Fused Litmag #4

#4

FUSED LITERARY MAGAZINE

cover art: isabel garcia & caleb poer

MARY CASHMAN SOPHOMORE

IF YOU WOULD LET ME GO There were flowers everywhere. Mike and Anthony stood on the corner across from the town square, squinting against the light. The green lawn that surrounded the town hall was completely blocked out by the people crowded into the space. They held signs with painted flower petals, real flowers in their hands, stuffed in their pockets, threaded through their hair. A man had a beard that reached his chest with dandelions peeking from the chestnut mess.

Anthony was grinding his teeth, his fingers working at a seam coming loose on his sleeve.

“Stinking hippies. Ain’t any good for anybody. Ain’t got no honest jobs like us except complaining.” Mike didn’t look at Anthony as his friend talked, just continued to watch. “I’ll bet they’re dodging the draft, too.” Anthony grumbled.

Cold sweat broke out on Mike’s forehead as he remembered the letter that sat on the kitchen table at home. No one had touched it since he’d opened it three days ago and seen his fate spelled out in fill-in-the-blank ink stamps.

“Wouldn’t make great soldiers, though.” Mike said, not quite sure if he meant it as a joke. Anthony didn’t laugh anyway.

“Watch this.” Before Mike could stop him, Anthony had picked up a piece of the crumbling sidewalk as big as his fist and wound up like he was pitching a baseball. It sailed across the street and hit a young woman in the jaw.

From across the street, Mike could see her snapping her eyes closed in surprise, hear her swearing. There was blood dripping from her mouth and her friends were trying to see if a tooth was loose. She pushed them away and spat on the ground.

Handing her sign to her friend, (Drop Acid, Not Bombs!), she marched across the street, evading the protective arms trying to keep her away. Mike wanted to run away, but Anthony wasn’t moving.

As she drew closer, he got a good look at her. Long brown hair, brown eyes so dark they were almost black, and faded denim jacket with embroidered flowers. There were grass stains on her pants and blouse, and bangles almost all the way up to her elbow on her right arm. Her fists clenched with every heavy step. When she got to them, she glared at them, her head coming up to about Mike’s nose. He backed away. She saw, and looked him in the eye. It was like being punched.

“I’m not fighting you; I’m fighting for you, if you would let me.” As her mouth moved over the words, Mike’s eyes were drawn to the blood dripping from the open scrape on her jaw. Drops of ruby red were falling on the petals of embroidery floss. She took the flowers out of her hair and held them out to Mike and Anthony.

“What the hell?” Anthony growled. Mike put his hands up, getting ready to push her away. She pressed a fragile green stem against his palm, and reflexively, his fingers wrapped around it. He blinked.

“I’m your sister, trying to keep you out of a war you shouldn’t have to fight. Why don’t you join me?” She asked, imploring, and Mike took another step back. That was something! When the draft notice came, his father had sighed and said there was nothing they could do about it. His mother and sister cried but nodded, agreeing with father like they always did, always would, and expected Mike to do exactly the same. But this stranger was protesting on his behalf where his own family wouldn’t? Anthony shoved her away, hard, so she fell back in the street. A few other hippies had crossed to lift her up and guide her away back to the protest protectively, chanting “Not our sons, not your sons, not their sons!”

With the phrase “Free Love!” Interjected once or twice. The two men walked away quickly, glares boring cold into Mike’s back. Anthony didn’t seem to feel them as he snarled insults that sounded suspiciously like “Pot head”, “Skank”, and “Damn Dirty Hippies”. Something told Mike that if the girl had heard his friend, she’d just smile.

“Are you going to hold on to that flower?” Anthony growled.

“No.” Mike crushed it in his hand, but didn’t drop it. When he thought his friend wasn’t looking, he slipped it into his pocket. A month later, when Mike shipped out, a wilted flower was tucked into the pocket of his uniform jacket.

ANGEL FISHER-PLUNKETT FRESHMAN

15 DOORS 1. I walk in to see bright lights and people in blue masks and gloves standing over me.

2. I still haven't spoken a single word, but I cry to get what I want.

3. I'm already smart enough to use a computer and ruin Mom's drinking session.

4. I walk in asking for water, but Mom says no and walks away... I take a drink, and for the first time, I taste alcohol.

5. I walk down the street, thinking I'll be able to run away without looking back.

6. I make a "true friend" who I call "the sister I'd always wanted."

7. I meet a boy who teaches me how to play football. Later, he will accidentally shoot me with a BB gun. We are bullied together.

8. The bruises and cuts heal, but I betray the boy and become best friends with his neighbor.

9. "The sister I'd always wanted" stops contacting me. She starts hanging out with one of my bullies. Our friendship fades away.

10. My parents get a divorce right when I think my life can't get any worse. My dad leaves, and it hurts, because I don't see him much in the first place.

11. This year, I am forced to live with my grandmother.

12. I move back home (if you'd even consider it a home).

13. My life begins to fall apart. My house is falling down, my mom is slowly killing herself, and I am forced to be my own parent.

14. My sadness hits a high point, and I am diagnosed with severe depression. No one can guess what my scars are from. Later this year, my life is exposed and taken out of its insanity, but with that I am taken away from everyone and everything I once knew.

15. This is the start of a new life, with new friends, high school, amazing art projects I create, and, best of all, no lies and great happiness.

SERENA FOX SOPHOMORE

DRAGONFLY KISSES you are distance, girl, soft humming, crocus slipped between your fingertips, dragonfly kisses. it has not always been milk and honey but don't let your tongue remember it you don't stop in the pulsing beat of gossamer wings; touch down on a flower and the past will come rushing back.

SACRAMENT let him tear you with his teeth let him drape your body over his altar like an offering to some ancient god his blood become your sacrament; his words become the ivory knife let his wolves ravage your body until you have forgotten who you are and when you are left for dead let yourself remember the fall.

SONNET FOR MY LOVE my lady's eyes are deep and emerald green, her hands are soft as she has never worked, and in the golden slumbers of her breaths, i feel a joy as of the spring's rebirth. her hands are cold, her body draped in wool; her lips are blue from january's chill, and though her words can sometimes feel like knives, a thousand times i would be pierc'ed still. i cannot see a future where she's gone, a past without her seems almost a lie because her steady heartbeat sets the tone, a maestro when i'm born and when i die. and let the world rebuke our bond, they matter not, we see beyond.

ISABEL GARCIA SENIOR

THALIA HALLORAN JUNIOR

NEOGENESIS You can't fix what ain't broken, Nor can you repair centuries Of fissures in a foundation That is slow becoming sand.

You can't salvage bloody fractures In an ill-fit mosaic And hope the same old problems Won't tear it down again.

I cannot save a world That shatters me again and again.

My shoulders are too weak to hold the sky.

I am no Atlas.

I am not titanic, So maybe I'll play God.

AND ON THE FIRST DAY Let there be no light.

We will have no need of it.

AND ON THE SECOND DAY

Create no sky Which pushes down on our bare shoulders.

AND ON THE THIRD DAY Create dry land, That much we can retain.

Allow the vegetation to take form And let it tangle in the night, Drawing no distinction between Persimmons and pomegranates.

AND ON THE FOURTH DAY Do not create the sun,

Do not create the stars, Only the moon, And let it near enough To touch the tides Which it so yearns for.

AND ON THE FIFTH DAY

Create the birds, And the fishes, But do not differentiate between them.

Allow each to soar through Sea and air, Infinite and unassuming.

AND ON THE SIXTH DAY Make the creatures of the land, And create man No different from the beasts, No crown atop his head.

Create woman, Not from Adam's rib, But from the feathers Of the phoenix.

Now paint them colors, Give them different dreams and aspirations, And set them free.

AND ON THE SEVENTH DAY The real work begins.

On the seventh day, Let there be knowledge, And curiosity, And respect.

Only then we can rest.

SOPHIA MARENCIK SENIOR

ARCH

FORM

OLIVIA MCDERMOTT-SIPE SOPHOMORE

CALEB POER JUNIOR

SARAH SACKMANN SENIOR

NOT REAL

FLIGHT

KIM SMITH SENIOR MY LITTLE SISTER “My little sister restarts school today,” I think to myself. My muscles feel heavy and my mind is swimming. Vodka is wafting from my breath and the cold Chicago air is sharp and crisp. I sit in a cold plastic chair in my front yard, watching the snow waft down slowly. Wrapping my robe tighter around my waist, I tilt my head back and stare at the soft gray sky. It’s never as dark when it’s snowing. It keeps occurring to me that I am officially two hours into my twentyfifth birthday, a warm acknowledgement that continues to slowly refresh in my mind. I’ve been drinking all night, mixing vodka with kool-aid and ripping through loaf after loaf of warm buttered toast, but I’m still drunk. I’m drunk enough to stare at the black tree silhouettes against the pale sky with unwavering indifference. My eyes and my skin feel hot, and the cold air feels like heaven.

I remember when I was sixteen, just like my sister is, struggling through high school and shuffling my way toward college. I think of the girls with their sticky, slicked-back hair, and the boys with their oily skin and the greasy words that dripped from their over-eager tongues. I remember the red-faced teachers screaming at the top of their lungs, many of them held tightly in their conviction that I would go nowhere in life. The bathroom stalls with swastikas and slurs that occasionally dotted the walls, the air of anxiety that came with every night of watching the news. It all dances through my mind, tapping against my heart.

Suddenly, I am afraid. At two a.m., sitting quietly in a small winter wonderland, watching my breath disappear in front of me, I am terrified for my little sister.

People say to not think too hard when you’re drinking or smoking because you’re not sensible. You have no filter. Anything can send you into a fit of paranoia and tears, but this isn’t paranoia. This is experience-based knowledge backed by hard facts.

I know for a fact that the world is hard on little black girls, no matter how light their skin, because light isn’t good enough until it’s white. I know for a fact that my sister will be pushed through classes, shuffled around and passed off until she makes a breakthrough, until she proves herself. I know my she will one day have to choose between her culture and a friendship, her culture and a relationship, her culture and a job. I know she will hesitate when she stares at the “black” and the “white” race options on an application before giving in and checking them both. I shiver and shake my head. A car drives slowly down the street, and I wonder why they’re out this late on a Sunday night. My thoughts are wandering. I wonder what I was thinking about, and then her face flashes in my mind and I remember again.

I remember that she will guard her body, a body she is proud of, a body that screams her ethnicity and a body that is idolized widely but never respected on the same scale. She is afraid that no one will take her wide hips seriously. She is afraid that no one will praise her accomplishments as much as they would is there weren’t a shred of blackness attached to them. But, worst of all, I know my sister will wrap herself away in different identities and different titles. She will hide behind different ways to make her hair a little tamer, her eyes a little lighter, her words a little softer. I love my sister, but, right now, staring into the sky, the wind making my eyes water, my nose cold and hurting, I know she will be different next time I see her. I know she will be different when the semester ends.

And that is not paranoia. That is pure fact.

GRACE WILLIAMS JUNIOR

OCTOBER 7

OCTOBER 10