The Junction 2021 by The Junction

EDITORS Carina Rivera

Angela E. Peguero

Jana Taoube

Joshua Randal Leonard Muskan Cheema Adana Harris Anthony Damon Maryam Ahmad

Dorette Dayan Vera Madej

Special Thanks to Carina Rivera, our Chief of Content Special Thanks to Muskan Cheema, our Chief of Art & Photography Special Thanks to Joshua Randal Leonard, our Chief of Formatting Special Thanks to Jana Taoube, for our Editor’s Page Charlene Catalano / “The Pier”

FROM THE EDITORS, A spring before and a spring after have left oceans of tears, clouds of happiness, and seeds of the future. An unseen devil of nature crept into the pores of our skin and in the liquids of our body leaving us suffocating in thought and in spirit. Bodies fell and posies decorated the right chest pockets of healthcare professionals. Soon after anger and years of continuous injustice, a fire was lit over deaths and murders with weapons mankind has gifted to mankind. Rights were questioned, justice seemed to be halted, and yet the headlines never stopped. Anxiety and depression and late-night thoughts quickly consumed the minds of so many and motivation proved to be futile. Pounds lost following Youtube sensations were quickly gained as the spring after quickly arrived. The beauty of nature is that it demands our attention and has the supreme power to carry on beyond that which mankind can capture. Time continued to pass and people found little knick-knacks and tricks on how to flourish and what it means to do so. The spring before and the spring after manifested to its inhabitants, in the most elegant and silent ways what it means to flourish. How finding the balance in life is much like finding the balance in a rattleback—understanding how to find the fine line between taking up too many nutrients from the soil and not taking nearly enough. It taught us the power of focusing on our own stems and petals and how to blossom into greatness. The spring before and the spring after taught us that a meadow is a meadow because of the beauty of attachment and love for one another. Beyond this page, you will see words and images shared with one another, which continue to allow us to embrace without having to touch and allow us to feel without being in a rush. We encourage everyone to find their voice through whatever mode they please so that you may flourish like the spring before and the spring after. Rest assured, dear reader, the contributors of this magazine have done it all with care and love and in hopes that its writers and readers can live their own truth. The spring before and the spring after will never end, even after all of mankind has perished; that thought should be enough to remind us that, though the world seems colorless, it is indeed bright and alive. The flowers that seem to die after they blossom and bloom always arrive again, reminding us to see the beauty where there seems to be none. So we challenge you, survivors, to find the beauty in all the seasons of your life so that you may look back and see the beauty and strength that is you. Your friends at the English Department, Riverrun

English Major’s Counseling Office thejunctionbc@gmail.com thejunctionjournal.wordpress.com Follow us on Facebook and Instagram @thejunctionbc 3

TABLE OF CONTENTS “Remind Me” - Imani Morgan (7) “It Is” - Adana Harris (8) “Dearest Father” - Frada Valdez (9) “Thunderstruck” - Angela E. Peguero (10) “colors” - Muskan Cheema (12) “Dear Mother” - Tania V. Mota (13) “Fragments” - Mariam Esa (14) “Homemade Recipe for Disaster” - Adana Harris (17) “What day is it again?” - Remsha Mahmood (18) “INFANTILE” - Melissa Morales (20) “all the vigor and the strength that time doth rob” - Annie Bratslavsky (20) “counting” - Muskan Cheema (21) “Glacial Glass” - Dylan Stybel (22) “The Thin Places” - Joshua Randal Leonard (24) “The Days Before Tomorrow” - Charlene Catalano (25) “London is Not Syria” - Dorette Dayan (26) “Who Am I?” - Anthony Damon (27) “HER” - Courtney Unique (28) “Charcoal” - Jana Taoube (31) “I’m Sandra Dee” - Dorette Dayan (32) “Notes On Fashion” - Joshua Randal Leonard (34) “Suppression of Self ” - Hannah Lazerowitz (36) “Ian” - Jana Taoube (37) “BC Blues” - Chaya Nachum (38) “fall story” - Vera Madej (40) “deteriorating” - Muskan Cheema (46) “Jong-hyun, Kim” - Jana Taoube (46) “Compulsions” - Chaya Nachum (48) “Woodland Hysteria” - Carina Rivera (51) “Gone Fishing” - Angela E. Peguero (52) “color me intrigued” - Kaniz Hossain (53) “Fragmented” - Carina Rivera (55) “Blush” - Angela E. Peguero (56) “Cafe of Emotions” - Eliel Mizrahi (58) “SPEAK” - Melissa Morales (58) 4

(59) Annalene Deleon - “Actually, I am Offended!” (60) Maryam Ahmad - “Listening” (61) Carolina Rosa Martinez - “Micro Story in Italian - Ispirazione” (62) Carina Rivera - “Consumed and Forgotten” (63) Matt Sheridan - “2012; A Requiem” (63) Melissa Morales - “The Seamstress” (64) Kaniz Hossain - “before you love a poet” (65) Shannon Wong - “Voice Box Altered By Disease” (66) Dorette Dayan - “Brooklyn Can Be” (68) Muskan Cheema - “do you remember” (69) Bren Tawil - “tyler ep. 8” (70) Adana Harris - “The Breathing Painting” (73) Imani Morgan - “Time” (74) Angela E. Peguero - “Spirit(s)” (77) Annie Bratslavsky - “To Die is To Have Lived” (77) Anthony Damon - “Late” (78) Bren Tawil - “72nd st” (80) Carolina Rosa Martinez - “Hidden Wounds Heridas Ocultas” (81) Owen Rodda - “The Maniac” (81) Dorette Dayan - “An Atheist’s Death” (82) Owen Rodda - “By the Rails” (83) Carina Rivera - “Stardust” (84) Tania V. Mota - “Ignorance” (86) Vera Madej - “/space cadet” (91) Anthony Damon - “Who’s There?” (92) Maryam Ahmad - “Writer’s Block” (93) Jasmine Elazm - “structuralist’s idiot manifesto” (94) Joshua Randal Leonard - “A Spring Cold” (95) Owen Rodda - “Faded Mansion” (96) Joshua Randal Leonard - “Things We Fear” (97) Dominic Grieco - “The Abyss, at Witching Hour” (98) Owen Rodda - “Elegy for Starr”

FEATURED ARTISTS Muskan Cheema (19) (22-23) (24) (45) (54) (66) Leah Livshits (12-13) (36) (51) (56-57) (65) (73) (96-97) Chaya Nachum (21) (26-27) (60) (81) Kate McGorry (48-49) (68-69) (79) (91) (95) (98) Carolina Rosa Martinez (52) (74-75) (80) Angela E. Peguero (82-83) (92) Adana Harris (6) (30) (32) Charlene Catalano (2) (5) (14) (16) Raisa Alexis N. Santos (35) (46) Leila Assif & Sean Carey (39) Semoy Booker (8) (29) John Chakos (10-11) Jose Casillas (37) (76) (84-85) Dorette Dayan (58) Mariam Esa (62-63) Bren Tawil (70-72) Special Thanks to Adana Harris, for our front cover

Charlene Catalano / “Brooklyn Bridge”

Adana Harris / “Sunflowers”

REMIND ME Imani Morgan

We all deserve to feel that we’re loved. To be hugged and touched. To be praised and reminded of all the accomplishments that we’ve done. Never mind that, because instead Words are thrown like knives and plates Used to break, intimidate, infuriate. No hugs and no kisses at home, Just reminders of what you did wrong What you didn’t do, what you should’ve done That shit can make you feel dumb Numb, down, worthless, defenseless. So remind me- remind me even after all that, I’m still loved. I learn that all my love is within, not needing anyone because I found me looking in. So remember- when there’s no one to you show you that love You stand tall and- hug on and- love on yourself And give yourself that love. You remind the inner you Cereal eating, cartoon watching you Mistakes making and secret keeping you Rock bottom, crying isolated you That there’s a rose coming out of you. Sunflowers sprouting in a green field with the sun shining down on you That you- are you, will always be you and will always love you. No one can walk in the shoes the way you do, the ones made for you. The ones molded out of mistakes and dirt With Love and hate This is you. This is for you. So I remind myself that above all, I am love.

It Is Adana Harris It is It, is… It, is… It, is. It is subtle; in the background of life. It whispers softly, in heaves and hiccups so gentle and quiet and unnoticeable when life is loud but still. When life is loud and moving, it matches the pace, and dances to the rhythm of the rain. When life is quiet and still, it vibrates the soul with its sound, waking the body, reminding it that it lives. It gently kisses the chest and tells her, “I’m here…I’m here…I’m here.” It is subtle; in the background of life. But at night, when things are silent, it becomes its loudest. It doesn’t ask to be noticed, but it is. It is noticed by the in-love, whose minds, infected by infatuation, filter their dreams with images of them. It cries, “I love! I love! I love!” It is noticed by the lonely, who find comfort in its company. It whispers, “I know. I know. I know.” It is noticed by the hopeless, who hold their breath and plead for the tic, tic, ticking to quiet for just a second…or forever. It tells them, “I can’t…I can’t…I can’t. I’m sorry…I’m sorry…I’m sorry.” It, is… It, is… It, is. It is sorry for disturbing the peace for the sake of life.

Semoy Booker

dearest father Frada Valdez Dearest father, The first to let me feel what real heartbreak is—the first to teach me about conditionality. Love is best served with a punch, a pull of an ear, four knuckles to the head. According to you, love loses its meaning if it’s not said with insults. You’ve completed your mission. I’ve picked up your words and now wear them on my chest as a badge. I’m prepackaged with the residue of your vexation. People often worry about me; My ruined ability to accept kindness, my luckless search for intimacy, finding love in the worst of places, all of this, owing them to you. Don’t worry, you are good to me. When you build my desks, fix my broken chairs. When you ask me to help you fill out legal forms. When you make me coffee. Though it’s not enough to forgive you, I still search every crevice for a green light. For your approval. For your acceptance. For a pat on the back. Give me something, please. Are you proud of me? Do you brag about me to your friends? Is there anything that reminds you of me? Will I ever prevail in your eyes? And how can I get there? I’m afraid of your silence. Distance seems to be our only form of currency. I hope you gift me the tenderness I so long for. Take your time with creating a definition of what fatherhood is. I will be here waiting. Please, be good to me. Heart and soul, be good to me. Let my head rest on your shoulder; please heal the wounds caused by you. Guide my arms so I can embrace you with a new meaning. Say, for once, that you have the capacity to love me, so that my words to you overflow with gratitude. Your proverbial language for love formed an epoch in my life. 9

THUNDERSTRUCK Angela E. Peguero

Maggie’s pupils rapidly dilated as her eyes scanned the last pages of Thunderstruck: Death, Electrified – Book V. Her palms grew damp as she made her way to the last paragraph of the international bestselling sci-fi/fantasy series. Jody Williams’ action always deeply affected Maggie, even after having read the series five or six times before. Suddenly, she heard a thud, thud, thud from outside. Her gray eyes quickly darted from the book to the front door. Whatever that sound was, it couldn’t possibly be as exciting as the ongoing battle in her hands. Two more thuds immediately followed by a jingle of keys filled Maggie’s ears with more distractions. The main door swung open and a 45-year-old Black woman, with a countenance that screamed too tired to care, but having no other choice entered. She huffed, “Maggie, get your head out of that book and come help me with this.” With eyes nailed to the written adventure, Maggie responded, “Ma, can’t it wait a few minutes?” Ma’s exhausted stare still had enough energy to throw daggers at her daughter regardless if she wouldn’t notice. “Chile, if you don’t get your behind up off that couch right this second,” she growled. Maggie knew better than to give Ma any more pushback. Her disappointed feet shuffled to where the blue laundry cart stood. Her lanky arms struggled to wheel the three bags into the main hallway. “Damn I don’t remember our clothes ever being this heavy,” Maggie quietly complained. Ma walked past her child and lugged the bloated Target canvas bag which hung on her left arm to the kitchen. She told Maggie, “Yeah, Raymond worked extra shifts this week, so his uniforms and all his other clothes are mixed in with everything else.” Of course, it’s because of Raymond. So much has changed since he moved in, Maggie thought. Maggie kept her strongly worded feelings about her mother’s much too young boyfriend and their bizarre relationship to herself. She needed to be on her best behavior if she was going to ask Ma for a favor. After neatly putting away (“Work smarter, not harder, my child,” chastised Ma when she saw her daughter hastily shoving clothes in drawers with no rhyme or reason) the clean sheets, towels, washcloths, shirts, and pants, Maggie donned her patience painstakingly while she helped her mother cook dinner. Ma hummed and swayed with “I Put A Spell On You” and other Nina Simone classics that filled the kitchen. The delicious scents of baked chicken, sweet potatoes, and green beans wafted throughout the house. Preparing the meal didn’t take as long as Maggie expected. They cooked only for two. “Ray won’t be eating with us tonight. He’s got some business to take care of.” Ma said while seasoning the meat, her words laced with melancholy. 10

John Chakos

* Maggie inhaled the food in what must certainly be record-breaking time and eagerly excused herself from the table. She began filling the dishwasher’s mouth with dingy dishes. While scraping burnt brown chicken bits off the Pyrex, Maggie carefully asked “Hey, Ma. Ma’am (Ma’am?) May I ask a question?” Ma joined her daughter in the kitchen and started to systematically wipe down each counter, though only one was messy. “Yes, you may,” she answered as John Coltrane’s horn poured out of the speakers. Maggie delicately arranged the plates in size order inside the machine’s plastic teeth. She inhaled deeply and directed the request to her mother’s stiff back: “So, you know how much I love reading and you know how the Thunderstruck series is probably my all-time favorite. Actually, it is my all-time fave. Well, um, the newest book is coming out this weekend and I know we usually wait a couple of weeks until the library has copies, but I really, really, REALLY want to own the book as soon as possible. It’s the last one. I know you work hard for your money and, um, and you just paid the rent and other bills, but—” Ma turned to face her daughter. Her almost black eyes kept steady contact with Maggie’s silvery irises. She interjected Maggie’s plea, “Remind me again why you love reading these books so much.” Maggie’s face illuminated before she even spoke. Enthusiasm saturated her words. “Jody is such a great writer. I wish I could write as good as them. The action sequences are so good! They know exactly what phrases to use and the characters are constructed so well. I love how I can hate someone like Daniel in one book and then the next I’m crying because he’s hurting. They created a world that I can fully and happily escape into. I really appreciate that. I need the escape.” Maggie whispered the last four words. Ma felt a sharp ache in her heart. Her daughter’s agony always shattered her spirit. She remembered how Maggie spent almost all her free time with her head buried in a book lately. The pieces of the nearly finished mental puzzle connected to paint a coherent picture. She knew her daughter love to read but had no idea what it truly meant to her soul. Ma firmly understood: literature is a lyrical salve to Maggie. Ma’s eyes began to water. She walked over to her daughter and took the sticky plastic cup out of her hand. She pulled Maggie into her arms and let her sweet youthful scents –coconut oil, berries, and candy–fill her nose. As she held her, Ma’s tears stained her cheeks glossy. She let go and cupped Maggie’s cheeks in her calloused hands. “Ma, I’m sorry! What happ–?” Maggie began. Her mother cut her off declaring, “Nothing happened, babygirl. You got it. We’ll go to the bookstore and get the book before my shift on Saturday.” “Aww ma, really?! Thank you, thank you, THANK YOU!!” Maggie squealed. Ma smiled and reminded her daughter, “You’ll have to get up early though. Like 8 AM early.” Maggie cheerfully blurted, “Oh I don’t care about the time! There isn’t an hour too early or late for Thunderstruck!” Without asking if she could be excused from the remaining chores, Maggie ran back to the living room couch and picked up the 400 plus pages novel, her eyes knowing exactly where she left off hours before. 11

colors Muskan Cheema The easiest thing to do would be to trace her life in colors. I remember it was one night during Ramadan, well after sundown so that we had already broken our fasts hours before, with the exception of my father, absent as he was from our home on this night, and most nights. I was sat on the carpeted floor of my family room in between my mother’s legs, her on the couch above me. The scent of castor oil permeated the air as she slathered the thick oil into my hair and slicked it behind my ears. She pulled at the strands of my hair, her own bodily tension making its way into the taut braids that she weaved, handling them the same way she would handle my father once he came home. With my left hand I popped a date into her mouth every so often, then waited patiently before reaching up again to collect the pits in my nervous palm. With my right, I picked at the tufts of carpet hair, pulling them up as an anxious preoccupation. It was in the middle of this that my father came home, swaying, and the stale stench of beer mingled with the scent of the oil. Outside, in the peak of summer, flowers bloomed and new life began. In the four walls of my home, there was only decay. I think of this night often. It was not too long before reddish hues became permanent residents in the whites of my mother’s brown eyes. Despair came like a thief and stole the pink of her cheeks away. The grayness of her world settled into the crevices of her face, underneath her eyes, in her brow bone, in the corners of her mouth. I can’t remember if her face held the image of fear, or if I had merely placed it there, a reflection of my own unrest.

Leah Livshits / “Morning Fog”

DEAR MOTHER Tania V. Moto To my beautiful mother, Raquel, the sweetest, kindest, most selfless woman I’ve ever known

Dear Mother You exist in every space of my still convalescing mind Exhausted by futile attempts to bring you back when I close my eyes acquiescing to but a memory of you And the only place where the ineffable finds utterance that only God can comprehend I have written a letter to God with tears of blood from my broken soul and I’ve appended all my love to it and sealed it with a kiss begging for one ardent wish I’ve consigned all my pain and sorrow to the abyss of my heart for now but it bursts out of the moons of my eyes in the quiet of the night When I see you in my dreams dreams reminiscent of better times when I had your sweet demure smile and your eyes that sang me a kind song A song that said “things will be better tomorrow” and you taught me to believe

Under a pink sky in autumn and a horizon I can see that now seems remote and inaccessible I sojourned in reality but fain to dream where I can rest from this pain when I can see you again “Have more faith” you always told me, but dear mother, you’d be happy to know I’m holding on with the grip of a lioness I’m holding on holding on to a hope holding on to faith to a promise yet to be fulfilled I was there with you in spirit You were never alone.

Charlene Catalano / “The Marsh”

FRAGMENTS Mariam Esa My heart was crying. In the absence of physical tears, my heart took up the task and wept. I was curled up in my bed, hugging my pillow in a futile attempt to comfort myself, and staring deeply and absentmindedly at the R2-D2 figure in my hand. She had excused herself from the guests downstairs not five minutes after they had returned from the cemetery. She never understood why people had to follow you home afterwards— lingering, mingling, snacking on finger sandwiches and crackers, sipping on various refreshments— couldn’t they see they were intruding? Didn’t they understand that all she wanted was to be left in peace? No, not peace. That was too big a grace to hope for. Solitude. All she could ask, all she could hope for right now, was solitude. But she could still hear everyone downstairs. If anything, there seemed to be more people. Voices 14

whispering and chattering away floated faintly to her, but she made no effort to decipher them. She had heard enough whispers and chatters this morning. Whispers of, “That poor girl and her father” and of, “Another tragedy for the Matthews. Oh how dreadful.” It was all she heard at every turn. People nudging one another, nodding in my family’s direction, throwing pitiful looks our way. It was deafening. My door slowly creaked open. “Laura?” It was Sarah. My best friend. I thought of just shutting my eyes, pretending to be asleep, but decided against it. Doing that felt as if it would be a tear in our friendship, and I know how easily threads can come undone, even with the smallest of tears. So I sat up instead. She came and sat beside me, taking my hand in hers and giving it a light squeeze. She said nothing and I was grateful for it. She would never push me to talk. She didn’t the last

time and I know she won’t this time. I broke the silence. “I have to go down, don’t I?” She let out a deep sigh and looked over at me. “You don’t have to do anything.” But we both knew it would probably be best to go down. Get it over with, in a manner of speaking. I stood up and walked over to the mirror. I didn’t have enough energy to cringe at the sight. My brown eyes were dull and weighed down by the bags beneath them; they weren’t as puffy anymore, however, so there’s that. The simple black dress I wore, which hung much looser than it would’ve a week ago, reached my knees and had gotten a bit wrinkled in my curled up state. My pantyhose, a faded black around the knees, had gotten a bit turned around the ankles. Sarah came over with a clip and began to brush my loose curls out of my face with her fingers. I shook my head at the clip and she put it back on my dresser. I smoothed my dress halfheartedly. It was almost frightening how distant I felt from my reflection. I focused on Sarah to ground me. Her reddish-brown waves and hazel-green eyes were friendly and familiar and I took a few breaths to steady myself. And then, “It’s my fault.” My friend’s face crumpled a bit at this statement, whether because of its meaning or because of the broken, resigned manner in which they left my lips. She met my eyes in the mirror. “No, it isn’t.” “My dad hates me.” Sarah placed a hand on my shoulder and turned me around to face her. She grasped both my shoulders once I was turned about and forced me to meet her gaze. “He doesn’t. He’s hurting. You’re hurting. You need each other. Now more than ever.” I said nothing. And when she suggested we go down and find him, I shrugged. I was right. More people had arrived. I moved through them with no clear direction in my mind. I nodded at their condolences, offered quiet Thank you’s and moved along. I stayed alongside my grandmother for some time. She had begun sobbing

again when she saw me and I held her hand and guided her to a seat and comforted her as much as a griever could. Sarah stayed by me, leaving only to occasionally refill the refreshments and restock the platters. We were in the corner of the living room, by the window, when the chattering around me began to take form. “The poor boy,” I heard Mrs. Daniels, my old piano teacher and president of the local Book Club, say. “He ran out after his sister, you know.” This was met with gasps and shocked expressions from the cluster of people she was speaking to. “Poor child ran out right after her. Apparently, she ran out of the house distraught, nearly in tears according to Mrs. Mason from next door.” I had run out distraught. Luke, oh sweet Luke, he had called me “Mama,” and it was too much for me. The idea that he was already forgetting our mother struck me hard and I couldn’t handle it. I ran. I ran out of the house without another thought, and down to the lake. I cried there. Cried until I could breathe again. And then, after calming myself down, gathering my thoughts, I began to make my way home, resolved to tell Luke all the stories I could think of about our mother. I had nearly fourteen years with her, he only had four; it was my responsibility to make sure he knows her, remembers her. That all came crashing down with the sound of sirens and red flashes that I was met with when I turned onto my street. “She was too far off to hear him, of course,” Mrs. Daniels went on, “Too far to have helped even if she had. She only learned what happened when she returned nearly an hour later. What with the streets flooded with sirens and people.” She paused to take a sip of her drink and then continued, “Mr. Matthews was already at the hospital by then so Mrs. Mason was the one to tell her. She saw the whole thing, of course, having been sitting out on the porch the whole time.” Sarah was trying to tug me away, whispering pleas of “Let’s go,” but I was frozen.

Mrs. Daniels’ voice the only one I was fully attuned to at the moment. “The sound of burning rubber made her look up. It happened far too quickly. He couldn’t have suffered. Oh, the poor child.” I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding and let Sarah, finally, pull me away from the room. She led me to the kitchen and immediately went to get me a cup of water. I took a sip from it before spotting my father going down the hall, to his study, very likely. I handed the cup back to Sarah and she took it wordlessly, having followed my gaze. She nodded to me and I was off. I slowly opened the door to the study and saw my dad was sitting in his armchair, a drink in his hand. His tie was already hanging loose around his neck. I hesitated in the doorway for a moment. “Dad?” He didn’t respond, but he shifted a bit in his seat, which meant he had heard me. I tentatively made my way into the room. “Dad? I..uh..I just wanted to say...I’m sorry Dad. I’m so, so sorry. I never..I can’t..” my whispered voice, which seemed to echo in the room, flickered out. I saw my dad’s gaze flicker my way momentarily. The silence that followed stretched into a chasm between us, growing with every passing moment. My father put his drink down and stood up. He cleared his throat, and looked in my direction— looking past me more than at me. “It was an accident.” And with that, he left the room. The fractures in their relationship, ever since her mother passed the year before, had spread like spiderwebs in the wake of her brother’s death. But now, as he spoke to her, looked through her, and walked away from her, she saw it completely shatter. The chasm between us had become too deep and too far to ever hope to cross. Laura Matthews was without a family.

Charlene Catalano / “Reeds in the Wind”

HOMEMADE RECIPE FOR DISASTER Adana Harris INGREDIENTS 1 bouquet of flowers 2 tablespoons of extra sweetness 1 tablespoon of bills and problems ½ teaspoon of extra, unnecessary saltiness 1 cup of milking the crap out of it 1 egg 2 tablespoons of victim mentality and obsessiveness STEP 1 Take your desperation for a partner on Valentine’s Day and pick a random date on a dating app even though you’ve spent the past few months skipping everyone you came across because “They just don’t meet my standards, you know?” STEP 2 Meet them at a restaurant with outdoor dining just in case something comes up and you “gotta’ run!” Bring them a bouquet of flowers, preferably red roses like the ones you saw in their picture on Instagram when you stalked them to make sure they wouldn’t “Lifetime” stalk you if things went south. The date will go great if you add the right amount of sweetness. Laugh at their dry humor even though it will get under your skin after a while because let’s face it, you haven’t had anyone even touch your skin in a while, and if you can look past their weird quirks, there’s a chance “they might be the one.” STEP 3 Move in together even though both of your parents warned you two that “it’s a little dangerous” and “you’re both in the honeymoon phase of your relationship and that quirk you hate will be the only thing you see in them soon.” After a month or two, you’ll start to see it. Within the mix of flowers every Wednesday and sweet comments every once in a while, the dry humor will become dryer and dryer, and the bills and problems will add a sprinkle of unwanted tension to the already bare relationship. You can both start saying salty comments under your breaths. Those will quickly grow into bitter yelling matches that can be resolved if you just talk your problems over – but let’s not do that. This is the recipe for homemade disaster, remember? So, the next step is… STEP 4 Get married! Ignore the fact that you yell and fight and bicker most of the time because those smaller, sweeter moments somehow outweigh the fact that neither of you ever liked flowers and now use them as a way to get under each other’s skin every Wednesday. Let’s continue the tradition! You should both find ways to annoy each other and whine about it, while the bills and problems pile and the house grows overheated with unresolved issues. Add milking your partner’s shame as well. There will be a point where you want it to stop. You love each other…or the idea of the people you both can probably be if you didn’t let it get this far. Don’t try to figure it out. Don’t go to counseling. Let’s not actually do something about YOU. Let’s bring another person into the mix – Let’s have a BABY! STEP 5 Now that you’ve brought another person into your burning household, let’s begin the final step. Mix the negative energy until it all becomes clusters and clumps of confusion and hate. Your salty hatred for one another will grow so great that it will completely overpower the sweet love you shared. Let your hatred spread to that little person you’ve both created because that little person that YOU made together will become the only sweet thing you both share. They, a child, will become the crutch holding your disaster together while you both see yourselves as the victims of your predicament and become obsessed with what could have been; while that person wonders whether they were the recipe for your disaster. ENJOY. 17

WHAT DAY IS IT AGAIN? Remsha Mahmood “It’s my birthday today, but where has the excitement gone? Another day in the life of a pathetic adult holding on to what’s left of her childhood. When will there be something new? I’m drowning in the sound of that stupid happy birthday song as I choke on the air, yelling at everyone around me. I close my eyes, just to open them to nobody there? After all, it was just a dream. Not a day goes by where I don’t want to die, or break down and cry. I’m filled with anxiety as I fall farther away from the expectations of my family and society. I wonder, why am I like this? My life is not all that bad. I wake up, go to class, help with chores, go to sleep, and repeat. But maybe that is exactly what the problem is. I constantly come up with stupid jokes, rarely ever acting seriously. My friends and family are growing more tired of me, begging me to stop, yet the truth is, I too, am tired of this façade. I am tired, yet I can’t seem to let this act go, for it is the only way I am able to escape the realities of this tiresome world. I continue reading through the book of life only to find myself back in chapter one. I frantically skip through the pages looking for the “the end,” but it seems to be a never-ending story. When will this torture end? My heart says soon, and my mind says never. I was lied to, I will never find my prince charming, I can’t be who I wanna be, and I will never have my happily ever after. I grew up with the false hope of someday being the successful woman I want to be and being a part of a happy and loving family, but that too is my fault, because as I watched Barbie and Cinderella living their life, I always seemed to forget that it’s all just a huge fantasy. As I am mocked for my multiple failures in life by my friends, family, and society and my heart aches for approval, I run after the footsteps of those who surround me, just for me to slip and fall right back. I wipe away the tears and run faster than before only to be hit with more reproval. Yet even after all that, I can’t seem to bring myself to hate them, I want to leave everything and everyone behind but for some reason I find myself searching for those people again under all the mayhem. My heart beats faster and faster as I look back and hear the gut-wrenching screams of those who have failed before me. The constant fear and worry consume me. Will I end up just like them? No, I must not. I pick up my things as everyone is picking up the pace, no matter how hard I try I just can’t seem to keep up in this race. Is this what I really want? What is the reward? Is the approval I yearn for worth the further degradation of my mental health? I feel myself being torn evermore, as my heart and mind continue playing tug of war. I continue pushing through as I wait for my name to be written in someone’s death note. While everyone is riding a plane I find myself looking for a boat. When will the torture end? I can’t find the answer, but I have found a way out. Is it worth it though? Or should I wait it out? Is everything really as it seems to be? Is there another route? I have no idea what to do. Does everyone really hate me, or is it just my own point of view? I can’t seem to find the answers, and my escape seems to get clearer. As I wait for this letter to be found, I realize how bad this may sound. But I feel that I must end with an apology, because although I am not quite sure if this has hurt you, just remember I will always love you, my beautiful friends, and family.” As I continue rereading this note I have written, I find myself staring back at this rope I have hung. I’ve been sitting here for hours now, but as I check my phone continuing to stall, all it took was a text from my sister saying “Happy birthday, as hard as it is to admit I love you Inaya.” to stop me from ending it all, and I decide to continue pushing through, as I remember that once, giving up was something even I used to condemn. I am willing to continue this life of unbreakable routine, as I wake up the next day asking myself once more, “What day is it again?” 18

Muskan Cheema/ “Northern Rain”

INFANTILE Melissa Morales pacifier for a muzzle contorted in normalcy crawling into constraint of the cage fingers in mouth taste of ignorance on the tongue paper blue tears glued onto the cheeks picture perfect baby girl sitting on the crooked horse from the carousel its syncopation of music bleeding out the slap of oblivion coddled into the reign of shadows shoelaces untied tripping over her own feet trying to walk in the world of a cradle teddy bears strewn haphazardly cotton giving up and out stretching into manacles for a doll-face mask and a doll-made house crayons telling the stories of yellowed secrets and lies crying over spilt milk and the way it becomes a whirlpool burning cup of alphabet soup gone expired spoon-fed into the child too many years old

all the vigor and the strength that time doth rob Annie Bratslavsky all the vigor and the strength that time doth rob, are added to its shelved collections of all things macabre: from an elderly uncouth to their long-forgotten youth from their aches, their groans, their pains their distinctive varicose veins from their missing rows of teeth to the expectation that they’ll bequeath their whole life’s worth of possessions through those meaningless successions, wherein the young and clueless do take off, feeling THEY’RE exempt (oh how i scoff) from the unyielding and relentless truth that intoxicates time as would a fine vermouth: in all of time’s eternity youth is but a brevity. time feeds off decay and rot of which our bodies are fully fraught. this thought is sure to bring dismay, that to time, we are but prey. this, i suppose, does not suit mortal preference: for we feel entitled to at least SOME deference but alas, there’s no escaping; we are all due a timely raping. and so the proverbial dust will never settle, just collect as we repeat the same cycle of mortality: reject, reflect, expect. . .

counting Muskan Cheema eleven is the sizzle of a flat iron on wet hair ― straight in the front, frizzy and tangled in the back, skinny jeans ripped at the knee, envy of my sister’s bras in our shared dresser twelve is curse words in Russian, boys touch me and i let them, girls talk about their periods, resentment in my mother’s car, still youth that doesn’t know it, still spitting cherry pits thirteen is just three strawberries all day, feet on the scale in the mornings, pictures of the sunset after a thunderstorm in the summer, you always make something more of the rain, letting go of the wrong people, becoming the wrong people fourteen is blonde jealousy, jokes at your own expense, dirty white Converse, our thighs touch on the subway and we pretend not to notice, letters home from school, boys touch me and i don’t let them but they do it anyway, strange men call you honey and you cry fifteen is birthday parties, eyes red half-baked, trains back and forth, we hold hands in your pocket, cranberry juice, trips to the police station, friends that look like me, you’re lying to everyone, pictures at MOMA sixteen is yesterday’s makeup, standing in front of the liquor store, he still wants to know what you did last year, stolen umbrellas, box bleached hair, your voice cracks everywhere, blocked numbers, you’ll never be more alive than you were last february seventeen is enough said, you get the point. eighteen is forgetting how you got to school, you go to every park in the city looking for something that you never find, stolen goods, damaged goods, rum and coke, five dollars every day, secrets in the staircase, puddles on the sidewalk, glitter, anxious palms

twenty is settling, it’s crumbling, it’s losing, it’s winding down and being wound up, it’s insecurity, it’s betrayal, it’s imposter syndrome, it’s double lives, it’s playing for keeps twenty-one is too close to call, driving through the fog, smudges on the camera, it’s inside a box you can’t touch yet

Chaya Nachum

nineteen is a promise, covering up, being skinny when you don’t think about it, binge-eating, hair curls, fingers curls, smoke curls, you don’t speak that whole year, white shirts that don’t belong to you, who have you seen for the last time

Muskan Cheema / “On the Road”

GLACIAL GLASS Dylan Stybel

Leopold was quite the outsider. He had not been on the dating scene since a divorce several years ago, as his personal values had changed too drastically for his former spouse to accept. Leopold went bald at a much earlier age than any of his male ancestors, and struggled throughout his life to form strong relationships with any of them. Over the years, he had grown distant from his friends, as he developed antisocial tendencies, for unknown reasons. Now, Leopold lived on the outskirts of a city, remaining isolated, residing alone in his small house, and unable to see any buildings or even any trace of community due to the thick forest. He almost never spoke to anyone outside of his job, but did not display many signs of loneliness, perhaps because he was used to it, or perhaps because he did not know how to feel lonely. Leopold always thought of himself as having been robbed of his childhood. His parents were overprotective and pushed him to study at home rather than play with the few friends he knew. Despite this setback, his parents would always reward his perfect test scores with model toy vehicles. Leopold, once he finished studying, would play with them for hours. He just couldn’t get enough of the cars. Even in his age, Leopold would dream of being an innocent child once again, playing with toy cars. Naturally, he kept some at his current home, but was so exhausted after long shifts at work that he would rarely get a chance to let himself cut loose again.

Unable to play with toy cars, Leopold had to drive his real car to work every morning at 5 o’clock. He would wake up incredibly tired and drowsy, but a cool, ice cold shower always helped him start the day. Unlike toy cars, a real car required gas, and that required money. The local Mobilgas station, on the one road between Leopold’s house and the rest of the city, had a poor reputation. It was always open, but Leopold had never seen anyone work nor purchase gasoline there. He would always fill up on gas at a different station in town, but had forgotten to do so after he was completely debilitated from work on one particular day. The next morning, Leopold woke up late and his car was low on gas. He had no time to spare, not even for a shower nor a breakfast, and especially not a stop at the gas station across town. He reluctantly and quickly paid a visit to the local Mobilgas station. It was the early morning, and the lights above the pumps at the station were left on from the night time. The chill of the early day lingered in the air, but Leopold was able to handle the cold easily. His stomach was empty and his skin was dessicated, but his mind could think as clearly as ever. Leopold calmly filled up his car with cheap gas. While he was fiddling with the pump, it suddenly stopped working as his car’s fuel tank approached full capacity. Leopold waited a couple of minutes to see if the job would be completed, but soon grew impatient. He then turned around, only to realize that the car was missing! Leopold’s heart sank, and he felt as though he had just been squashed under a huge mass of reinforced concrete. He then faced the pump, leaned in against it, and wept. Leopold knew that if he was late for work, his boss may fire him. Now, he could feel the frigid air, the irritation of his skin, and the freezing of his brain. Leopold was so overwhelmed by what had just occurred, he did not even notice the sun rise, a scenery he always loved to spectate on his drive to work. In the moment, it felt like a traumatizing experience, or maybe even a cruel trick played on him by the horrible universe. Feeling defeated, Leopold took a nervous and humiliating stroll back home, to the nearest phone, even though he had never even used it, nor had he ever traveled this way on foot before. However, once Leopold got home, the feeling of sorrow and sadness had seemingly left him, and the whole experience felt oddly liberating. He decided to play with some of his toy cars, and as the hours passed by, Leopold could not help but wonder why it took so long for someone to rob him of his adulthood.

THE THIN PLACES

Muskan Cheema / “Cabin”

Joshua Randal Leonard When I think about you, I think about the thin places... ...about the people we were before the world coated itself on us like the paint on the old fence back on the farm. The fence that isn’t ours anymore, that cut off the field from the cemetery beyond. You remember... don’t you? As children, we’d sit on that fence and scratch away at the paint, peeling back the layers, peeling backward in time. “Why would anyone paint this old fence,” I would ask. Black. Grey. Green. Red. “Why red,” you asked when the first hint of cherry peeked through. We would try to imagine who those people were—the ones that came before—that decided to paint a fence only cattle and the dead would see. When we weren’t scratching at the fence, we were scratching at the barn—painted to match layer by layer. A whole corner was stripped bare by our hands, down to the brown beneath, free of what they thought and old barn should be like. That was what we were doing: setting the farm free. When we were teenagers, we braved the hornet’s nest behind the barn, just passed the bramble bushes, where the ticks liked to crawl up our legs. But the hornets didn’t like us being there. My finger swelled like a sausage, but still we scratched. My fingernail, purple and angry, caught on the wood and peeled off with the paint, but still I scratched. My throat shut, my eyes closed... but still I scratch. The farm isn’t ours anymore. It’s theirs—the ones that came after. After I moved beyond our old fence and you moved away. And just like the ones that came before, the ones that came after added another layer of paint. A nice sage. But I still think about those places on the farm where the layers are thin. When our layers were thin. Thin from our hands. No matter how many layers they add, those thin places will be ours. And I will still scratch.

THE DAYS BEFORE TOMORROW Charlene Catalano

We’ve fallen and broken And cracked and crumbled To the point where our friendship is but particles of dust Floating through the stale air of a summer morning And though we sing our sweet tunes And dance upon the concrete in a fight to forget the memories To erase what once was, I can’t help but ask myself, Do you still remember? Do you remember the highline? How we spent hours upon hours walking unknown trails In an effort to take us somewhere, Anywhere Being stubborn, I refused to check the weather It was the only day we afforded each other No way was it going to rain on this day of all days But low and behold… thunder The grey clouds rushing in As we sought cover under the tiniest umbrella known to man Our soggy white sneakers hitting the old wooden planks While we made a break for it And the scared look on your face When you thought that amongst all of this chaos, All of this drama, There was an opera singer chasing after us The notes stirring the crazed weather that engulfed us Only for us to realize that the highline has speakers Which… Apparently play opera music when it rains

Chaya Nachum

LONDON IS NOT SYRIA

Dorette Dayan There are three sides to every story. Just like there are three sides to every triangle. The Gravesend Triangle is the intersection between Avenues V and W in Brooklyn and marks the beginning of Gravesend Neck Road. To gardeners, the Gravesend Triangle is home to London Planetrees, which develop in the European wild and are cultivated in the United States. To historians, the Gravesend Triangle is a commemoration of the first English settlement in New York, Gravesend. But to me, the Gravesend Triangle is the bridge between me and my best friend, Sarah. I’m lucky, because I grew up with my best friend living only one block and a triangle away from me. In middle school, when we took the city bus home together, we would always get off on Avenue V, because it was equidistant from both of our houses. Once we arrived at the triangle, we always paused to talk, because somehow we always ended up by the triangle at the climax of some heated conversation, probably relating to existentialism or how one of us was worried that we’re still single. In high school, we made a rule that we each always had to walk the other to the corners of our blocks so that we each walked the same amount alone. In high school, we made a rule that whenever we walked to each other’s houses we had to take the same exact route, passing the triangle, and had to walk on the side of the block of each of our respective houses so as not to accidentally miss each other. In high school, we made a rule that we would always share information with each other, “uploading the data” to our metaphorical iCloud. In high school, we pretended that our houses were connected by a

secret tunnel that allowed easy access to the other at any hour of the day or night, especially when we had major drama to share. In high school, we pretended that we had telepathy and could send messages to each other through this metaphysical tube that connected our minds. In high school, whenever one of us was going through some sort of depressing experience, we’d always get each other a Carvelanche from the nearby Carvel. In high school, there was this quotation that I loved: “If you don’t like where you are, move. You are not a tree.” I was intrigued by this statement that demanded I seize control of my life and make it my own. How inspiring this must have been for a sixteen-year-old to read! Yet, as I sit here writing this paper, I realize that all people really want to be are trees. People like routines, people like being grounded and rooted to one spot. If a tree is uprooted can it ever truly thrive when it is forcefully removed from its natural habitat? It is traumatic when one is ripped away from your home and forced to start again in a strange land. The London Planetree is native to Europe yet exists in Brooklyn. Sushi is native to Asia yet exists in Brooklyn. Anti-Semitism is native to Europe yet exists in Brooklyn. My family is native to Egypt and Syria yet exists in Brooklyn. Sarah’s family is native to Iran and Syria yet exists in Brooklyn. And just like the London Planetrees, we somehow all ended up here, in Gravesend, Brooklyn. Yet somehow, despite all of the pain and hardships, the trees learn to thrive in this new environment. They are adaptable, like human beings, as we’ve clearly seen through the ongoing study of evolution. Last semester, I wrote a research paper about the Jewish Syrian community of

Aleppo and following those months of research, I learned a valuable lesson. I concluded my paper with the following statement: “This is not a story of victimhood. It is a story of hope, survival, and renewal. A phoenix dies in an envelope of fire but emerges more beautiful and marvelous than before. So too did Syrian Jews burn, but rose from those ashes more glorious than ever.” The introduction to Sarah’s mom’s memoir, about her life as a young Jewish woman in Iran during the civil war, contains the same message with the same words: hope, survival, and renewal. Sarah posed for the cover and I did her makeup for the photoshoot. The London Planetrees that reside in the Gravesend Triangle are no longer in London, yet they still retain the name of their homeland. So too do our families no longer reside in Middle Eastern or North African countries, yet we still retain the name of our homelands. These London Planetrees are not in London, but they are still called London. We are not in Syria, but we are still called Syrian. At any rate, no matter what label we bestow upon ourselves, no matter where we are or when, we are always growing, like a tree that only gets sturdier and stronger with age. So too, does friendship grow and solidify as you share more experiences with people and facilitate new memories. Which is how Sarah and I still practice all of our traditions today, except that those Carvelanches have turned into Reese’s Sundae Dashers and pistachio ice cream with cookie dough and caramel. Which is how we often find ourselves coincidentally thinking and speaking in unison. Which is why I wrote this paper while sitting in the Gravesend Triangle, watching our lives and community grow around it.

WHO AM I? Anthony Damon I am me, I am proud to be myself. But who am I To other people. What do I look like? Or sound like? Or act like? What do I represent? I am Irish And Trinidadian-Indian. I know this to be true, But others do not believe.

“You’re not Trinidadian,” Yes I am. “No you’re not, you’re not black.” Okay. Laughter ensues. “You’re white, stop trying to fit in.” Okay. My identity is lost. I am white, AND Trinidadian-Indian. Those are my identities, That is my culture.

Where do I fit in? Sometimes I don’t, Other times I do. People choose to believe me or not But I am me no matter what. I am Irish I am Trinidadian-Indian. That is me. I am me and I am proud to be myself.

HER Courtney Unique

Eating ice cream is our favorite pastime. It’s how we met. It was both of our first days of work at Target in Atlantic Terminal. We both happened to be in Cold Stone waiting for our training session to start. Bullseye. The conversation flowed as if we knew each other long before. By the end of it we realized we didn’t even know each other’s names. Indigo and Skye meshed like bread and butter, so smooth neither of us could deny savoring the connection. They say things that start fast and end quicker. Looking forward to work was one thing. I knew something was up when I actually enjoyed being on my phone. I went from staring at calls until they stopped ringing to FaceTiming while watching A Different World reruns. Never had I met anyone who loved the show as much as I did. Next thing I knew we were friends with all the bartenders at Mullane’s. We only drank there every weekend. Mom loving her like a daughter sealed the deal. Homegirl worked her way into the most exclusive family functions. “SAVE THE LEGS FOR SKYE AND JOSEPH!” We could barely hear mom over the Thanksgiving commotion. Every year, family dinner is hosted at my house. My brother got to carve the turkey and eat the legs since no one else ever wanted them. Well this time he met his match. “I get the bigger one since I’m the man of the house.” “No, I get the bigger one since I’m the guest of the house.” Skye won, of course. She was so good at persuasion without even trying. At work, she always managed to get off her shift early. “You’re lucky you’re pretty.” “Sore loser.” By the end of the night she convinced Joe that he beat her in Uno after their thousandth time playing. “I TOLD you I’d get you this time!” “You got me alright.” “Alright, that’s enough.” If I didn’t stop them we would have missed the holiday party our coworker planned for months. We were bringing our special concoction, our rum punch that we made the first night she slept over. That was one of my favorite nights ever. You’d be surprised what secrets came out after just one drink. I like to think that it wasn’t just the liquor but a portal being unlocked, the prize being each other’s trust. That was when I got to see the tattoo she hid from everyone and when she found out about my affair with our supervisor. I think what made me feel most special was what she said while we were in bed. “I’ve never been close to anyone besides my sister.” I never had a sister. Mom always wanted a son so she worshiped the ground Joe walked on, which is why they don’t know much about me below the surface. This was different in the best way. There weren’t any pointless arguments over chores or which kid is more successful since I decided to drop out of Howard U. to pursue my music career after dad died. For the first time since then, I felt seen. I was seen. 28

Semoy Booker

“What’s wrong?” Skye’s staring at me from the opposite side of the dressing room. “Why do you think something’s wrong?” “Girl, you know I know you like the back of my hand. It’s all over your face.” “Nothing.” “Di.” It doesn’t even feel right for her to call me that anymore. “I said nothing.” “Indigo!” “What?!” She sighs. She knows things haven’t been the same since she got engaged. Who gets married after dating for two months?! “Is this how it’s gonna be from now on?” “Nothing is wrong.” I could feel the tears beginning to form. I just can’t get over the fact that the one good thing I had going is being stolen right in front of me. How did MY best friend go from being a houseguest to my sister-in-law? I should’ve known something was up when she came over for my birthday. It was the second year in a row yet the first time she asked for him. “Since when do you care about Joseph?” I was joking since she always asked about random people. She was caring that way. Or before that, when our weekends at Mullane’s turned into monthly hangouts because she had “things to take care of.” It took their admission for me to realize that Joseph was conveniently missing from the house those same nights. “We were afraid to tell you.” I didn’t know what I was more upset about, the lies or the fact that my brother beat me again. Now I’m back at square one with no career, no degree and no one to turn to but my dead end job. I can’t help but think I was being used. Skye did start coming over more after that first Thanksgiving. She didn’t even ask me to be her maid of honor...The sound of her sucking her teeth snaps me out of my zone. “Whatever girl.” Now I’m whatever, the girl she used to know, her. “We’re going to get ice cream after the fitting. Wanna come?” Since when does she ask me to tag along like a puppy? “You all have fun. I’m tired and have to work a double tomorrow.” I don’t even bother to look at her when I walk out of the bridal shop. I get in the Uber I requested a few minutes prior. Tears always made me feel icky but today they’re my only comfort. As they flow down my face I can’t help but think that eating ice cream is our favorite pastime. It’s how we met.

Adana Harris / “Gerald”

Person of color I send my salutations Leader of my pack Member of my clan My brother is black My sister covered Person of color I send my Salam. Espionage in the white castle My skin deemed darker than charcoal Pennies littering the streets Dossiers printed, hidden for their goal

CHARCOAL Jana Taoube

The privilege I see It reeks skin deep Walking the streets Skin pristine, no one even taking a peek. Person of color I am of you and you are of me Bronzed and charred Our beauty emanates to every degree. The ionic bonds I see are corrupt and overweight They have created a state & mandated the escape. Person of color I urge you, don’t hate They don’t understand our very innate Diversify to recover Band together to one another Oh, Person of Color I am of you and you are of me They must not shade us and make us the same I, too, stand as a person of color & I shall not allow them to steal our name Or our rightful claim. 31

I’M SANDRA DEE Dorette Dayan “Why are you so embarrassed? You’re so sexy.” How do you explain to a man that you’re not embarrassed, but that you’ve been taught to be? That you have been engrained since childhood to feel uncomfortable with your body? to feel self-conscious? to feel ashamed of showing it off? to always hide it? Sexy is inappropriate for a girl like me. How do you explain to a man that if anyone were to find out your reputation would be destroyed? Who would want to marry a girl like that? “All boys want from you is…” “You don’t let them touch you.” Women are prized, but at what cost? When virginity is treasured and prudity is winning the lottery. The guilt is always there in the back of my head, a constant reminder of my shame, of the lies I’ve told to protect myself, as if no one else does the same. Because what if it got out. Stop. Stop. we have to stop. This is wrong.

Adana Harris / “Unfinished”

Why do I feel this way? Why is my body suddenly waking up? Like a match that has just been struck and ignited a flame within me. My whole life I’ve been suppressing this urge and now all I ever hear is the *boom boom* heartbeat between my legs. But I could never act on it, my body doesn’t allow me to. It’s like I’m standing at the edge of a cliff, but I just can’t bring myself to jump. I didn’t even want to. But you pushed and pestered and bothered. So I said okay, you can touch me here, kiss me there. But don’t you ever dream of going there with that. Only one man ever will. How do you explain to a man that you’ve always been taught to hide? To hide your feelings, to hide your problems, to hide your weaknesses. Down Down push it down til you don’t know it exists either. This is what you’re taught as a little girl growing up in this Arabic Jewish world.

“Don’t show too much” “but show them enough to draw them in.” “let them chase you,” “but reel them in.” “we know what kids do” “we don’t do that” “don’t let him do anything to you” “good Jewish girls don’t do that” Good thing I’m not a girl, I’m a woman! Why aren’t men included? Why do men get to go around “for practice” with others, because they know none of us would? Why are their reputations still intact? Why are we still marrying them? Hypocrites! And nobody says anything, nobody does anything! If virginity still exists, then chivalry should too. Want to ask me again why I use my arms as a shield to cover my chest? why I instinctively turn away from you instead of towards your lips? why I feel ashamed of being drawn to you? why I’m in a constant state of depression because I’m 20 and don’t have a ring on my finger? It’s because I’m a virgin, and that’s not going to change until the glass breaks. That’s the culture.

NOTES ON FASHION Joshua Randal Leonard What I really want to say… What I really want to say is I hate this job. All of these jobs. This career, this industry. Fashion—the word sounds so glamorous. People ask what we do, and we tell them: “I’m a fashion designer.” Their eyes get big, and we know the images coursing through their mind. Runway shows. Tall, lanky models. Racks of neatly pressed clothes waiting to be photographed and printed on the glossy pages of countless magazines. And, of course, money. They always think about money. What I really want to say is that’s not “fashion” at all. That’s the face fashion wants you to see. It’s the PRproduced, focus-grouped, well-maintained image that fashion creates for the public. It’s the dreamscape to What If. What if one day I could afford those designer clothes? What if one day I could look like those lanky models? What if one day my name could be on a hangtag dangling from the sleeve of a sequined gown as it waits for some wealthy figure to wear it down a red carpet and tell the world how incredible I am? We tell our family and friends we know better as we drop hundreds of thousands of dollars on a piece of paper that says, “This person knows how to make clothes.” We say we know that’s just a façade. We know that’s not how fashion works. We don’t want our own clothing line, brand, dangling hang tags. We’re lying. What I really want to say is what fashion really is. Fashion is a bullpen of tired, overworked, underpaid designers working fourteen-hour days, their eyes glazing over as they compare color swatches to fabric and cursing into the ether because this has to be approved today but their supplier still can’t get the color right. A color that only matters to us. A color the world will never know doesn’t match. Fashion is having six sick days and ten vacation days a year but feeling guilty for using any of them. It’s leaving work and thinking you shouldn’t have left work. It’s getting to your desk the next morning and feeling like you never left. Fashion is waiting four years for a raise just to be told to be grateful. “You get a bonus [most] years, be grateful!” “You get free samples, be grateful!” “You have a job, be grateful!” Fashion is an endless stream of waste. It’s fire exits blocked by garment racks, it’s labyrinths of unused clothes collecting dust and bed bugs and mold. It’s fighting each over a handful of jobs—the chance to breathe in that dust, bed bugs, and mold. Fashion is men—men telling everyone else what fashion is. Telling women how to make clothes for other women. Pulling the threads that line their pockets with gold. Tolerating the designers because we’re a necessary evil for all that gold. Fashion is a game in underpayment. Are they naïve? Underpay them. Are they new? Underpay them. Is English their second language? Underpay them the most. Underpay and keep the rest. What I really want to say is this was a mistake. This was a decision made in a brain that was still forming, made under pressure to stay creative but have an income. Have insurance. But we’re told not to say those things. “Be grateful, remember? A hundred others would die for your job.” But people are dying. Death sits heavy in factories around the world. Rana Plaza: 1,132 dead. Karachi Baldia: 258 dead. Dhaka: 117 dead. These, the moments in time so connected to the clothes on our backs, didn’t take place here—they weren’t our family and friends—it’s not our fault. But it is our fault. It’s our fault when we throw our cheap clothes on the counter and swipe our cards, our fault when we throw those cheap clothes away in two weeks because they can’t stand one washing. Our fault that Haiti is buried under a mountain of rotting t-shirts, pants, dresses, coats. It’s the designer’s fault, my fault, for 34

Raisa Alexis N. Santos / “Beauty Within” sending a barrage of emails at two in the morning because the factories aren’t working hard enough. Factories workers who only get to see their families once a year because they live on a garment-producing compound three providences away. Some who never see their families again. My fault for requesting samples that I know will never see anything but dust, bed bugs, and mold. My fault. What I really want to say is I hate this job. These jobs. This industry. Fashion. But I don’t say these things. I don’t utter these blasphemies, these sins against an ever-working machine. But I do count the days until I can say them. Until something changes. 35

SUPRESSION OF SELF Hannah Lazerowitz

i’m looking at a skeleton in the mirror, telling myself that a body is supposed to appear this way, ignoring the wailing grumbles of hunger or the weak feeling of malnourishment, and pretending that i’ve been treating my body well

Leah Livshits / “Fractured”

is this my way of self-sabotage? burning the vessel that houses my existence? destroying my body— despite the fact that it’s been here for me through it all, keeping me alive through the most painful times and fighting to flourish under my oppression my body; the home to my soul, vibrant daydreams, and seemingly endless string of insecurities is slowly withering to bones and being mislabeled as beautiful

IAN Jana Taoube 140 pounds steady arms thin, legs long beard coming in nicely burnt up clothes & blacked up snow our fingers up in signs children abducted for show no definitions read no questions asked thugs on the block cause our contrast cancer cures no mental illness exists we wander the streets throwing fists.

myself quiet religion instilled right parents slaved to a system that never gave victim of trouble my babe muffled my old pops preached A man I am expiration and fate Only a real man can. cancellation came left too early stranded questions zero cents to my name

no children & no game only needles & poor aim I only detest them. The real men I mean. What do they want from me? Suits buttoned, nothing less than a Mercedes They read their bank account savings As if long letters to their washed-up ladies. maybe I have made myself moving from joint to joint Messed up mind Blacked up pieces, miseries & illusions Know thyself & know thy temper

I only yelled at her because I caught her sneaking out the back again attempting to fly naked and chained. How come she didn’t look up to the sky? I only yelled at her because the rent is so high and the kids were crying in the back with sweat dripping down their bellies.

I only wanted to be a real man. But the system played me. My mama told me to grow a pair and then call a decree She ain’t believe in no prophecy Only a real man does what he can. Does the best with what he’s got. Doesn’t get stuck on what he cannot. My mama was smarter than me and my daddy That’s why they took her first. Do you know my face, structure, or tale? I warn you. Before you come tell me to be a real man. Ask … What makes you one?

Jose Casillas / “TMNT”

I only shot him because I caught him banging the tables and filth making only abandoned children suffer. How come he didn’t control his desire? I only killed him because the sky was so dark and my veins were so plump and the gashes on my back were crying with blood dripping down my spine.

BC BLUES:

A Tongue in Cheek Recollection of Campus Chaya Nachum

Security guard who always asks me for my I.D. Whenever it’s all the way at the bottom of my bag And on days I have it out and ready, feeling extra smug Security guard waves me past. She’s doing it on purpose. Don’t call me delusional. Boylan Hall: the building that’s as hot as its name (‘Boilin’) To be there in summer is to suffer heat stroke Winter means slow but steady asphyxiation over an hour and fifteen minute class. Wifi generously donated by the Class of 20something So of course it doesn’t work And all my classes are in Boylan Except when they’re in Ingersoll New Ingersoll or Old Ingersoll? They both look decrepit to me And the numbers make no sense And they keep repeating And I always get lost But I’m never late Because my professor gets lost too. Bomb shelter bathrooms throughout BC But I’m grateful for the toilets that are non automatic Because the worst thing is finally getting the layers of toilet paper arranged on the seat And having the motion sensor flush all your hard work Whoosh Down the drain Nah. BC bathrooms don’t do that. They don’t flush. They’re usually out of order But that’s not the point. The point is they’re always doing maintenance whenever I need to pee.

Sean Carey and Leila Assif

Ten minute breaks are not long enough to run across the street to Roosevelt Hall The traffic light is perpetually red Ubers crowd the crosswalk T713446, T65492, T75634 Which one is mine? Where are you, Mamadou? Ahmed? Jean? The West Quad has a pool And a gym And basketball courts And a bunch of other facilities I never got around to using All thanks to Covid Well, not really I’m actually just a couch potato. And the student directory directs you to the downstairs directory Which directs you to the upstairs directory And then to the Administrative Office Where they direct you to the nearest exit Call or email We’ll get back to you But not really Check our business hours No, those hours are incorrect We forgot to update them That’s your fault, not ours How did I get to Whitehead? Go Bulldogs.

fall story Vera Madej me and geli are in the house on the couch, laughing, holding, flirting-kissing. everyone else (every one we know and like) is in the background all the time. friends laughing, drinking, falling. falling on floor, drunk talking. we're dressed in costumes. we've chosen a theme. making nights are consistent in tone. marie 1&2 have started painting. we've invited little sisters&ex-friends-ex-boyfriends. everyone’s drinks are made before they get here. everyone is being considered. everyone is being thought of and accommodated. "are we bored?" "no!" "should we be?" "no!" we giggle let's go outside, just to stand, breathe maybe,playfulflirty*gasp*,smoke? we're followed everywhere by little ghosts of noise (real, actual onez!, that float-buzz like-cartoons!) humming,echoing music from inside, muffled but instantly recognizable and god, this song goes on forever. we start a smoke we finish a smoke and the act of finishing makes us laugh and giggle becuz' the songs still playing isnt that cool? now forcing breath into shapes through, pressing it through a bugscreen. we step off of whatever we were standing on. we step through wet grass, forgetting shoes, remembering shoes, doing nothing about the problem geli starts to spin (pretending to be dizzy. pretending the ground is shaking) "who should we pick?" "to play?" "you be rachel" (i love to look) "i'll be leah" (she loves to work) "we're forgetting props" "and we'll find new ones" arms extended, tripped, walking through the yard, making big strides and then jumping a little when your feet touch wet grass. the woods are close. there's not far to walk. things get dark quick. we're counting on the sun to rise soon, probably-maybe. pass the trees. we made a path and gave up, nobody was using it anyways. we're just walking. geli picks up a wand sized stick. waves it in front of her, protect me from spiders "wouldn't you feel guilty if you hit one?" geli gasps "oh! i would!" and flings it at me and laughs "i am satisfied in using my hands" she-says-self-confidently we've passed the tree marker. too dark to make out, but it's a thin dogwood, strong, twisting, marked with tree sized cigarette burns. still very much alive, and probably unfazed. in the woods, in the woods

everything has changed color and scenery. we've changed our walks. (more like doe/stag now). color first. undergrowth has begun to glow dull, like the sun is rising under a thin layer of dirt illuminating rot and wet. moss grows on ground and around the base of trees, orange, sometimes, pale-deathly, blue-green. all the dirt is clay, and all the clay is purple. lilac sometimes, lavender sometimes. all just, right now. geli picks it up and shoves it in her pocket plop.

"prop-in-the-making" "how to bake it?" "blow on it, real hard" as we step we're being careful. leaf piles are being blown together under our feet, amassing from little. perfect, breaths of wind. our ground is pine needles. spiderwebs lining the trail like picket fence, very neatly made, very precisely geo-met-ric, very perfect looking. everything has been made for us. everything is ours to enjoy. desire will never be wrong again. "someone just asked me, 'what's it like, to be in character all the time?' " "is that what we're doing?"' sunrise.we walk a ridge down the hill into fall valley. we use moss &roots to keep our footing. she's doing a radio voice. shooting up of crows (eye level every tree, is level with the ones next to it a murder (with us) at certain stages of the descent or see an almost

it is thousands of fallcanopies

an owl

you could be eye level with one layer

geological strata, a history written onto skin,still breathing im being very serious talking about this but our language is crippled by an inability to move backwards and shit biology, and a lost 19-20 years of life the ground down here is cracked and dry. burned over, or mybe just never gets rained on. owls walk around the well shaded floor with no fear of /daylight/being seen. not much grows. carrot flowers, blossoms like little umbrellas, arranged in circles . i am looking. i delight in looking, but im notyet mature enough to see myself. i am contemplating objects, and shapes, and designs. things that are, for children but im not going to be punished for it/ punish is only wrong/ selfhatred is against our rules/ i am going to enjoy myself/ nothing i say is embarrassing/ geli sings, and nobody ever minds. being happy is only good news to us. i am your stupid girl.. I like. my. woods! pull up my bra.... i am your girl.. i am your stupid love "we should start on the clay" "a bowl? a pipe? a stem? a cup?" "a cat?leaf?flower?" geli has started picking things off the trees&the ground,licking them, sticking them to her legs,arms, and clothes. i am putting berries, walnut shells, flower petals on my tongue, and sticking it out to show her. she gestures taking a photo of me. walking on a twisting bridge laid-in-ground, yellow ferns thigh-level we are an inch away from tripping at all times.

"do you think anybody else knows about this?" we're not talking about a playy-acce "the trick" "is following your own rules" "are you a boy now?" "which one of us is 'faggy girl'?" "i am.... leaf pile boy" "well, you have a better view of it then me" we havent decided what makes us happy. we don't know yet. we are indecisive and that's still ok. you can change your name. if you want. and start to change your face. it only takes longer. "have i shown you the throat trick?" "show me (the implying,again)" rachel is closing her throat by swallowing. rachel is forciing her adams apple up, up, to her jaw. her mouth is getting smaller, her voice brighter. she un-tenses and this time it stays in place. you can change your voice too if you want. "we're tuff" "a spectre of...hm... me" "you gotta be." "we should buy knives" "we should buy guns" "is haunting.... hm" "we should learn, tough poses and attitudes" leah is scrunching up her face and mock grimacing. rachel is doing the same. we're done shaving our arms, in fashion with beautiful women these paths we're walking encourage sideways movement. to move down is to go, counter-clockwise. nobody else gets that even if it's not all that important. the important thing is being ready to get to the bottom. (holy-center). not many people get that. they show up, only half invested. what is it you even wanted? do you care? ...they may have picked an ideal appearance based on some childish whim, or momentary impulse...some may have gotten half-way there, and then changed their minds... what happens if it's not what you wanted? we're going with

love in mind.

"nobody gets uh-ss!" "nobody gets ittt!" "you're all, lobtomized!" we are both doing what we want. we are both making ourselves happy. neither is taking care of the other and we dont even want to. we just want the same things and delight in making ourselves happy. its just lucky that it works out. we are looking crows in the eye that don't flinch away from us. "we need to figure out what we think about birds" "i like them" "is that the party line? we like them?" "i like them and. want to talk about them more" things are dark. darker. still orange and green, but like the woods is underground. trees look like roots. flat mushrooms growing in stacks, steel-blue ,fungus pillars. things that fell and kept growing, sideways, because there's no point going up. ok watch this. this is the best part. we saw this before, once, or at least something that jokingly hinted at it. black cat, on top of fallen log "yes (a first chance to enjoy things, as its own act)

cat crawling, low to the ground, jump off, falling down slowly (we spent weeks working on never landing cat-ghosts. our friend developedresumes movementa whole ritual (!)involving paper cut-outs, as a gift) floating this time ropes hang in the air. not tied to anything hanging, matted with leaves like papier-mache. you can imagine the noise-collision of, windblown wet leave-smack- collide with limp rope.geli tugs. rope falls, with no attempted resistance geli pretends to piss, like a boy would, pulling up her dress and facing her back to me. i giggle. i piss like a girl, squatting, half-ashamed ohno blushing. nobody cares,s,s,s anymore. we've gotten rid of any kind shame that isn't flirty. we'd all be dating if we weren't invested in coming up with something better. you wouldn't hate your naked body if you were'nt made to. nomore hating-our-bodies. (i had a dream about you)

we know the name and use of every plant. gelileah/boy takes out cigarette, turns it down, and rolls it between her fingers. the tobacco loosens, and she pulls it out with stubbystunted nail biter nails. the tobacco is important and geli keeps it with her clay. i scramble for moss and tree bark and im only picking the nicest colors. "will she smoke it?" "no! tuck it, here!" oh doesnt she look so cute. little tangled plant curls spilling out the cigend down chin 'round o.ther cheek, framing her face in vines and peat. branches are bending, stretching carefully towards us, like cats wanting to be petted. geli puts little bits of tobacco putty in the cracks between the bark, and i just think about her. tilting leaning mushrooms and, ohmygod! skeletons! we laugh at our own decor. we are in love with our own decisions and that makes us childish i am smearing witchbutter on my hands and feet. geli rushes over and i smear it on her hands and feet. we love the other's ideas. we tie moss to the ends of our dresses, and it hangs and swings as we walk. strips of bark are falling off trees and writhing on the ground, geli picks it up and it looks like a fox mask. she tucks into under her arm. theres a bridge, and its small, maybe only five feet across. no water runs under it, it just sits on black mud. all the planks are rotted, and you can only step on the broken ones. we do, and our feet break them all over again. we crash into the mud, and laugh louder than we ever have. we are giggling the whole way through, wading, knee deep, missing shoes, across to the other side. i turn to geli, and make a little sign with my hands. one over the other, fingers outstretched, framing a smile on my face. she does one back, hand on her head, fingers stretched to her brow, looking like a little dot-constellation over her eyes i wish we met as girls

we turn to the path, and there’s a sudden widening. a feeling of widening, like something that was crushing our periphery vision is gone. we remember that our friends have built everything here for our us, and that we need to thank them. people are waiting here for us. people we've met before, and will meet again. there will be closure for you and everyone you know. the trees here are very thin,strong,laurels and wind towards the sky in crooked spirals. (our first love visited herehis playing so good the trees dancedand then he leftand the trees froze like thatand those could've alders.) we sit down with our friends, and there is a center we dont see but are all facing. we speak our lines in triplets, one,en,a. somebody is standing and he starts lecturing. about theatre about houses,tv,movies about never thinking things are ok-at-home fire,ghosts,cameras, about doing two things at once neighborhoods,ghosts we all play boo and jeer at him, shouting, throw things yelling. denouncing everyone of these things because im so fucking tired of them. getridofgetridofit im frantic having a fit the same line of poetry written on every tree: there will come a day where i dont have to think about it anymore

LOVE BIG OR TINY? FROM THIS BODY HOW COULD IT BE BIG

vaguely aware that everything we decorated ourselves with has fallen, left,or stripped off. im sure geli realizes this at the same time. its what lets you in. i took off my bra, (ha), did you notice? do you know what that means? .i will explain something to you. (they are all chewing laurelleaves and laying drunk on the ground, boys are giving the girls stag stick&pokes, girls are taking turns acting out drawn&quartered on the boys). she looks so much like me. im smiling because she looks so much like me. everyone is acting strange, but there is no more shame or self awareness everything can be reassuring now shes hummingsinging we're hear and we listen to whats happening behind us "those two brothers we're hear and we talk and we flirt with each other those two lovers we kiss and we're nothinggggg like them, and their smooth cocked we laugh and we're soooo different adventureturetures" we kiss (and they're notkissing and they're not fucking we canlay back and listen to everyone else's theyre just having funfunFUNFUN) we can find ourselves back home and asleep in bed in someone (elses) arms

Muskan Cheema / “Mount Rainier”

deteriorating Muskan Cheema

I used to call them episodes. episode: an incident or period considered in isolation. They’ve gotten so bad and so frequent, I hardly believe I can call them that now. I look back and laugh at my younger self, the version of me that thought she would get better with age. Now I

keep to myself while watching her completely unravel right before my eyes. Help her, is the obvious answer, but imagine watching a fish flop outside of water, endlessly and torturously, until finally you do the thing that anyone would do, throw it back inside, and you find that it just jumps right back out. What would you do then? What would you do if you watched someone plummet so rapidly and undo themselves entirely on their own and found them committed to doing so? I think she was just born too forceful. She never learned how to talk without yelling, to close doors without slamming them, to hold something without breaking it. And she never learned to hurt without hurting too.

Jong-Hyun, Kim

Raisa Alexis N. Santos / “Trees”

Jana Taoube

No one told you About the flies and lies The fairytales and masks The glamour and allure No one told you Makeup gets crusty Diamonds only rusty Nakedness old And thoughts bold No one told you They die with bare tables And unfed babies Rent unpaid Nappies unfolded

No one told you It happens one hundred years ago Two hundred forward Tears unmasked Tasked No one told you The Glocks were already loaded Making my eyes water, turned, golden Dance Baby Dance Smile and hide the broken Don’t hold back, show the coping No one told you You would not get it back The time that runs Heaven tripped over My words hold meaning I don’t warn Merely tell … No one will tell you Because suffering is hidden … The reckoning day will come & heaven will hope The clouds will envelope Words will be swallowed & hell will throw up its rope There is no one to tell No soul in the world There will only be running Hiding as well So, heed my words once again my scripture stands Take a glance behind their glassy eyes SHINee must continue Folded lids one more one less Puffed up pouts

Cry for their souls Locked out before prison Feel for their entrapment Fear for your reenactment I hear them knocking 4/4-time signature heels on time, breath loaded I see stained mirrors Of gore Only absence & seemingly bliss No one ever told me Where the people in my mind are from They told me to be happy Knit and speak only to be incarcerated And so I asked them if they heard the knocking The children crying The mind trying The poor man dying Falsifying they claimed to be clarifying I hear the knocking getting louder. They’re here. They’ll have my hands-on plastic My mind wrapped up in metal They’ll have my bosom down against tar My heart enraged Swallowing, caged. He wrote a letter he would never see again Filled hearts and drained them just as quickly Don’t call, I’m in a wasteland. No one told me But you, dear Sammy thanks.

COMPULSIONS Chaya Nachum You asked me how I was doing. I told you I was fine. I had everything under control. So, yeah. That was a total lie. I lied. I thought I didn’t do that anymore. Lie. I guess I do. But I’m telling you the truth now. So I guess you could say that counts for something Progress and all that. Except, not really It’s just my guilt complex kicking in, telling me all the people who will fall down and die tomorrow because I told a lie.

Kate McGorry / “Evening Electrodes”

So here’s the truth: I’m not okay. I’ve been having trouble concentrating. My thoughts are acting up again. Twisting turning tunneling through my brain tripping me up, telling me things I don’t want to hear.

And I did what you said. I tried to shut them out. To tell myself they weren’t real. But they don’t go away until I listen. They come with me to class and tell me all the things I can’t touch: The desk the doorknob the wall the chalk the chair with its wad of chewed up gum on the underside. I’m running out of Purell and my hands are chapped and cracked and cut and raw and bleeding. The guy sitting next to me taps me on the shoulder taps me with the same finger he used to open the door that the girl with a cold and a stuffed up nose full of snot opened yesterday after she sneezed into her hands and he just touched me he touched me on the shoulder he touched me on the shoulder he touched me and the snot and the sneeze and the door and his hand and his finger and his

hand touched my shoulder and I’m too busy contact tracing the path of his hand from the door to my shoulder to hear him asking me for a pencil. He asks again as I make a mental note to swab my shoulder with sanitizer the second I can get somewhere private so nobody sees my crazy. I finger my half empty bottle of strawberry scented Purell and I almost feel safe but then he asks again I want to tell him I don’t have any but I know if I lie God will punish me and get me sick and I’ll miss class and my grades will go down and I’ll lose my GPA and I’ll be a failure and the teacher is still talking and i’m going to miss what she says again because my thoughts are acting up again and they won’t shut up and i wish he would shut up just shut up you can’t have my pens or my pencils you cannot have them here or there you cannot have them anywhere I want to say no but if I don’t give it to him, my dad will lose his job or a leg one of the two not sure but either way it will be bad so I give him the pencil, making sure my fingers are nowhere near his own tell him to keep it when he tries to hand it back when the bell rings he smiles, touched by my generosity I smile back as I kick myself for my lies for pretending to be nicer than i am, for making him think i’m a good person when i just didn’t want to touch that dirty piece of wood ever again, because it’s too much work to rub it down every time with alcohol and i’m running out of Purell And i didn’t hear a word the teacher said because how am i supposed to hear her say the Cold War ended in 1991 when i’m listening to a thousand thoughts twisting through my brain winding their way around reason and worming their way through every crevice until they take over and until i think they have my best interests at heart and i see their twisted taunts as logical reasoning. The numbers are coming back too. I keep counting and you call it a compulsion but i call it the thing keeping me sane when i crack open a book and i read a sentence and the thoughts tell me to count the syllables, count the syllables, 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, and if it equals 10 then it’s a good sentence, if it equals 9 it was so close but not good enough not good enough i’m never good enough it’s so close and can i make it equal 10 if i stretch the syllables? Situation is 4 syllables, so the sentence is 9 syllables but if you play around and tease the letters, stretch it out so it’s sih-chew-ay-shee-un then it’s 5 and the sentence is 10 so i can continue reading but i get distracted when i wonder if i counted right and i go back and count again and again and again and you call it a compulsion but i call it keeping calm can’t i just

be quirky not crazy does it always need to have a name an abbreviation but never a cure only a treatment that comes with a slight risk of side effects such as sudden stroke, death, depression or psychosis, an ingredients label with nothing but a list of side effects that add to the quirks until the cocktail of my crazy spills over the counter of the bar and everyone sees everything that’s wrong with me when i’m too tired to pretend and push away and deflect and deny and deal and don’t you have anywhere else to be? Do you have to keep writing this down? I don’t need your diagnosis I took intro to psych and abnormal psych i’m practically an expert. Can we just pretend we’re not on the clock and that we’re both here because we want to be? Can we pretend for just a minute that it’s all cake and sunshine and rainbows and that you’re not getting paid to listen to my crazy? $100 for 40 minutes, $1000 for every minute of overtime. Overtime. This isn’t the NFL. Put down the pen and prescription pad and just look at me, dammit. Just listen. I just want you to listen when i tell you i stopped doing the worst of my rituals, not because i had a breakthrough but because i’m too tired to wash my hands three times and wipe down everything i buy from amazon with a clorox wipe and i don’t care about typos and proper punctuation and capitalization anymore because i’m too tired to keep correcting everything that’s wrong with my life and thinking about all the ways the world is messed up and all kinds of crazy and it’s not being fixed and why doesn’t anyone do anything to fix it and I don’t want to think about that but i can’t stop thinking about it i can’t stop you call it a compulsion i just call it crazy and a sign of all the ways that i’m messed up. You asked me how I was doing. The thoughts are taking over again, triggered by every new thing that i touch the numbers are coming and i keep counting and i can’t stop counting i want to stop but i can’t stop and i don’t want to stop if i stop it lets in more of the crazy so i keep counting and i keep trying to keep the cocktail of crazy under wraps but i poured too much in the glass and it’s overflowing onto the counter and it’s getting harder to keep it together keep it under control without cracking open so all my crazy spills out onto the floor for everyone to see. i don’t want to keep correcting it I don’t want to focus on fixing it and erasing and correcting all the mistakes i’ve made and i don’t want to waste time worrying about everything i’ve done wrong and every mistake i’ve made and every person i’ve wronged and every choice i screwed up and every single thing i might screw up in the future. I don’t want to keep working at it, i don’t want to have to work at living easy when it comes naturally to everyone else I just want to live. I can’t lie, because the thing you call ‘compulsion’ doesn’t let. So you know i’m telling you the truth. I’m not okay. Can you fix me?

WOODLAND HYSTERIA

Leah Livshits

Carina Rivera I am alone. They will not find me. It is the devil’s hour and there are eyes upon me. A starless sky as the moon guides my path down this rocky endeavor. Broad sable trunks long ago sprouted from this ground cloaking me with their blanket of masses. I am alone. They will not find me. Sable has turned to hazel, mahogany highlights in textures of the splintered face. I am alone. They will not find me. The restless creatures of the night have gone to sleep and I am awake. Blinded by the light I thought I had lost, the birds sing a melody that mocks me. I am alone. They will not find me. It is either midday or madness that has descended upon us. I am alone. They will not find me. These unmarked trails are a labyrinth of timber and sage, the jagged roots spring from the ground and menacingly trip me in my sprint. My voice has gone hoarse and I can’t make a sound, they wouldn’t hear me if I did. I am alone. They will not find me. The bushes are void of berries, the trees do not drip with sap. I am famished and disintegrating into the red and freckled fungi at my feet. The sun is setting on a day that I’m not sure existed. I am transfixed. I am alone. They will not find me. Night and day are not matching pieces in a jigsaw, the shadow that the sun creates can never be darker than this void. A never-ending night that I fear has consumed me, an insatiable hunger that can’t be quenched. I am alone. They will not find me. I can feel him lurking in the woods, the trees whisper and lament for my fate. Thorny vines snake around my ankles like poison ivy, I am immobile. I am not alone. They will never find me.

GONE FISHING Angela E. Peguero when you pulled me in for a kiss your mouth reeked of tuna fish as if your eager, sharp teeth dove deep into the wet and caught it yourself. my surprised lips recoiled so fiercely as if to ask, “am I not worthy of a clean canvas for our forbidden dance?” your eyes lightly chuckled and replied, “your taste will wash away anything.” and when our lips met, all we could savor was desperation and yearning my saliva was needy determined your tongue, similar to the defenseless thunnini that coated your inner cheeks, was like bait

Carolina Rosa Martínez / “Boats”

I was helpless.

color me intrigued Kaniz Hossain if roses are indeed red, and violets are somehow blue, then it must be true that i want you. but is it true you want me too? i have no name for this feeling you leave me with, but the purple haze of my mind after you smile at me limits my capacity for words anyways. if i tell you my tongue is bubblegum pink, does it tempt you to taste me? i want to know if you’ll find that comfort smells a lot like my orange flavored lip balm. i’ve been told more than once that i inherited my father’s green thumb, and on some days, i want nothing more than to grab a hold of this yellow tulip i’ve planted by your name in my heart, turn it into a bouquet and offer it to you in hopes that you’ll have me as a friend if nothing more. but i make the mistake of looking into your brown eyes and suddenly, things are no longer so black and white. you bring color into my world artfully enough to render a poet like me speechless. that has to mean something doesn’t it?

Muskan Cheema / “Pink Museum”

FRAGMENTED Carina Rivera They say with time I’ll move on from you. Some bullshit about distance and healing, As if miles apart could mend the damage We brought upon us. As if when colosseums of tender torture crumbled around your feet, the world Wouldn’t notice. How could I move on from the way your hands traced the curved avenues of my body. Sending prickling chills down my spine. Earthquakes and wildfires triggered and consumed. The way your glasses inched down the arch of your nose as you recited poetic verses of enchantment and passion. Mahogany eyes that glimmered with flecks of golden hues. Dangerous as rolling seas, inviting as an autumn breeze. I loved you. I’ve lost you. Distance and healing are not what I want from time. I don’t want to be put together. Shatter me to pieces, let me fall apart. Fragments of a crumbled colosseum we can live in together.

BLUSH Angela E. Peguero on our fifth (unexpected) date I donned acid denim jeans To Lucia’s Pizza I grabbed the black pepper, splattering speckles across my slice the spice scattered around my nostrils, I sneezed at that moment my eyes locked with yours and a red tide gushed out of my center even before our first (official) date you’re the one who made my pussy blush

Leah Livshits / “After the Summer Rain”

Dorette Dayan / “Texture” 58

SPEAK

CAFE OF EMOTIONS

Melissa Morales

Eliel Mizrahi

I open my mouth to speak but no words come out Lips parched with the taste of buried thoughts and hard hesitance Trembling hands melt to quivering fingers Digging into the heat of unease That keeps my feet entwined in a knot at the core of the earth Staring eyes and the glare of lights Swallowed from an impulse of illusion Brain on fire, mouth frosted with ice Of yearning to burn through it all “Speak” becomes the cue To retrieve into the shadows of all the things left unsaid

I sit in a cafe, Right beside the ocean. I order a cup of emotions, And try to wake up from the past. I hear the quiet, yet powerful waves In sync with my heartbeats. The scent of the sea mixes with my sweets, And a fragrance of memories fills the air. A throwback to what we used to be. Dances under the stars, Backpacks full of adventure, And smiles of happily ever after.

ACTUALLY, I AM OFFENDED! Annalene Deleon

I’m offended that you think you can do to people whatever you like: that you think it’s okay to deceive people so you can have them fulfill your sexual desires that you don’t consider the effects of your actions on the people you’re affecting that you still feel so entitled to have whatever you desire out of someone, even after you’ve abused them that you think it’s okay to tell lies and go back to business as usual that you think it’s okay to violate people because you desire what you desire at any cost that you think you can make false promises to people, lure them out of their secure places, and then abandon them when you feel like it that you think you can get away with every ill action you do towards people that you don’t have any regrets, remorse, or repentance for your actions that you can blame and call judgment upon other people even though you’re the one who violates them that you truly believe your actions are right and should not be disputed that you are so comfortably narcissistic that you are so lawless, and inconsiderate towards others’ rights and desires that you mishandle important things to other peoples with no conscience that you think you can keep on hurting others with no consequences that you think you can deceive people as many times you feel the need to that you just don’t have a heart towards others that you see other people as disposables that what matters to other people really doesn’t matter to you, no matter the importance that you say and do to people as you please when you please that you don’t consider others’ needs that you don’t think about how your deceptive ways can totally destroy someone else’s wellbeing that you expect everyone to forgive you and believe the best about you, but you can’t let the simplest offense go that you think you can act however you wish and still get respect and loyalty. I am offended because you intentionally and deliberately hurt other people.

Chaya Nachum

LISTENING Maryam Ahmad

Am I listening to the “Dholna” mashup because it makes me wanna dance no matter how bad my dancing is? Or am I listening to Bing Crosby’s “It’s Been a Long Long Time”, or Mariah Carey’s “My All”, or Whitney Houston’s “I Have Nothing” or Arjit Singh’s “O Saathi”, or Emily Watts’ version of “La Vie En Rose”? How do you even describe that in a sentence when someone asks you what is your taste in music? But that isn’t what you are asking me. You want to know more. Something deeper about me? Something to connect with, maybe. Then Listen. I am listening to the winds whispering in the hallways of this apartment building. They are planning a revolution. I am listening to the birds and bees chirping and buzzing, and to the silent conversation the dogs and cats have through their eyes when they pass each other on a leash. They are spreading the news. I am listening to the thunderclap of the clouds. They are angrily approaching. I am listening to freedom struggling, building and breaking and collapsing. I’m listening to the silence in this empty room in my head. I am listening to the words your heart cannot bring to your lips. I am listening to you when you tell me to shut up. I am listening to the world when it tells me I don’t belong here. I am listening to the rhythm of my heart wondering when it will stop beating, and whether I will miss its sound or not. I am listening to the sound of freedom crying in a cage.

ISPIRAZIONE Carolina Rosa Martinez La guardo, mi perdo. Il suo sguardo affascinante mi trasporta alla primavera, anche se è inverno. Sogno di essere l’artista che ti disegnerà un sorriso. Desidero ardentemente tenere il pennello che percorre le sue curve. Lei levita nella stanza con un’eleganza senza pari. La morbidezza della sua pelle fa vergognare la seta: mi chiedo, come non riconoscere che sei arte? Se la tua saggezza mi supera, la tua personalità mi fa innamorare, i tuoi occhi aprono le porte della mia anima. Il suo tocco divino rende le parole insufficienti. Ma, nel mio stupore, non mi accorgo che se ne va.

INSPIRACION Carolina Rosa Martinez La miro, me pierdo. Su encantadora mirada me transporta a la primavera, aunque esté en invierto. Sueño con ser el artista que le dibuje una sonrisa. Anhelo sostener el pincel que se pasea sobre sus curvas. Ella se pasea por la habitación con una elegancia inigualable. La suavidad de su piel hace que la seda quede en vergüenza: Y me pregunto, ¿cómo no reconocer que eres arte? Si tu sabiduría me supera, si tu personalidad me enamora, si tus ojos abren las puertas de mi alma. Su toque divino hace que las palabras no basten. Pero, en mi estupor, no noto que ella se va.

INSPIRATION Carolina Rosa Martinez I look at her, I lose myself. Her charming sight transports me to spring, even if I’m in winter. I dream of being the artist who will draw you a smile. I long to hold the brush that strolls in your curves. She walks in the room with unmatched elegance. The softness of her skin makes silk to shame. And I wonder, how not to recognize that you are art? If your wisdom surpasses me, if your personality makes me fall in love, if your eyes open the doors of my soul. Her divine touch makes words not enough. But, in my stupor, I don’t notice that she leaves. 61

CONSUMED AND FORGOTTEN Carina Rivera

I am abandoned in your labyrinth. Stumbling blindly in the dust you left behind, the thickening cloak of smoke in the air from the bridges you burned in your path. I gag on it, soot lining my esophagus and ebonizing my insides. Look at what you’ve done to me. I was once a figure of light and now blackened bile seeps from my pores, the toxins of your breath, the poison of your tongue. The razor-like thorns of your touch have etched cuts so deep into my flesh I am a fragmented statue of the girl you once knew. Distorted reflections of myself mock my virtue. A shattered-looking glass stands in the center of this maze, the overcast of soft rainfall and floating burning embers set an ambiance of sorrow that does not elude my heart. I do not wish to leave. Settled into the cobblestone pathways, I mold myself to find comfort in the cracks. I have been polluted and will not pollute the hope that lives outside of this trap. I am alone here, aside from the voices in my mind. We will wait for you. We will wait for the time to be right, for the tide of the moon to draw you back here to us. Where you will walk the stone pathways, trace the verdant walls of ivy with your fingertips, and find us in the center. That is when we will tenderly place a kiss upon your lips. And with all my love, I will draw in your essence and leave you lifeless and discarded to the side as you left me. Consumed and forgotten.

Mariam Esa / “Blossoms”

THE SEAMSTRESS Melissa Morales

needle and thread miscellany of colors strewn on the floor in and out the seams come undone fingers brushing over the embroidery that’s falling apart ripped hem twisting and turning hands flying like clockwork weaving through the fabric misshapen and warped the patchwork of a heart

2012; A REQUIEM Matt Sheridan

Staring from the frames of the window, I saw a force and not a flood; not a hurricane, but an oppressive occupier. The laughter of the children mutated into the cries of the parents that were then ended by the sorrowful whispers of the unseen. The water retreated to its shores and I sat in silence learning how to adapt to the darkness, and that adaptation leads to embracement. I indulge in my hopes of a brighter future by walking down the streets of the more fortunate, admiring how the street lamps and porch lights illuminate on the sidewalks. Do the hopes I have for a better tomorrow serve as a lifebuoy or are they an anchor? Living in the darkness among ominous buildings and demolished trees, my search for the light has entered my mind and shall be everlasting and indissoluble.

BEFORE YOU LOVE A POET Kaniz Hossain

before you love a poet, or perhaps, before you love this poet, realize that there’s no way around it – I have to write about you. but please understand that on most days, my words play hide and seek with me, so take every poem about you for exactly what it is – a goddamned miracle. you’ll notice early on that metaphors are my love language, so before I ever tell you that I love you, I will confess instead that the beat of my heart has started to sound a lot like your name. before you love a poet, and that is to say, before you love this poet, know that I will also write to you. on the nights that you lay asleep beside me, I will trail my fingers across your ribs and leave you love letters written in braille. when you wake up and find that I’ve signed each with a kiss, remember that I have only ever worn truth on my lips. but if you smile and leave remnants of your laughter between my sheets, I hope you’ll forgive me if I do not send them back right away. before you love a poet, and more importantly, before you love this poet, please appreciate that despite how I have left it vulnerable by doing so, I still wear my heart on my sleeve. leave it at your mercy every time I turn my palm up to meet yours, and hope that you remain unafraid of this kind of honesty – of this kind of love. so if you choose to love a poet, and really, I mean, if you choose to love this poet, do so if you can accept that this is all that comes with it. I will write to you and about you, but only ever with sincerity. I do not know how else to love. 64

Leah Livshits / “Torrential Tribute”

VOICE BOX ALTERED BY DISEASE Shannon Wong To my dear voice box, so different from others you’ve endured a war. An attack on the lungs, throat by outside enemies yet you’ve stayed standing, persisted against, with every breath I took, and fought on to victory. You give me the ability to speak despite the tough times, in rough, deep syllables that sound odd or beautiful to other ears. These are your battle scars. You’re truly like no other, unique and strong. 65

BROOKLYN CAN BE Dorette Dayan Brooklyn is ugly. There are homeless people sitting on Ocean Parkway, sleeping on benches, with garbage surrounding their “territory.” There are creepy looking men with legs spread and hands down their pants jerking off as you rush by uncomfortably staring at the ground praying they don’t run after you and try to rape you. But Ocean Parkway is also where I met you. It’s where we spoke for the first time. I complimented your glasses and you commented that you liked my personality. It’s the way we walked toward the ocean, to Coney Island and the pier in the rain. That night as we walked in the cold drizzle, I prayed that you’d kiss me but that you’d have the decency and respect me enough not to. I took you to the benches to sit and look at the stars, but they were too wet for us to sit on. Whenever I’d see you, I would smile and the sky would open as the rain poured down on us.

Muskan Cheema / “Coney Island”

Rain is a symbol of good luck, renewal, and rebirth. It can mean the washing away of the old or the regrowing of something better. Now I take the walk alone, down Ocean Parkway along the boardwalk to the pier. The sun beams down on me and I allow its rays to fill and surround me as the heat penetrates my skin. I see a girl maybe 13 years old teach her little sister how to skateboard. I run to catch the board for them as it rolls away. I see a friend from high school run by me, a couple laying on the bench by the sand his head in her lap eyes closed toward the sunny, cloudless sky. I pass Luna Park and imagine what it’d be like to kiss at the top of the ferris wheel. I remember riding the Thunderbolt and getting Rita’s ice cream. I remember my high school graduation by the Ford Theater, and struggling along the planks as my heels kept falling through the cracks. I remember the soccer game I went to at MCU Park and the Fourth of July fireworks that followed. I remember the bench where I rejected a

different guy, and was so proud of doing that when I later discovered he was a scrub. The long walks I’d take with my best friends in April of 2020 (socially distant, of course) when seeing them and the calm of the ocean would be the only thing that helped me cope with the pandemic. And when De Blasio thought he could actually ban swimming in the ocean. All of this happened under the burning heat of the Brooklyn sun. As I walk onto the pier and take my usual seat upon the square back of the bench, I look out to the ocean that lies on either side of me. The sun is setting and reflecting off of the water. The push and pull of the waves feels like the washing away of you and of the younger me. But I do not cry and I am not sad. It’s not raining, but at this moment I feel lucky. The sun renews my energy. It feels like the start of something new. And I see now that Sometimes Brooklyn can be beautiful.

do you remember Muskan Cheema

i made a list of the things I want and the things I’ll never receive but they are the same list the feeling that I had in my heart i can only feel traces of now it slips between my fingers before I can grab it fully the writer’s only affliction is to feel a feeling and to lose a feeling before they find the words to describe it there are teasing memories of moments where I can place my body in the past again even if the day and it’s taking place have been forgotten i live for these ephemeral flashes of my existence the fleeting images of just a hand on my shoulder a voice behind me the wind in my face the ghost of someone’s laughter echoing the smile of someone I loved i am a fugitive passing through just for a moment i take the long way home nostalgia is my vice the present is my tormentor and still, I do not know that girl and I do not know this girl i live in a place called ‘do you remember’ i build my nest in moments that don’t even exist i only imagined them i think too much about settling scores about wishing about dreaming i am not here.

tyler ep. 8 Bren Tawil

pale before the lord freshly minted there is no novelty in the way you pulse not in this flavor of dew or in the glamour of the golden gate grandiose girls settle down tell me what you want how high is the sky floating very spare fold me in tyler says i’m testing him does somebody need to watch you with that gun careful where you point that vitriol you are glossed with guilt jawline pressing in old fashioned and alarming i don’t know how to clean this up though you stick the landing i am haunted like a house cater and convulse tyler says i make him cold mollify me stone me set down your harps

i only let you drink me because i didn’t see the harm in it

Kate McGorry / “Space Lane”

THE BREATHING PAINTING

Bren Tawil / “sanity by dear”

Adana Harris

“God, I wish I could pee standing up,” the odd thought crossed Elle’s mind as she stared blankly at the abstract, rough, multicolored wall to her left. Her eyes burning from exhaustion, she’d been standing for nearly four hours in the exact same pose; her head turned to face the wall, her face plastered with a blank stare, and her legs in a contrapposto stand, one leg receiving more pressure from her body weight than the other. One hand was tucked under the other’s elbow, the other hand pointing at the tiny red “x” on the wall where her eyes were instructed to stare. Elle wasn’t supposed to move or she’d be fired; her boss standing not too far away preparing the newly installed exhibit for its first reveal. Elle had a job she’d never dreamed of saying yes to. It was a job she’d never heard of. She’d seen people stand in the street and do weird crap like her job before. But she’d never thought that anyone would do it as a job. She’d just written those people off as morons who would lick under a mine worker’s old boot and call themselves artists without the actual effort artists make. Now, Elle was a moron. At least she got paid for it.

Her boss called it “breathing art.” More of a childhood friend than her boss, he’d explained over diner that this was something new he’d come up with. Oliver, the boss, was never good at painting. Elle never thought he was good at art at all, but he was good at telling people how to make art look good and had a thing for abstract paintings. He was that overweight dance teacher who couldn’t get up and move herself, but could tell a little ballet dancer how to do a good pique turn on her toes. Oliver had it all planned out when he described it to Elle. He’d have an entire gallery with rooms built into the walls where the art would be, and pretty frames around the entrance to each little square room. “So, like a zoo for humans?” Elle had mocked him, twirling her fork in her spaghetti, her wrist relaxed and fingers gracefully twirling the fork as she did. Oliver had paid attention to the way she held her fork during their dinner, and he’d paid attention to Elle’s gracefulness since they were children. Elle had been a performer; ballet to be more specific. Her mother had forced her into it from the age of three and she’d danced for nearly eighteen years. Then she’d gotten really drunk after a performance where she’d messed up a few steps, had taken a bad fall down a flight of stairs, and had broken her right leg. It was not a pretty sight for sure; Elle at the bottom of the stairs all drunk in her dirty, white ballet dress with a bloody bone peeking out of the shin of her white ballet tights. Elle had cried at the pain of the injury but had felt relieved at the thought that she would have an excuse not to move on a stage in front of an audience again. Then five years later she got asked to dinner by Oliver. “It’s nothing like a zoo,” Oliver replied to her joke a little too seriously, shaking his head at her belittlement of his genius idea. “You’ve seen those street performer guys all painted in gold who stay completely still, right? It’s something like that. But the performers will be in these paintings. It’ll have, like, a set in the background all painted in abstract colors. And then the performers would just sit there or stand or whatever dressed in all white.” He sipped his champagne. “It’s like the Mona Lisa, but alive.” Elle nodded as if she’d found any common sense in the idea. “And who do you think would be on board with this?” “I’ve got people,” Oliver replied, proudly leaning back in his chair. “I’ve got people, I’ve got a place. I’ve got everything I need.” “Already?” “Already.”

Elle’s eyes had narrowed at Oliver in suspicion. “So, why are you telling me this?”

From Oliver’s smirk and shrug of his shoulders, Elle understood why they’d been out to dinner. She’d given him a good telling off and had told him that she would never do some weird, “artsy” meaningless crap like stand inside of a wall and have people stare at her. She’d had people stare at her for nearly two decades. She wasn’t doing that again…unless it had some good money to it. And good

money there was. Oliver had told her that if he’d made a lot of money opening night, he guaranteed she would get good pay. And needing a job, a degree and a room outside of her parent’s house Elle took the job; a job she thought she’d only do for a few weeks. Then the gallery was advertised as the “New Revolutionary Way of Seeing Art” and weeks turned into months and the gallery became more of a museum. Elle prayed that one day people would get tired of the gallery, but Oliver decided to have the “most artist death ever” and died of a drug overdose in his bedroom laying sprawled off on his million-dollar custom-made abstract painted bedsheets. From that gallery viewings spiked. So, there Elle was, three days after Oliver’s death, standing in a frame staring at a wall unable to move. She’d been there every day at eight standing until twelve for a pee break and lunch. Then she’d be back at one thirty in the same pose, staring at the red “x” on the wall to her left. The only things Elle could do were breathe and think, and no one wants to be lost in their own minds. The thought had crossed Elle’s mind at least once every day. She could’ve been this great dancer if she’d just thought about it as her own thing. She’d always hated it because her mother forced her to do it and because she had to learn to dance and work long hours bettering her talent. She enjoyed the thrill of dancing and had danced like no one was watching whenever she was on stage. She was talented. She was good at moving and she didn’t care much about the audience because she was having fun. Now, this job of staring at a wall like an idiot WAS NOT FUN. Elle’s body had gone numb by the time the fourth hour had become a full one, and the only thing she could feel was the burning pressure of the pee in her bladder. “Oh God,” she thought and prayed, “please don’t make me pee on this white dress.” Her eyes widened as she tried her best not to move. Elle had never moved on purpose. She’d sneezed once. Scared the dentures out of the mouth of a little girl who wasn’t actually a little girl but was actually an old woman who looked like a little girl in Elle’s peripheral. That was when Oliver was her boss, and he’d just laughed it off. Elle knew if she moved this time her new boss would fire her on the spot. He’d warned the performers about it in their first meeting and had fired one guy for coughing and the other for getting food poisoning and throwing up. Elle held her breath and tried her best not to move. She couldn’t tell if her boss was still standing near the newly installed piece. She hadn’t even seen it yet. But Elle was getting to the point where the mind that she was trapped in was beginning to lose itself. She finally turned her head to see that no one around. Before she could take another breath, she was stumbling out of the wall on her hands and knees, and crawling on the floor. Unable to hold her pee any longer, she stooped down and held the sides of her dress as she let her bladder give way. She sighed and shut her eyes no longer caring about her stupid job. When her eyes reopened, they met the new piece across from hers. Elle gasped in disbelief and disgust as she slowly stood. This new piece was behind glass, the wallpaper an alarming red. A bed was set in the center of the room with abstract bed sheets…and a man, laying with his arms sprawled across his bed and legs hanging off the side. The man wouldn’t move. He wouldn’t breathe or tremble at his heartbeat. A dry stain of foamy saliva seeped from the gaping mouth of the pale, once lively face and unto the bed. The artist’s name, Oliver Washington, was on a plaque beside the piece. His new piece wasn’t breathing.

TIME Imani Morgan Time doesn’t wait for anybody. Just does what it wants on its own. You blink two times and look! You’re in another zone. Time zone. Sparked up or sober ride, When you close your eyes time can make you feel like you’re gone. Floating in a prettier dimension, Filled with unseen tragedies Because when my eyes are open and I’m on earth, I think of how much better shit might be, anything better than the life I see. Unaware that I have the ability to change it, make it, dictate it Like the hands on a clock I follow toxic cycles because I haven’t learned the lesson when to stop. To stop thinking afar in another ascension but comprehend I control what goes on in this dimension. Time has a way of showing time. Time hurts when you love somebody, Somebody who came for their season but didn’t leave. Remained so you hung on, And as a consequence- you’re left to deal with the pain unleashed. The pain of listening, not trusting your intuition that this time ain’t going to be any different. Time heals all that’s what they say. I haven’t healed from the pain inflicted on me so how time is supposed to take it all away? Time plays tricks on me, I never ride the wave kin enough to see what can be on the other side Before I crash and end in shambles wondering what I ain’t doing right. But I can admit, Time- time gave me good vibes, fond memories, and sad goodbyes. Time and time again, the universe poses me with the same question: Have you learned your lesson?

Leah Livshits. / “Jeremiah 6:16”

SPIRIT(S) Angela E. Peguero “Our nada who art in nada, nada be thy name thy kingdom nada thy will be nada in nada as it is in nada. Give us this nada our daily nada and nada us our nada as we nada our nada and nada us not into nada but deliver us from nada; pues nada…” — Ernest Hemingway

She pulled open the hefty glass doors just like she did ten, twenty, thirty-three times before. The sharp stench of tequila soaked floors soothed her nose. The dim glow from the Edison bulbs which lined the walls resembled a halo. A heavenly locale. The low murmur of slurred voices acted as spoken word salve to her soul. Her body found itself seated along the mahogany ledge in a deserted corner. The height of the counter, almost to her chest, always intrigued her. Oftentimes she would press her torso against the wood, let her heartbeat sink into it, into the clatter of bottles and glasses, to become one with the structure. The divine trinity. The magnificent spirit(s). “The usual?” A familiar husky voice floated past her ears. The masterful creator. “You know it,” her avid mouth replied. A few minutes later her holy water, a gin and tonic, quenched an anxious thirst. She adamantly refused the commanding desire to press ABC-ZERO-GHI-MNO to check on her discussions. Her left thumb twitched as she gripped the highball. The condensation from the glass could easily be lubrication for the conversation she so desperately wanted on this Great Friday. Pater, dimitte illis, non enim sciunt quid faciunt. She patted the damp counter in a quick rhythm. Tap-taptap-tap. Those tending brews knew the translation exactly. I’m rea-dy for more: The boozer’s Morse Code. As the blood of juniper coated her cheeks and flowed down her throat, her stomach begged for sustenance. She flagged down a stout bearded ginger man and croaked, “Lamb burger, medium, no fries.” She added, “Make the next one a double.” Her jittery fingers began to draw shapes along the dewey cup. The shapes shifted to letters as her subconscious stenciled

L O

She traced the less-than sign and yawning mouth over and over. She had just started on the left branch of the twenty-second letter when her meal abruptly landed in front of her. The petite 74

Carolina Rosa Martinez / “Holand Bar”

waiter scurried off before she could mumble thanks. Her teeth tore the meat apart; she had removed the top bun to expose and explore the protein easier. Once finished she let out a heavy, full exhale. Her disinterested gaze looked down at the lonely piece of bread that remained. Her lanky fingers painted the napkin brown-red as she cleaned the filth off. +++ She reached for her libation. A scrawny, pale woman, along with the woolly man, had alternated swapping emptied drinks for full ones five times already. Streams of old and young, indifferent and excited, ebbed and flowed around her while she kept her eyes nailed to the television screen. America’s favorite bat-and-ball game never really caught her interest before, but the bout between the Royals and Padres kept her mind from obsessing over the response she craved. As the game slithered into the seventh inning the music that spilled out of sparse speakers amplified. The youthful British voice declared:

Anticipation has the habit to set you up for disappointment in evening entertainment. 1

She lightly chuckled. Just then her bladder violently knocked on her stomach and brain. Her legs sighed in relief as she stood. She let her spine and neck pop as she realigned her bones. Her right hand grabbed the last piece of bread as she made her way towards the steep stairs. She tossed the rocklike dough on her tongue. Left, right, left right: her legs descended the steps. She reached the water closet door. Her left rib felt the delicate buzzbuzz from her pocketed phone. Her heart rate hastened. Her limbs weakened. She slowly retrieved her device. The intense light beams singed her pupils. She recited the verse out loud, quietly. When her lips reached the last syllable, the semi-soggy piece of bread lodged itself in the opening of her larynx. She gagged and gasped for air in the almost pitch black, completely desolate basement. While she struggled to expand her lungs, her body, both limp and stiff, slid to the sticky floor. With her consciousness gradually slipping she laid supine searching for any comfort on the gluey ground. Her murky vision barely deciphered the scalloped pattern on the metal ceiling. Reminiscing on the sweet sentences she read not two minutes prior caused the corners of her mouth to slowly ascend. She willingly surrendered her being to fate. Her coughs became weaker, her skin calmly melting into the earth. Gentle guitar riffs from the upstairs song wafted down to the smiling, deteriorating woman. As she straddled the afterlife her ears hardly discerned an English voice affirm: Where do we go? Nobody knows.2 1. 2.

“The View From the Afternoon,” Arctic Monkeys (2006) “God Put a Smile upon Your Face,” Coldplay (2002)

Jose Casillas / “Take Me Back to the Beach”

TO DIE IS TO HAVE LIVED Annie Braslavsky How do you mourn the death of someone alive and well? Someone breathing and blinking, Smiling, singing? Someone whose clock had not yet stopped ticking? For whom the joys of the flesh, mind, and soul still compel? How do you find the strength to lower the casket? Walk to and fro, Whilst wallowing woe? When you have no right to even do so? Knowing the question, but too fearful to ask it? How do you live the life that’s not lived ’til it goes by? Lament losing love, Like a fool’s mortal bluff? Languish with doubt of a presence above? Look at your fleshly carcass and know you will die?

LATE Anthony Damon I was 17. I already had a grandfather, He passed. I don’t have hate But I don’t know how to Feel. My grandma deserved better, So did my Father. I want to try, But I cannot allow myself to let you Replace him. He was my grandfather, You are too But strangely enough it feels different. My grandma forgives you, My dad may as well, So I will try. Life is strange, Twists and turns, But everything happens for a reason. You are my dad’s dad You are my grandfather**, That is the truth. 77

to orient you i will give you the park and manhattan and you will wear black and he will wear blonde and you will obey because you want to be taught to leave things different than they were this is how to network in new york where women wind up as bodies and it’s midnight on this rock where i am mired and slathered and willing and thinking i could die without having been ontologically extravagant and this is as good a time as any but i am not entitled to think that i will make my way back

72nd st. Bren Tawil

if these words had worked i would be a woman halfway through central park having learned my lesson not a child on this beach in brooklyn needing more nouns drawn and quartered and trailing the psychosomatic soldiers that frequent this sunrise but i cannot afford to guzzle this gasoline so close to home and this is the danger of being a bad quitter dressed in his decadence and the difference of a decade though i am just passing through this lassitude and this park and your eyes are wet when you wake up it isn’t easy which you know because you are well-adapted and willing to die and this is as good a spot as any but when i soften into something salient you will have faith and he will be pleased

Kate McGorry / “Stoplights”

Carolina Rosa Martinez / “Paradise”

HIDDEN WOUNDS

HERIDAS OCULTAS

Carolina Rosa Martinez

Poppies growing on the inside, Eyes lost in the sky’s vastness, Great Wall skin on the outside, Earth encompassing the breathless

Amapolas que crecen en el interior, Ojos perdidos en la inmensidad del cielo, Piel de la Gran Muralla en el exterior, Tierra que abarca a los sin aliento

Can words translate Aïdes reign? Excess of attempts in the ill pages, What if the reign is inside of me? Who will see the unbearable?

¿Pueden las palabras traducir el reinado de Aïdes? Exceso de intentos en las páginas enfermas, ¿Y si el reinado está dentro de mí? ¿Quién verá lo insoportable?

Souls’ slices of universe, A world in a head is a restraint, The battle within us persists, Each knows what spites, Poppies growing on the inside, My eyes fixed on nature, Scarlet rivers flow in my veins, The mind endures more pain Eirene, oh Eirene! Will you ever visit me? Heart and watch beat, bum-búm, tic tac, Do I still feel in the turmoil? Mental whirlpools swallow my time, Words hesitate the transition, Moonlightless night, where is the light? Can you see what my face hides? I am more than bread and wine Can you see my scarce soul’s dew? My eyes are dry, my statue’s expression, Lacerations within are tearing me apart, A cureless hidden wounds sea

Rebanadas de universo en las almas, Un mundo en la cabeza es una restricción, La batalla dentro de nosotros persiste, Cada uno sabe lo que hiere, Amapolas que crecen en el interior, Mis ojos fijos en la naturaleza, Ríos escarlatas corren por mis venas, La mente aguanta más dolor ¡Irene, oh, Irene! ¿Me visitarás alguna vez? Latido del corazón y del reloj, bum-búm, tic tac, ¿Todavía siento en la confusión? Los remolinos mentales se tragan mi tiempo Las palabras vacilan la transición, Notti sin luna, ¿dónde está la luz? ¿Puedes ver lo que esconde mi cara? Soy más que pan y vino ¿Ves el escaso rocío de mi alma? Mis ojos están secos, mi expresión de estatua, Me están desgarrando laceraciones internas, Un mar de heridas ocultas sin cura.

AN ATHEIST’S DEATH Dorette Dayan He turned the lights off, wanting to go rest. He climbed into his bed and closed his eyes. As night went on, his dreams became depressed. A snake appeared. His plan: the man’s demise. Held by a chair, he jerked as an attempt At freedom. Yet, he stayed afraid, and worse: Restrained. The snake was moving near, content. He prayed for aid. The snake would not reverse. Prepared to dine, Death came. Surprise! “This is From...” (fingers pointed downwards). Next was fast. The serpent’s fangs dug in the man’s neck. His Physique was shocked, and popped upright at last. He thought, “It is a sign from G-d...What G-d?” He now could see how one believes this fraud.

THE MANIAC Owen Rodda

Bitter twilight, autumn tears, Desperate wailing, no one hears. Dying leaves and crumbling will, Bleak November taunts me still. Darkness lowers. Woes increase. Piercing torments rarely cease. Climbing high above the town, Brokenhearted, looking down, Chilly wind cuts through my skin, Town is dressed in death again. Wracked with pain from front to back, Fear me. I’m the maniac.

Chaya Nachum / “Trees”

BY THE RAILS Owen Rodda By the Rails Sitting by the rails Where the freight trains run, Smoking cigarettes With the setting sun, Watching leaves decay As the autumn dies, Years are near and far Like the railroad ties. To the left, a child Uninhibited, At my feet, a life Scorned and limited, To the right, unknown Days roll to the sky. Should I ride the train Or let it go by?

Angela E. Peguero / “Lavender Waves”

STARDUST Carina Rivera I am but a speck. A freckle in this resentful cosmos where hope is faulty and love is defective. I am minute to the expansive substance of this time and place. My existence has not deterred or precipitated a wave in the frequency. I have discharged myself from the confines of my being and float above to see what I have not. I am there, sat crosslegged and awkwardly perched against a wall typing and telling you what I see. A lemon-tinted comforter to invoke my joy and piles of novels my anxiety won’t allow me to read. I am gone and in replacement, there are rows of houses where families and friends struggle to maintain their insignificant lives. People I will live near to for some time and never meet because fate will have it that way. Higher and I am showered in the midst of celestial pillows arranged in ornate dispositions. The golden hour reaching and blushing tones of coral and apricot devise a hue that envelops me in its warmth. I wish to stay here because it is a veil I have dreamt to don but a force pulls me upward and I am ripped through the atmosphere. I shiver not because it is cold but because it is empty. A godforsaken onyx pool that floats terrenes and asteroids to its surface. The tender verdant and uncharted indigo grows more distant from my fingertips until it is but a freckle, And I am but a speck.

IGNORANCE Tania V. Mota Ignorance In the depths of time... ...of space Of decades-long lingering words… Of bitter Words that still sting my soul In the depth of my stupor between the soft light of twilight And the iridescence of my thoughts I search In the melancholy of misanthropic minds And in between the lines of your rampant utterances I learned to read that like poisoned arrows aimed to kill In your brazen attempt to kill the will but my dignity I will not cede I search I search... Inside the conscious awareness of everything I once knew In the seemingly forgotten things of olden times... that whimper in my subconscious mind that creep out and fade away into dreams, of things true and untrue I search… Inside my predilections and aversions Fleeting thoughts and proclamations

I search for that kind word that I longed for that lurked, but never approached I search… In all that I didn’t know In all that I knew then That my world was huge, yet minute That toads spoke and danced to my song That turtles saved my secrets and smiled That the sparkle of the sea were the jewels of kings, a gift to me I heard them, I did I search for truth Ignorance is bliss they say To idealize and idolize the past To romanticize our ignorance We pay for it a high cost Yet, ignorance is bliss they say Even when it pierces the spirit Even when It makes the soul bleed Because It promises lies It eclipses truth! But you rather believe Ignorance is bliss I search for truth For to live in a lie is a sacrilege to life itself.

Jose Casillas / “Broadway Junction”

/space cadet Vera Madej

sitting in someone elses bathroom. yr/in the basement,with a bath,sink,mirror( ),small window over the bath. ceiling slopes a little, down, threatening to cut off your head. smoke in here. you could’ve outside, any other room, but it’s too cold, and smells like a gas leak/threatens (yrimmolate). someone else is wanting to smoke. they’ll be in. turning a bathroom into a lobby, turning everything else into a airport. no remembering which of her friends smoke anymore/no remembering who can do what, who can stomach what. list-personalized identification with negati(ng_ve attributes. -hey -hey boy moves next to her and smiles.cigarette for both of you. a single lighter. someone’s painted, cartoon dogs on it. everyone has/covered objects with img. s. ‘we met once. friend of the host’ -yeah, I remember. we were talking about you before you got here. smth, funny. story about you. ‘m sure it was embarrassing’ never, not at all.’ honestly couldn't remember if you asked me one way or the other, but pretty (if i have to guess) sure we’re telling the truth.looked at her hand, we’re always shaking, im frantic as an affect boy sitting coolly on the edge of the bathtub, sure of themself,sure of their sex ‘you think it'd be ok to light these candles?you think its just a smell, or something possible’ (is it a sense or something real?are you just /talking about ghosts or are they dead) -I think it'd be pretty cool. if we’re, being careful."

boy takes his lighter (something he delights in use),1 lit each,tilting them on their sides,wax drip . . as they alternate wick. she squinted to see the object. it having, small-font ghosts and cats on the alternate side, -i like the lighter. ‘it's pretty special to me.’ looking back at a burning cigarette. inhaled but it doesn't feel hot.smoke feeling cool, like it was passing through ice piled in her throat,and tasting, only ever the chemical part of the blend. a girl is sitting in the bathtub.maybe-a girl. most people are past really, considering it (born too late). water soaks through her clothes, but without ever seeing underneath. a sex just blurry, as sex just obscured. -do you remember, ever having swam. did we miss something? i remember something similar. i remember something like it. submerged,sexless, sure. we’d have to try it again. we have to do everything again. -is the water cold?" -a little. but it's nice. im sure you understand me. -i do. and yeah, i could see myself- happy. barely-there ghost closes her eyes and hums. she hums, and yr. made a stranger just by watching. meaning, you’re embarrassed, like a kid standing next to someone cool, you need her to know you’re just as vaporous, you deserve to be looking. move back down.

-i missed you lots. "I missed you too."

someone’s taking a picture. [ ] no flash, but a feeling of urgency, you need ! to look perfect/static natural quick. make sure they (how would everyone know) know (etc. etc.) move back up. this is a closed cycle, one which passes over the line in one direction, reflectively, post-reflectively.

-you look good photo-taking standing over me. she/smiling "look at me." she does. recognizes this face. most of all the smile. like a older sister',a [closed] close and only friend. girl taking another photo. camera making/ no sound, she’s turning\ it to face you. yr face looking like it does in a mirror. mirror in the photo is too white to make out a face. look.

looking at your real reflection. seeing your/her face, like it’s supposed to

[an ideal face sees the bathtub next to her. sees her\blown smoke lazily floating and kissing bath-steam. everyone i’ve seen tonight is a friend. and when they leave, they won't be gone. i'll see them tomorrow morning, and, they'll say goodbye before they go. so, i-i don’t have to worry at all; brea |th. nobody has any names but we all have identifiers. (practicing my dreamy sigh). i think it's more intimate that way. everyone's so nice to me, she thinks. everyone's so kind, and i’m love|ng. you’re good? yeah, of course. you’re sure? yeah, I'm good. 88

want anything? - refrain no, it's ok.um.yeah, i'm ok. the voice coming from the steam, accumulated mirror, or through the window. someone peeking in, from outside, or hiding behind something.saying hello friendly ghost i wish we had talked more, just once me too. 'm really really really glad (i could) see you again me too. everyone's here. (everyone you’ve ever known\waiting to hear those words) yeah, just about. not everyone's the way I remembered. -that's ok. ‘s still your friends. A boy sitting on the edge of the tub is reading villons grand testament. or the cantos. or something similarly/indecipherable/ to those who don’t speak a language. he's pretty. what's it about? it's a mystery play what's that like? Chernyshevsky. someone's back. someone from earlier. repeating smth, as a tape would, but something you always miss, never growing any older ‘faint with me’ -ok! ‘wear the same clothes as me!’ i'm glad we're all, f-f-f ( ) here 89

lighter boy\and\speaking now if you could choose a name, what would it be?’ -something naive.something from a novel. that's a good answer. you? johnny guitar. -that's a bad answer. leaning against the mirror. fire burning in a mirror. burning a little longer, always/ just a little longer. always-almost done.running the sink, and holding the burning cigarette you assumed was being, blurringly reflected,under cold water, and drops the ashes and filter in the sink. exiting, rejoining the main body in the basement. 1 ch’i’ mi son Lia, e vo movendo intorno/le belle mani a farmi una ghirlanda.

“WHO’S THERE?” Anthony Damon Alone, all alone. Walking down the street, Nothingness Fills the space In my head. I feel like I am there But I am not. Desolate, A BANG Comes from around the bend. What was that I wonder, BOOM. I am gone That is all It is over. I was the last man on earth Until I was not.

Kate McGorry / “Single Shadow”

WRITER’S BLOCK Maryam Ahmad Do I have Writer’s Block if I write about Writer’s Block? I ponder and ponder About all the wonders of the world Yet nothing comes to mind But silence Terrifying, numbing silence All my mind’s thoughts All the contemplation and questions Disappear as if they never existed Did the moon tides make our journey rough Or was it the sun burning our foreheads Or the thirst of time Nipping at our throats Yearning for a story To spill from our lips Was it the drought that dried up my thoughts Or the fear of love that numbed my tongue Or the world tipping on its axis That spilled my tears down the universe

Angela E. Peguero / “Ocean Grove”

structuralist’s idiot manifesto Jasmine Elazm i would say that i agree with chomsky’s notion that children are pre-wired with a universal grammar because when i was a kid installed in the the fresh faces of makeup -- no, made-up homes a dolled-up resident to the window-side stool of an imaginary apartment complex that looked out to the nature of language, the bleak park and wet trees with dripping i’m sorries and coarticulations where there i didn’t have to look out for mother where i didn’t have to pack my bags ever again or kick my brother down the middle of our two -story hallway for an argument i can’t even remember, but no longer this story of two i opted to sit up to move out of my own mind, my own words, those structure-dependent rules and into the motion of maybe god himself or just my dad unplugging this mask of a family from his own face and it revealed he was actually shut-eyed in a casket and the silence of the memorial climbed the walls like vines of applause or a phatic whimper of a girl just looking for the right creative outlet, a sign, saussure, anything, come on that is a phonological phenomenon that no one in the world ever really forgets it is assimilated it echoes deep inside the heart of the down to earth flower that pretended to be sick and soiled her bed on days she didn’t realize would not be a good riddance but actually more like bad penance and they weren’t resurrecting on the third day, it all wilts away swept up as a fly that i saw drowning in the ocean of waving windshield wipers, whooshing tires rolling in the rain, a stethoscopic murmur washing over the final word because you know those things were in the beginning of this guilt and road trip i think jesus said all that once as a freudian slip or maybe roman jakobson actually on the day he wept but the poetic function and i guess the gist of this poverty of input just makes me say to myself that we would sacrifice anything for what we innately have, a child is never wrong, just built that way, and were words all i’ve ever had? no -- all i’ve ever had were words.

A SPRING COLD Joshua Randal Leonard

It was a Saturday in May when the sun died. Her death started with a cough—to her, a clearing of the airways. A frog caught in her fiery throat. For a goddess, it was nothing. Maybe she felt a cold coming on. But to us, it was catastrophe. A wave of radiation, an electromagnetic trumpet destroying our fragile modern age. She tried to sleep it off. We slipped into the dark ages. Then came her fever, her majestic body fighting against the end. We watched through telescopes as Mercury withered into an ashen husk. We coward in the dark and prayed for her, but we knew the seal had been broken. Maybe she knew it too, as she tossed and turned. More coughing and sneezing for her; cankers, pustules, and cancer for us. Venus collapsed next, pieces of her corpse raining down on us in great heaps. And then the swelling—the apocalyptic infection. If her sisters weren’t dead from the fever, she would’ve consumed them in her sickness. All we could was watch. Bath in her heat, breathe in her air, scorch our lungs. Take in her golden form before our eyes melted down our faces like creamy tears. Hold hands as they blistered down to the ivory. And then rest in the cold darkness of her absence.

FADED MANSION Owen Rodda

Kate McGorry / “Tunnel Vision”

The faded mansion looms through barren I walk the lane by moonlight, drawing This dying house, which once afforded Now shelters resignation, doubt, and

trees. near. ease, fear.

My key still fits. I roam the dark hall’s gloom. There’s someone in the kitchen making tea. I ask him if she’s upstairs in her room. He says, “I think you know, so why ask me?”

The iron gate yawns wide as I pass through. It seems to have expected my return. For me to walk this way is nothing new. In here my madness causes no concern.

I climb the stairs. I know the door. I knock. Her dark eyes greet me, studying my face. I step inside and hear her turn the lock. She frees her long black hair and we embrace.

The gurgling of the brook tells me turn back, But hours in the cold have chilled my core. I see the lamp of my insomniac. I cross the porch and reach the peeling door.

This house of mad survivors gives me peace. We seek each other’s help to ease our pain. She tends the fire. I watch the flames increase. I drink her wine. I feel that I am sane.

THE THINGS WE FEAR

Leah Livshits / “Relic of the Past”

Joshua Randal Leonard

What do we fear? What are the things that send your heart racing, your palms sweating, the air caught in your chest, your muscles tight? What causes those knots in your stomach, that formless pit deep in your gut that swallows you whole in a frozen moment. Can’t speak. Can’t look behind you. That numbness that runs through your veins—icy cold, a yawning sickness. The mind screaming one word, one syllable. One thought: run. In what derelict house can something so sinister live? Walking soundless along creaking boards. The hollow space behind the furnace, wet and old, a dim home. Fingers long, limbs slender. A hunger with no end. Watching through the dirty glass. Waiting for the next meal. In what dark wood can things so wild go unseen? Creations of Mother Earth, mistakes nature has tucked away. Teeth, fur, claws. More than any creature should have. Lost between the shadows of tall pines, at the base of some jagged mountain, just inside the mouth of a longforgotten cave. A pile of ivory and crimson out of light’s reach. Down what dusty halls can shadows so dark prowl? Voids abandoned by light and hope.

What terrors could call such places home? On what strange vistas, what unfathomable places of reality, can horrors so vile exist? Beyond reason, beyond thought. What could live in such desolation? What if nothing lived there at all, and yet the shadows still saw you. The door that opens, but just a crack. The reflection in the mirror that doesn’t stare back. The man on the corner beneath the only streetlight. The child in the park with a dead bird and knife. The attic above, quiet and alone. The basement beneath, chilled to the bone. What gave us these instincts, these bestial responses? What horrid thing hunted us at the dawn of humanity that could be so great we live in fear of it today? Or do we simply fear that one thing that hunts us all… The one monster that follows our steps day and night. That watches as we are born and waits for us at the end. What if we fear not what waits in the shadows, but what could be there after the shadows have gone? If so, then we have much to be frightened of. Because no matter how much our mind screams, there is no running from what we fear.

THE ABYSS, AT WITCHING HOUR Dominic Grieco

The abyss welcomes you, whispers to you. You walk alongside it, come 3 a.m. The wind cradles you, chastises you fondly. The thrumming abyss sings of eternity, ephemerality. Brisk night wind coddles you, eclipsing your past mistakes. The abyss welcomes you, whispers to you. Witching hour’s come, leaving you only yourself. Arrogance and aspiration alike fall away, leaving you naked and howling. The air cradles you, chastises you fondly. The tumbling ink beckons, speaking comforts, reassurances, seduction, compulsion. Within the salty drink, you see everything you could have been. The abyss welcomes you, whispers to you – of everything you are. You walk forward – hazily – only a few steps away. Gentle wind whispers softly, calling you back. The chiming abyss watches, waiting – always waiting. Dawn breaks — softly —scouring your soul. Sea and sky bath in technicolor, resplendent. The yawning abyss smiles upon you, nodding. Dancing wind cradles you, cackling in Avian. With the day, you turn away — whispering, chastising – smiling.

ELEGY FOR STARR Owen Rodda Elegy for Starr Dominions, Powers, Virtues sing Hosannas in the sky. The crescent moon joins two bright worlds. I think they’re you and I. While sirens wail so near these graves Whose numbers fast increase, You’re now among the sleepers who Have come to rest in peace. The crystal spheres revolve above. Beyond is where you are. The music of eternity Surrounds you past the stars. Your bright imagination free, Released from space and time, Your poetry not of this earth, You’re properly divine. Now I, an imitation Mars, Must fight my petty wars. But you, a Venus honestly, Have passed through heaven’s doors.

Kate McGorry / “Castle Sunset” 98

The editors of the The Junction would like to give a special thanks to Professor Roni Natov for all of your guidance, leadership, and laughs.