes.

Think you that I do not have eyes?

I am all over eyes.

But I am not aggrieved by your murders.

Oh yes! Murders.

Chain-saws ax and fires.

Forgive you?

Ah strapling, Don始t you know this yet?

You were forgiven before you were even born.

Rootless one: You think yourself exalted, Because of scurrying.

Think you that other does not think? That other does not live?

Here is my life: I breathe in your poisons and my shit is oxygen.

Here is your life: A brief love that came from nothing and blew back into nothing.

What will happen, when your loves and murders are gone?

Photograph By Radelys Carmona

THE JUNCTION 50

THE SOLITUDE OF THE HOURS GEORGE DEL VALLE

The Solitude Of The Hours

Red-stained memories, forgotten, tapped against closed windows as children played a game of death whose rules have been forgotten.

The autumnal wind, staining every leaf colors of blue and deep purple— shades of decay —brought long yawns to the city of tired faces, of fallen leaves.

Where grandmother lay, the silent lilacs lowered their gaze as the lying moon lighted the silver lake of her awakening.

And upon her lax brow, the silent lilacs.

Dead cicadas beneath our daily procession.

Hallowed crunch: music of the coming frost. *** The children sleep in silence.

Burning leaves, barren trees.

The still shadow of the mother on the wall, in the room: the gentle madness of silence.

The sky remembers the solitude of the hours as coal-fingered dusk blankets our eyes in darkness, where red-stained memories are deigned to be forgotten: in the solitude of the hours.

THE JUNCTION 51

Photogaph By Victor V. Gurbo

AN ENDEARING TORNADO ALANA LINCHNER

Photograph By Radelys Carmona

An Endearing Tornado My words dance swiftly around your visage, pushing past the empty paint cans of love that lingers.

Laundry bags of futuristic dreams stock pile, while the heart grows cold and raggedy.

Eyes of endearment forget to look at the canvas of thoughts that have been plastered on my pupils.

IĘźve snatched pieces of time to project the world upon my mind, but things are rapidly repositioning themselves without me.

I am a mere statue in the mist of a pugnacious tornado.

Broken lights shut down the factory of scared eternalized thoughts.

A maroon jar bursts of silence as the lack of noise screams with obscene truth.

Translucent champagne glasses overflow with undeclared emotions of being, the only one to blame.

Never again should individuals be starved of a marvelous eclipse which transforms into a endless night of serendipity.

A delicate embrace of soft lips should constantly be recalled as constellations combine counting containers of charm.

Your Conservatory of Idle Hope has concealed the key from where your actual truth resides.

Look not toward the whispering but the murmur of the internal inferno.

THE JUNCTION 52

MOVING ON ALEXANDRA FILDERE Moving On You once lived in my head, or at least I lived in yours That night I shot you in the head It wasnʼt my doing I could never intentionally harm you Ten years have past since I saw you last I couldnʼt even ask how you were Instead, I talked about me, and about the children You just smiled that sheepish smile of yours What I really wanted to say is How are you?

But I didnʼt or maybe I couldnʼt That night, a little red Jaguar drove by No…it was a Corvette perhaps…

But I specifically remember red Blood thirty red I talked while you got shot In the head…

Two weeks later, I sent you an email With a Dear John undertone What I really wanted to say was donʼt do it Donʼt let me go Donʼt move on But instead, I reassured you I no longer wanted you, stuck in my head I did not want to pull the trigger So instead, I envisioned someone else A Stranger…thatʼs right He pulled the trigger Then released …in turn I released you.

Photograph By Victor V. Gurbo

THE JUNCTION 53

SISTER SLEEP DEEP (SEEKS VISITATION) INGRID FEENEY �sister sleep deep (seeks visitation)� these feather-thieve dreams steeped in tealeaves of jasmine of. bergomot and gunpowder. seething, serpentine dreams that bleed quietly in their riotous love for you. these dreams that speakspirit.morse-code-met aphysical-S.O.S. through clenched teeth and drench heaving breasts with the sweat and semen of delinquent specters. silent and secret and sacred and solid. these dreams whisper sea songs spun of el amanecer. with noble viking prow navigating the dragon-mist rivers of your sleeping spinal fluids.

These torrid dreams dreams stained with the ritual tasting of turmeric.

Dreams wherin---Chalk outlines talk about the confines of city blocks and how to grow endless moss forests inside a right angle.

In my dream this happens: from inside our bodies our bones speak splendid histories to each other and we drink deeply of this peace that hovers between us.

Photograph By Radelys Carmona

THE JUNCTION 54

SUMMER KERRY GERTNER

Summer

The blaring final school bell Sticky popsicle hands Spewing fire hydrants Clammy seats at baseball games Splotchy red mosquito bites Bathing suits small enough to fit a Chihuahua The salty taste of ocean water

Kerry Gertner

Photograph By Radelys Carmona

THE JUNCTION 55

FALL ZENA J MURPHY

Fall The orangey-red streaks in her fro remind me of the tree outside my window.

And like her changing leaves she s w a y s

in the breeze, reluctant to let go.

Photograph By Radelys Carmona

Photograph By Carole Ver Eecke

THE JUNCTION 56

SUNNY AFTERNOON KADIDA ADULA

Photograph By Radelys Carmona

Kadida Adula

Kadidia Adula Sunny afternoon As I sit beneath the arms of a cherry tree, Pink petals shed by its branches Form a soft, thick carpet.

Sunlight shines through leaves Burning their bellies in a light green fire.

My gaze turns towards the emerald waters of a lily pond.

As the fountains open their mouths wide, Droplets exclaim At the prospect of reunion with their fellows When they touch down.

The air is crisp and dry.

The smell of heated earth reaches me And I close my eyes.

It is all laughter and shrieks.

Tiny waves tickle my shins, An invitation to take part.

Enchanted by their antics, I find myself in the water with my shoes on still.

Photograph By Radelys Carmona

THE JUNCTION 57

BROOKLYN LOVE SONG/NARRATIVE OF STEAMPUNK WILLIE JOE PUGLIESI I was born to believe in Brooklyn.

Brooklyn Love Song These are not streets Iʼm used to walking, These are not streets I usually roam.

I try to leave while no one is looking.

I know I will be buried in Brooklyn.

Try to hide while no one is looking.

This place is nice, but not my home.

I was born bleeding, I believe in Brooklyn.

Listen to these streets, but no one is talking.

Call New York to hear her voice on the phone.

So I hide while no one is looking.

Brooklyn is my home.

For familiarity I search but Iʼm still looking, I walk these streets, Iʼm all alone.

I was born and bleed for Brooklyn.

The world spit steam. steam stemmed from roofs birds whistled steam trains sang it the wind whispered steam across the iron bridges through the drowning trees against the cold metal city into my lungs.

Thinking over all the places Iʼve been.

Follow the way which the wind is blown.

Try to hide on the other side of the looking glass for my past in Brooklyn, Iʼll make it back on my own.

Narrative of Steampunk Willie

Photograph By Ashley Cohen

THE JUNCTION 58

CRUCI-FICTION / EGGSHELL ANTICS YEVGENIY LEVITSKIY

Cruci-Fiction Deliverance in words spelled out as nonfiction, Our fiction in need of fixation, Dictation leads to limitation and ends in fabrication, Tell us of our wrong ways that shape our shapeless sphere of influence.

Harmonies sung in choruses by coarse voices, Glass-stained windows with an unremarkable mix of palettes, By an artist that was torched for his disbelief in a higher belief.

Sins committed under the guidance of the chose Tablets of tall tales and Ten Commandments And rules brought upon gullible fools who pray to you-know-who.

Eggshell Antics

Photograph By Carole Ver Eecke

The tempered priestess of modern myths came close to her destiny, A side of fate to the unforgotten royalty heir, Comes forth with a prophecy.

To die unremembered by all that claim themselves to be alive, or quote “Non-living.”

Beings of shedding truth from hidden agendas in todayʼs lethal world, By glanced memories of carcinogens inhaled by an open mouth.

Screams out letters furnished with glossy fonts and wide-grin expressions, Tinted with honor only a father or a well-established business man can provide, For profiting from published anecdotes is in its self, an anecdote.

A kind of petty theft that only resides in attics holding antiques, The tactics super-imposed and proposed to weary buyers, Who only came to accommodate the eager salesperson on a pending purchase?

It can be best said that mankind is prone to conceive flaws and cover up footprints, Leading up to the evergreen case of Humans vs. Nature, Where prosecutors are plants and plaintiffs are pigs.

Forgive me if I have confounded or bewildered you with my antics, I truly digress, and oppose all of the above.

THE JUNCTION 59

A LOVE POEM JACOB SOMERS

A Love Poem Iʼm faxing you a photocopy of a photograph of Jesus on the cross carved in wood by an Italian artist who died in the thirteenth century and across this image of an image of an image of a man Iʼm writing you this love poem with a black felt pen babey, this is reality and this is how i feel you and this is how far away we are and I realize that there is no speaking in my dreams and that these dreams are just subconcious renditions and weʼre all just falling through distorions of the truth like a building with glass floors just falling through until it stops

Photograph By Victor V. Gurbo

THE JUNCTION 60

KISSING IN VIETNAMESE OCEAN VUONG

Kissing in Vietnamese

My grandmother kisses as if bombs are bursting in the backyard, where mint and jasmine lace their perfumes through the kitchen window, as if somewhere, a body is falling apart and flames are making their way back through the intricacies of a young boyĘźs thigh, as if to walk out the door, your torso would dance from exit wounds.

Ocean Vuong

When my grandmother kisses, there would be no flashy smooching, no western music of pursed lips, she kisses as if to breathe you inside her, nose pressed to cheek so that your scent is relearned and your sweat pearls into drops of gold inside her lungs, as if while she holds you death also, is clutching your wrist.

My grandmother kisses as if history never ended, as if somewhere a body is still falling apart.

Photograph By Christina Squitieri

THE JUNCTION 61

THE MASTURBATION OF MEN OCEAN VUONG

The Masturbation of Men After he beat my mother, my father went to kneel in the bathroom until we heard his muffled cries bellow through the walls.

And so I learned: when a man climaxes, it is the closest thing to surrender.

A kind of forgetting—the face twisted in its exorcism of animal, the body shuddering from the shock of release.

And if this is the remedy to our masculine miasma, then forgive the ones who sit in blackened booths, confessing to screens lit with impossible bodies, forgive the priest who remembered to remove the rosary, and the man waiting in shadows, his hands itching for the curves of a body but decides to turn home, crawl into cold sheets and reach down into the warm exhale of his sex.

Because when we fail, all we have is this immediacy of pleasure: to close our weary eyes, rediscover the heartbeat, and like stupid boys, flee towards untouchable beauty.

Photograph By Victor V. Gurbo

THE JUNCTION 62

HAIKUS FROM THE NURSERY MIRIAM HARARI - SAVDIE

Haikus from the Nursery: A Window into the World of a New Mom

New Day? New day already?

Feels like itʼs still yesterday Wake me tomorrow.

Morning Hello Peek into the cribA cutie baby greets me With a wide-eyed cry.

Disproportions Tiny toes, baby hands, little nose, itʼs all small but my love for you.

What month are we in?

With a new baby Night and day meld into one Long stretch of no sleep.

Mom Makeup Purple under eyes, Cheeks and lips pale and paler; A new momʼs makeup.

Super Organized...Except where it Counts Diapers, check, wipes, check, Bagʼs all ready for doctor...

Hold up- whereʼs baby?!

First Impressions “Slept at all last night?”

“Nope.” “Got bags under your eyesYou a new mom? “Yep.”

Photograph by Christina Squitieri

THE JUNCTION 63

HAIKUS FROM THE NURSERY MIRIAM HARARI - SAVDIE Bad timing Phone in hand, “ring ring...

Leave a message— beeep.” “Hey, Jan“Waaaaah!” “ugh, bye.” Phone slam.

Something Money Canʼt Buy Diapers? Forty-two.

Wipes? Sixteen dollars a box.

Babeʼs first coo? Priceless.

Full-Time Job Take care of baby, Clean, cook...man comes home says, “So...

What you do all day?

What Not to Wear All dolled up to go Gonna be a nice evening [baby spits up] Home.

As the World Turns Hush little baby The world cannot stop for you Though it seems I do

Exhaustion Creeps In Iʼll love you always Even if it takes all night To get you to sleep

Perspective Nothingʼs more true: My Worst day with you is better Than my best without

What Iʼve Learned A room full of ten People laughing got nothing On a babyʼs smile

THE JUNCTION 64

QUEST FOR A DRESS MIRIAM HARARI - SAVDIE The Tale of New Mommy and Her Sisterʼs Quest for a Dress

The days following her childʼs birth drove all involved into a tizzy; New Mommyʼs slowly contracting girth kept Sisters quite busy.

“What size, what size?” they needed to know, for no one wanted a bug belly to show!

But alas, New Mommy had not a clueand with a newborn at home, she had better things to do!

So off the Sisters went, day in and day out, while of course the men couldnʼt grasp what the fuss was about; But every girl knows the importance of the right dressno one wants a hostess to look like a mess!

Finally, just as they were running out of time, Big Sister found the one, the dress thatʼd make New Mommy shine!

To make a short story come to its end,

Miriam Harari - Savdie for the dressmaker the Sisters did send, after which the dress made New Mommy look as pretty as could be, for that residual baby bump no one ever did see J

Photograph by Radelys Carmona

THE JUNCTION 65

A VIEW, A VERSE VICTOR V. GURBO & JOSEPH FRITSCH Photograph by Victor V. Gurbo

This road, I return to. here at the end, the curvature of my eyes Flattened upon it. convex and concave Converging on a negotiated dimension

Lines by Joseph Fritsch

THE JUNCTION 66

A SHADE OF REALITY ALANA LINCHNER A Shade Of Reality Truth, is constantly in motion.

It travels in the umbrella of language.

Turn your back on hope and go back inside.

It left me with a quarter and crimson letters that should reside in a museum.

Fairy tales that provide children a false sense of future expectations.

I observed happiness create a sentence, and the verb attacked the subject.

A wasteful sunrise that is not promising.

It glided through the cracks in emotional moments.

Is it still real after the thrill has gone into protective custody?

Pieces of fabric sewed together created judgments for others.

We loathe too quickly and we adore too slowly.

Heartache is an enzyme for a creative process.

Itʼs just a chaotic seesaw but, the truth is, everyone has their own war story.

Lights cheer at the acknowledgment of an event that is horribly beautiful.

Life isnʼt symmetrical, itʼs the effort to generate magnificence.

Scents of angels are surpassed by the deceitful stench of the city.

Paper, is just another way of eternalizing ideas.

Clouds create inkblots that rearrange brain waves.

A ruler that measures the vision of truth.

A malicious light switch that constructs a pure illusion of humanity.

Mirrors that capture authentic reflections.

The inability to hear the sound of time underneath the drops of anxiety.

Flammable bottles that expose precision.

Victims of opportunities that represent unworthy talent.

THE JUNCTION 67

Alana Linchner

ENGLISH MAJORSĘź OPEN MIC

i disappear in a cloud of ink that dilutes through oceanic and squid, and the implied hypoxia those words swim through

Can i love you through contradictions of language contradicting action? ideal against reality? Or would it not be you?

English MajorĘźs Open Mic! Once a semester, the English Department hosts its open mic.

Students are invited to come out and share their creative talents:

and i can communicate only through my hands such as this

*Poetry *Prose *Music *Performance All are welcomed!

and a final heave.

An expulsion that breaks me apart.

The relief, a bitter unsavory relief,

made the inside

of having out

Artists from all courses of study may sign-up on a list posted on the door of 3416 Boylan. Sign-up spaces are limited.

This is a great way to connect with others and experience the talent of the student body.

Lines by Joseph Fritsch

THE JUNCTION 68

Am I eligible for a scholarship?

Is there an honors program?

What courses do I need to graduate?

Are there any internship opportunities?

Where do I sign up for the open mic?

Visit the counseling office, 3416 Boylan, and find out how you can get the most out of your time at Brooklyn College.

You may be eligible for more than you realize.

Covers: Front by Victor V. Gurbo Back by Bushra Wazed

After weeks of blood, sweat, tears, and infinitely long Monday meetings, a new zine has arrived. Born from the ideas and effort of many (including a crack team of interns, pictured below) is a product that lives up to its new name, The Junction--something that is as much yours as it is ours. Thanks for reading.

Featuring Original Work by Joseph Fritsch Alana Linchner Christina Squitieri Stephanie Kammer Bushra Wazed Esther Naamat Andreia Boyar Zena J. Murphy Ashley Cohen Owen Rodda Jacob Somers Daniel Cohen Alex Scelso Radelys Carmona Victor V. Gurbo Carole Ver Eecke J.D. Crawford Rachel Benun Clifford Drouillard Rachel Weissman Kerri Byam Hana Malia Esther Naamat Celia Vargas Natalie Nuzzo Becca Fink Steven Liebowitz Theresa Detrich Cindy Jordan Ariana Costakes Jordan E. Franklin Michael Prettyman George Del Valle Alexandra Fildere Ingrid Feeney Kerry Gertner Kadida Adula Joe Pugliesi Yevgeniy Levitskiy Ocean Vuong Kenneth Swaby Miriam Harari-Savdie