brushing. art and literary journal 2019 2020
BROKEN PLATE OF MY FAMILY.....................................56 Julie Bennie SUNSET ON HOGBACK MOUNTAIN............................58 Kelly Porter LEGATO AND STACCATO................................................62 Emily O'Malley
visual artwork
IMAGINE LOSING LIFE: IMBALANCE...........................26 Tracy Lam TOOKIE TOOKIE...............................................................27 Antonieta Lairet ETERNAL MEMORY...........................................................28 Alexander Knobloch CAMERA SHY......................................................................29 Claudia Prado IMPRESSIONS OF SALVATION.......................................30 Sydney Schenone A GENTLE EVENING.........................................................31 Matthew Mosquera SALTY NIGHT: AN HOMAGE TO STARRY NIGHT.....32 Maria Cedeno SPEAK LIFE.........................................................................33 Allison Van Tilborgh
content warning In order to make our content accessible to all readers without censorship, we have added asterisks (*) to the title of every poem and story with sensitive content. It is up to the reader to decide whether they wish to check the marked stories for sensitive topics, or read on without knowing the nature of the piece. Topics we deemed worthy of warnings were depictions of war and violence, death, murder, abuse, and addiction.
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EDITOR’S NOTE The best way to describe the 2019-2020 edition of Brushing is a labor of love. What began as a compilation of submissions beautifully evolved into a coalescence of the artistic voices that represent the vibrant texture of the Rollins community. While we have had to endure difficult transitions and adopt new social norms in the second half of our school year, I am grateful that we have still managed to come together as a community to promote creative expression. Let this year's edition of the journal serve as an artifact of our resilience. The visual concept for the cover of this year's Brushing was inspired by a quote from John Lennon: "Reality leaves a lot to the imagination." With that in mind, I chose images of a stock, profile portrait and an alluring landscape to create a double exposure effect. It's an aesthetic explosion that illuminates the confluence and dichotomy of imagination and reality. COVID-19 presented many unforeseen hurdles from a production standpoint, and, regrettably, due to time constraints, we decided to pursue a minimalist interior design so as to allow the writing and visual art to take center stage. My hope for our audience is that you can find something in this journal that you can connect with, whether it is a piece of writing or art, anything that takes you to a place within yourself and inspires you to produce something original of your own. Brushing is committed to diverse creators and content, and we would love to hear your story. Before I send you off, I have to thank our dedicated staff of Readers and Editors, who put in a tremendous amount of work to finely curate and polish the pieces included in this year’s publication. Also, thank you to Greg Golden and Victoria Brown for your expertise, guidance, and commitment to the success of Brushing. All the best, Siobhan Cooney Editor-in-Chief
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EXCERPTS FROM OCTOBER Lily Calary fiction 10/17/2019 There’s a little girl who lives inside me. She rents a studio apartment in my esophagus and she’s always getting noise complaints. She ransacks her home every night, banging pots and pans, because she’s been locked in there. She pleads with a frenzy to be set free, but I swallowed the key long ago. She’s stuck inside me forever and her name is the same as mine. She runs in circles and screams so loud that I bet her mind is clear. Every time I hear her vibrations, I want to echo her yells. She’s braver than me and she feels things deeper. She lives so close to my heart that she can see it out her window. I think that’s why she acts so unbridled, she sees exactly how it beats. Sometimes I’ll sit there and listen to her wake up. She opens her eyes to the view of my dull pain and screams with the loudest frustration. Her vocal cords are shot, but she sleeps soundly every night, knowing that every feeling has been expressed. 10/18/2019 I pour wine in my water bottle and try to remember that I am, in some ways, a writer. I sip and stare at my overpriced computer and think about how the words that will go into it are worth far less than the machine recording them. I scream and yell and tell people in a monotone voice that everything with me is fine. I think about how I ultimately only care about my mother and the characters that I have given a reason to exist. I dream in their heads and want the best for them, and I find myself unable to give them a hard ending, because I know what it’s like to live in a perpetual hard ending, and I don’t think anyone else deserves it. If I am going to invent these people, why do I need to introduce them to pain? But there I am again, protecting other people and in doing so, robbing them of the person that they could become. The narrative that we need hardship to be interesting is one I wish I didn’t buy into because it’s stretching at the polyester of my insides. Do not wash, only dry clean. That’s the extra care I require, and some--most--can’t afford it. 10/21/2019 There is a surreal feeling that follows the unearthing of discontent, of
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indifference, of intentional but warm dislike. You felt something was off but never knew exactly what it was, and then someone with more insight and less feeling lets you know not what you did wrong, but that you did wrong. That always seems to be the core issue: not what I did wrong, but that I did wrong. This is incorrect, this is hurtful, this is why you aren’t loved. You do wrong. And I’ve yet to meet a soul who will elaborate for me. Please tell me how to be and I’ll mend in exchange for love. I feel this need to earn and collect your love so I can prove to myself that I’m okay. Look at all these people who think I’m okay, who think I’m worthy of love and attention. But they always leave. After months, some last years, once one lasted a decade. But living with something people don’t understand means everything is temporary. Nothing in this life is permanent for me, because people can only tolerate so much. They can only tolerate this thing, but they refuse to explain it to me and one day I hope someone just sits me down and screams at me and tells me what it is. Because I’ll find out, finally, that it’s nothing. I’m not doing anything wrong but living with an impediment in my brain that has it function differently from theirs. I’ll realize that in the end, it wasn’t me intentionally. They couldn’t accept all of me and, therefore, couldn’t accept some of me. We use this rule, that if we are the common denominator in many failed relationships, it must be us. I have to learn that it’s not. Some fundamentally don’t understand or easily accept the way I forcefully love and faithfully and habitually slip up, and that during these moments I am blind, I am unaware, and I don’t know what I’m doing to them. I know that I love them and that they see everything but that. I have to learn to live with that in me. That I exist not within myself, but I, myself, exist. I have to love to give and there is love for me in this world. 10/23/2019 I like my therapist a little too much. She makes me laugh and she understands me in ways that other people don’t. She acts like she’s my friend and lets me go on rants, and I realize this is what I pay her for. I like my therapist a little too much. I find myself talking about her a lot. A funny thing she said, or what she called me out on this week. She’s someone who I’m happy is in my life. I like my therapist a little too much. I’m paying her, I’m paying her, it’s not real. Sometimes I think no, don’t tell her that, it’ll ruin her image of you, but no, I don’t like my therapist that much. She has an earnestness that’s completely disarming, and she says, “and that’s hard” a lot. She always wears athleisure and she went to school in Boston and she never makes me feel like I’m wrong. Today she looked at me through her phone camera and told me I’m doing a good job. Something inside made me feel okay, the warmest I have felt in months. I like my therapist
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a little too much. Because every Thursday at 1:15 is not a chore but a nice conversation where it’s all about me, and someone really cares. And only those that like their therapist can truly understand that the relationship is one that is real. I am paying her for guidance and for understanding, but not for the rapport that we have. I’m not making a deal out of things; I’m just saying I like my therapist a lot. I’m happy that she’s part of my life and I like to think she’s proud of me. But maybe that’s because I like her a little too much.
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WAKE Robyn Perry poetry Shrouded by the screen of heavy night sky, I rage in the moonlight. Overwhelmed by an emotion too heavy for my hands, curling up into fists and spreading into wings, I throw them up to the stars and shout, “Is this what you want?” I expect the night to swallow me in response, with its angry and seductive darkness, to consume the final traces of the incessant questions fumbling from my blue lips, strong with a facade of confidence well beyond my years. I expect it to revolt, to spit back in my face the force of power held swelling in its galaxies, to fixate the evening and bind the dawn in a never-ending loop of mature black sky. For perpetual night to come, violent and chaotic, and repeat, and repeat, and repeat. In my ardency, I’ll fight back every time. But the sun still rises in all its foolish adolescence, and I follow in its wake with mine.
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*HELLO KITTY Elizabeth Trepanier fiction He shot the little girl first, proving his point. She couldn’t have been older than eight. The mother sat perfectly still, silent, with her feet sticking straight out. Her eyes were glazed, staring forward; her perfectly made-up face was a wasteland of shiny sweat and tears. Now, her daughter lay slumped over beside her as the robber prowled up and down the row of hostages again. The sparkly Hello Kitty cartoon on the girl’s shirt was hidden as she lay facing the bloodsplattered wall. We couldn’t see the gaping hole in her small, smooth forehead now, but it was burned into our brains just the same. People say it’s total bullshit, that life doesn’t actually flash before your eyes in a near-death experience. I beg to differ. Someone at the far end of the wall was shouting angrily. An older man, I think. A few others began yelling, too, adrenaline spiking harder than the fear. The robber pounded down the line of hostages as the silent ones cowered and ducked their heads out of range of his flailing gun. He stopped in front of the mother and daughter in the middle of the line. If you all don’t shut the fuck up right now, I’m gonna shoot
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her first, he snarled through the latex mask. He aimed at the child sobbing on the floor. The angry man at the far end thought the robber was bluffing and he shouted again. I swear, in the span of a single second, the laws of relativity gave way and we all held our breath as the robber’s gun lifted toward the stricken face of that little girl. He fired without hesitation. Before the mother even had time to reach for her daughter, she was laid out, legs askew. Life does flash before your eyes in near-death experiences. Her whole life flashed before mine. Birthday parties, bubble gum, and what could have been. That girl’s entire life flashed before my eyes—before the violent sound even ricocheted through my body and my ears began to ring. Holding hands with her first boyfriend, graduating high school, laughing with friends, falling in love with herself and her life, her career and the person she’d choose to spend the rest of her life with… Her children and her children’s children, laughing and racing around their backyard against the backdrop of pink- and orange-hued twilight. The resounding crack hit us
all that day and I realized in the next moment that I had always thought old people were supposed to be the expendable ones in hostage situations. Some profound sense of ethical humanity was supposed to exist, right? The humanity that kept even the worst of criminals from hurting women and children. That should have kept the girl safe and taken the angry old man instead. He had been the one shouting, after all. It was his fault she was dead. I stared, gaping at him as we all did, as he gaped at the dead child as the screams rose up around us in a cacophony of demonic terror. Chaos imbued the room with the palpable taste of fear as the man’s face fell white with regret. He would be haunted by his own voice for the remainder of his life. Haunted by the anger that blinded him. Every breath he took, he and the masked man stole from her. Every smile he offered to his family would be a lie—they should have been hers! Time pressed on and there was even more shouting, the banging of boots, and dark-suited officers poured in, carrying big shield deflectors. They put their bodies between us and him, the murderer. I think the gunman tried to kill himself, but an officer tackled him before he could pull the trigger. Another second, another life changed forever. Where was the justice in it all? We were taken outside the building for medical aid after the all clear. As I was escorted to an ambulance for triage, with the ringing
in my ears drowning everything else, I watched the robber cry. I can’t walk down the bright pink aisles of children’s toys anymore. I wonder if any of us could. *Content Warning: Graphic descriptions of murder
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*THE VOICE OF A WHEELCHAIR Elizabeth Smith poetry Hi… Um, I haven’t had a chance to speak to anybody before, really. I mean it. Just to myself. Right now, this very second, I hope somebody will listen to me. Will you? Just this once. Let me tell you a little bit about myself. I’m a navy blue wheelchair. I’ve got some rips in my cushions. I’ve got a great big wide seat with large, titanium wheels. I could really go for a sip of WD40, just like Samantha. She really wanted a chocolate milkshake with extra cherries when she found out it was time to go home. I’m not sure, but I’d love to tell you, I’ve been a great help to loads of people at Theodore Roosevelt Medical Center. Well, actually, I have been a great help while working here, but to me… It’s like I’m Johnny, who came into the ER a few days ago, from his twenty-mile bike ride, Dr. Delarosa diagnosed him with DVTs: blood clots in his calves. I’ve dead-ended into my last mile of work, as if there were blood clots in my own calves. I meant in my titanium wheels, of course. Unfortunately, I overheard the nurses during rounds. They’ve planned to get rid of me. My life has been rejected, as if I were Camile’s new heart after her transplant.
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There are dried-up tears that reside in my cushions leaving so many memories. Countless times, my wide seat was much too big for the youngsters like Timothy and Maria whose feet dangled far off the hospital floor. I wheeled them around for months, next thing I knew their parents left. Timothy and Maria, they… They both died. Timothy: February 6, 1989 at 4:23 A.M. Maria: August 29, 1993 at 12:56 P.M. I still miss Maria’s drawings of her dog, Prince Philip. I still miss Timothy’s favorite purple little car he’d say zoom to as he played with it on my arm rests. I tell you what, I can’t forget Olivia. She often came in with bruises and broken bones. Nobody but me saw her husband who gave her an angry look and a talkin’ to. I was so glad to see Olivia left that cruel man. It was my honor to wheel her across the hall while she held her newborn son wrapped in mint green booties. Olivia named him Simon. He radiated a colossal of joy from that very first day. Then Ester... I must mention Ester. She came in. Her fear made my titanium wheels rock. Her tears soaked my tattered cushions. Her anger made me leave skid marks across the floor that Jim just finished cleaning. But I didn’t blame her. I still don’t. It was Ester’s first day a new altered life. I’d tell you what the diagnosis was, but every time somebody mentioned it, Ester held a fist on my arm rest.
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These are just a few of my memories. I don’t ask for sympathy, but rather an epiphany, Just for you. Not one has heard my voice, except for you and now… The nurses are taking me, to my final resting place, the dump. I heard it has red, toxic, waste bags smelling worse than the diarrhea I’ve gotten on my seat before. How do I, Rest in Peace? Since Timothy and Maria are, I suppose, I can too, Just for them.
*Content Warning: Descriptions of death, implied abuse
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RED ICING Mya Destefano poetry
A sixteen candle serenade, a charade for the perverts and the converts measuring her worth by the length of her skirt. She exists, always alert, to avoid getting hurt. Blow. Make a wish for the forgotten years of innocence. Slice the cake, piercing her like a blade, cascading blood like red icing. A free-for-all birthday with insecurities laid out on the buffet. Dance with her father, because romanced womanhood awaits beyond his pearly-gates. Altar-bound after her first date. New license with her life up for the takes. Mental health like a cracked and weathered highway, navigate the road less-traveled, no accidents allowed. Patriarchy-bestowed freedom awaits. Happy birthday.
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THE TRINITY Siobhan Cooney fiction His voice had never sounded so cold. I could feel the icy chill of Granddad’s muffled words through the kitchen wall as I pressed up my ear to eavesdrop. We had been eating breakfast when the phone rang. Granddad was reading the paper while munching on toast, Dad was scarfing down a scrambled egg so he wouldn’t miss his train into the city, and I was cleaning my Sony Alpha a6000 camera that I got as an early graduation present. The shriek from the landline startled me so much I almost dropped the lens into my Frosted Flakes. Granddad nonchalantly strode to the opposite wall to answer the call with a friendly, “Hallo.” Suddenly, his voice lowered to a grave grumble, and his brow furrowed deep into his wrinkly face. Dad looked up from his eggs for the first time that morning, and sensing a growing tension, quietly urged me out of the room. The pocket door leading to the kitchen creaked as I tried to sneak a peek inside. All the color and spirit had drained from Granddad’s face. He just stood leaning against the wall that held the landline, no more than a flat black and white shadow.
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“I knew they’d find me one day, Danny. I was just hoping I’d be dead when they did.” He disdainfully shuffled out of the kitchen and out onto the porch, probably to take a puff from his pipe as he often did when he was troubled. After I finished picking my jaw up off the floor, Dad opened the sliding door and lightly placed a warm hand on my shoulder, sighing. “Rosie, I think we need to talk.” He boiled the water while I grabbed the Twining’s from the cupboard. We sat there at the table for a while, silently sipping the tea until Dad was ready to talk. “Now, your Granddad had done some things in his past that he was not proud of, but little things. Nevertheless, the police had his name. Some tout1 had put it out there that Granddad was a sniper for the IRA and was there in Derry on a rooftop when all Hell broke loose on Bloody Sunday. But Rose, he wasn’t. He was home in Belfast at a jewelry store buying a necklace for your grandmother. Old Sean Finnegan said he would open up the shop especially for him on that Sunday, when he otherwise would have been closed, so that my
dad could give it to my mom on her birthday.” My hand flew protectively to my neck and I grasped my grandmother’s delicate trinity knot Celtic cross tightly in my palm. I never take it off. Dad took a deep breath, and then continued. “Granddad had heard from some friends that they were after him. He always told me that he wasn’t in Derry that day. But of course, it was his word against theirs, and based on the RUC’s2 track record with internment, where they could lock you up for as long as they wanted until you ‘confessed,’ his word wasn’t going to mean much.” “After hiding among friends and living on the run, he knew that he and your grandmother had to get out of Northern Ireland. So he called in a few favors from certain people who helped forge some new documents. They changed their names and fled.” I stopped him right there. “What do you mean, ‘changed their names’?” Out of nowhere, Mr. Martin’s lecture on Romeo & Juliet came to mind. What’s in a name, huh?... Apparently my entire livelihood! “Well Rosie, they couldn’t very well start a new life with an old name that had a heavy bounty on it. So Mr. and Mrs. Martin O’Mara became Mr. and Mrs. John Duggan. Granddad took your very pregnant grandmother first to Canada, and they eventually worked their way down to New York where I was born. And then of course, you know that my mom died shortly after-” “Yeah,” I interrupted, “just like
mine.”
We both nodded in a quiet acceptance of our common bond. I was starting to understand Granddad’s predicament. “So that’s who was on the phone tonight? They’re after him again, aren’t they? 45 years later, and he has to answer to a crime he didn’t even commit?” Dad shook his head in utter dejection. “I hate to say it Rosie, but that’s the way the fiddle plays.” As I sat at my desk later that afternoon staring blankly at my homework, I couldn’t help but think that there was something more that I could be doing to help the only other man besides my father that has always been by my side. For my whole life it has been us three, and I couldn’t imagine a world without either one of them. I closed my macroeconomics textbook and logged into my Mac to begin researching, to see if I could find any kind of exculpatory information that might help clear Granddad’s name. All of my searches kept drawing me to this one website in particular: “aliveinhistory.org.” The hypnotic reviews drew me in. “What a fantastic journey to the past.” “I found out so much about my ancestors through this site.” “Results you have to see to believe.” Just reading those first three testimonies was enough to send me entering all the information I had to give into the “aliveinhistory” database. No sooner had my finger left the enter key, that the lights in my bedroom
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flickered; on, off, on, off. “No problem,” I thought as I dried my sweaty palms on my denim capris, “just a little power surge.” Yeah right, a power surge at 3:15 on a cloudless day. What more are you going to throw at me God? Apparently, He had a plan. A dense, green fog suddenly poured out of the air conditioning vents on the ceiling and from under my bedroom door until the fog completely enveloped my entire room. I bolted to my door, but the handle would not budge. The same was true with my window. I was stranded in the middle of my bedroom, having nowhere else to go. The mist snaked up my body and coiled around my neck, tugging on my pendant. It plunged into my nose and mouth and sucked the air right out of my lungs. I cannot remember if it was the room or my head that was spinning, all I know is that I collapsed, and hit the floor hard. I just lay their choking, my chest heaving with each difficult breath. Then. All. Went. Black. Bitter winds burned my cheeks and tugged maliciously at my fiery curls. I regained consciousness to the cacophony of a constant clanging. My eyelids fluttered open, revealing the scene of older women on their hands and knees banging metal garbage can lids on the pavement, shouting, “They’re coming! They’re coming!” Startled, I pushed myself up, only to trip over a curb that seemed to have come out of nowhere. Dazed and confused, I rubbed my now sore rear end. My eyes wandered around until they landed on a battered and bruised
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brick building, weathered by time and tension. Brick by brick my gaze climbed the wall, stopping abruptly at a large street sign reading “Falls Road” with its Irish translation below. Huh, didn’t Granddad and Grandma used to live off a street in West Belfast called Falls Road? The winds picked up again, greedily stealing leaves from their neatly formed piles and throwing them back on the ground haphazardly. A worn out piece of newspaper tumbled down the sidewalk and landed next to my waist. Hoping it would yield some valuable information, I scoured the page, but I almost dropped it when I read the headline, “DERRY MARCH TO PROCEED,” dated January 30th, 1972. It was written over the by-line Jerome Reilly. 1972? Only then did I notice that my emerald blouse, capris, and fuzzy penguin socks had been exchanged for a brown woolen trench coat and an itchy sweater to match, along with baggy bellbottom jeans and a pair of what looked like hand-medown platform boots. All of a sudden two large rough hands grabbed my shoulders and pulled me down a dark alleyway. “You’re gonna get yourself killed, girl. Didn’t ya hear the warnings?” Standing over me was one of those women I saw slamming a garbage can lid. She looked me up and down with narrow brown eyes and said, “Oh you must be one of the O’Mara girls.” After 17 years of being a Duggan, and considering that I had only learned my true surname
only hours ago, O’Mara still didn’t sound quite right yet. Nevertheless, I attempted to mask my initial puzzled expression with a round of vigorous nodding. The burly woman continued. “I just saw your brother Marty two minutes ago. He was in a hurry and said he was off buying something for that pretty lass of his.” Granddad. She quickly ducked her head out of the alley, her voice suddenly lowering to an urgent whisper. “He went ‘round the corner, I’m guessing he’s going to Finnegan’s. If you catch up to him, you better tell him to get the hell outta here. They’re picking up everyone, taking ‘em to Castlereagh3. Feckin’ Brits and their internment.” The woman then spat on an unsuspecting cobblestone. At that moment the big picture came into focus, and I realized why I was there. I have to find him, and fast. Using the best brogue I could muster, I responded with the only piece of stock conversation that would always get a chuckle out of family and friends. “‘Tanks very mooch.” I took off from the alleyway, not daring to look back. On the other side of the street I could see that distinctive shock of red hair underneath a worn woolen cap, the color and style of which I had seen on countless occasions growing up. He was a short distance away, so I broke into a light jog to keep pace. As I was running, an incessant thud nagged at my hip. I reached inside the overcoat, and was never so happy to feel the familiar rectangular edges of
my iPhone. In one fluid motion I pulled my phone out of the pocket, and with a single swipe, captured the moment that he entered “Finnegan’s Fine Flatware & Jewelry.” But I knew this was not going to be enough. I needed some kind of proof of purchase, any paper trail of the transaction having been long since lost to history and, as I learned later, the embers of a rogue loyalist paramilitary firebomb that destroyed Finnegan’s shop and others on that street in the days following Bloody Sunday. With the sounds of sirens and screams growing ever louder, it was clear that the police and military were beginning their siege of West Belfast. I had to act fast. Phone in hand and stepping off the curb, I was nearly struck by a speeding taxi, not remembering that traffic comes from the other direction in the UK. Catching my breath after that near miss, I raced across the street to get that final shot. In the brief millisecond when the phone’s screen goes black, and the camera shutter opens and closes to capture that moment in time, my eyes did the same, but everything stayed black for me. When they finally opened, I was laying on the floor of my bedroom clutching my phone in a death grip. Instinctively, I looked up at my ceiling to search for my digital clock’s projection of the time. In hazy blue figures, I could make out 3:17 PM, a mere two minutes since I first logged on to the aliveinhistory web site. It had to have been a dream, right?
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A tsunami of realization crashed over me. Not entirely sure of what to do next, I tentatively unlocked my iPhone and hesitated for a few long seconds before opening my camera roll. The last two photos grabbed my attention like one of those giant billboards in Times Square. There, as plain as day, were the two photos I took moments ago in West Belfast. Northern Ireland. I selected the second picture to get a better look at what exactly I had captured before everything went dark. Sure enough, through the plate-glass window of Finnegan’s Fine Flatware & Jewelry, there was my Granddad, John Duggan… strike that (I’m still coming to grips with this part)… Martin O’Mara leaning casually against the counter, completely unaware of the impending chaos outside. With his right hand, he shook the hand of the clerk, while in his left, the gold chain of the delicate trinity knot Celtic cross necklace dangled loosely from his fingertips. Using my own fingertips, I expanded the image and was astounded by what I saw. There on the counter, beneath their clasped hands lay a typical desk calendar, whose previous date had been torn to reveal Sunday, January 30th, 1972. Sunday, Bloody Sunday. But I knew there was a problem. A picture may be worth a thousand words, but a print made from a digital photograph would raise more questions than it would answer. I knew what needed to be done. I had to get to the film lab, where I often worked with the owner, Fred Lazzara, on the weekends. The shop specializes in
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recreating vintage photography, posters, and prints. Once there, I grabbed Mr. Lazzara’s Canon F-1 35mm SLR camera off the shelf and fashioned two negatives from my digital prints. Going “old school,” I went into the darkroom at the back of the store and developed the negatives, printing them using stock paper we had from the ‘70s. With every new detail that slowly but surely came to life on the paper, I grew more anxious to get back home before Granddad and Dad would have to leave for his lawyer’s office. I burst through the front door just as they were coming down the stairs. Their eyes lit up, and Dad said, “Rosie! Where were you? We didn’t know where you had gone.” “I’m sorry, I had to run down to the film shop for a moment to give the keys back to Mr. Lazzara.” Clutching the brown manila envelope close to my heart, I marched right over to Granddad. Handing him the package, I said, “Granddad, please promise me that you will look at these on the way. It’s important.” With a steady hand he took the envelope and secured it in his briefcase. “I promise.” Wiping a stray tear off my cheek with his worn but warm thumb, he winked and using his pet name for me he cooed, “Ah sure, it’ll be grand. Don’t you worry Róisín4.” I walked them over to the car, and we gathered on the sidewalk for one final embrace. The three of us held tight to each other without saying another word. As I watched father
and son drive away, I held tight to the necklace. A gentle sigh floated off my lips, and I kissed the trinity cross. … My grandfather went back to Northern Ireland to clear his good name and returned to us two weeks later. He lived out the rest of his life with the other two-thirds of his trinity knot. A framed photo of the purchase still hangs on the wall above the fireplace.
Slang term used by Northern Irish republicans to denote an informant who give the police and army information about suspected terrorists (from Urbandictionary.com) 2 Royal Ulster Constabulary: Northern Ireland police force at the time 3 Pronounced “Castle-ray” 4 Pronounced “Ro-Sheen” / Irish translation of “Little Rose” 1
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LIE BY OMISSION Emily O’Malley poetry
do you remember when the harsh fluorescent lights flicked on how they made each fiber of the shag rug glitter my eyes focused on one strand woven tightly and maybe you didn’t see because only i pressed my cheek to the floor but it was beautiful even through the dust then you pulled my head onto your lap smeared my hair against streaks of tears on my cheek a rug was just a rug again you dropped my fragile skull on the floor i felt it shatter you saw the pieces fragments of bone caught in sparkling strands of rug “help me clean them up, put them back,” i wanted to scream “help me,” i whispered “okay,” you said and took tweezers to the fragments lodged in my brain you introduced yourself as “the boyfriend” claiming me before we ever went out on a date holding my hand like my arm was a leash i broke up with you before you ever said it to my face you told me it was love until you found out i was strange
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THE HOUSE Barbara Hughes poetry
the house at the end of the mountain road holds its secrets like the sea whispering to me to wander in its solitude the rain softly taps on the tin roof spilling down gray through ageless stars I had a dream on its grasses where you ended and I began I would enter you to find myself your photo hangs in that corner room dad where loved ones refuse to return at this house, ghosts of forgotten family fade away in the ebb and flow of terrestrial tides I follow the liquid echoes that loop and chase floor boards creak with your soundless footsteps Dad a faceless man behind the reflection of windows next time say goodbye before you cross beyond the pale I am a child again as you disappear under the moon’s scars but how far can my small legs run against the dark to keep up are you the phantom or is it me? dust dances in the eclipse of my eyes. it’s nightfall, the sky is filled with shadows in my hands they lay dying…just like your energy.
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CALLADITAS SE VEN MÁS BONITAS Nicole Zamudio-Roman fiction The most ruthless encounters for girls occurred in the schoolyard or in a convenience store. It didn’t hit me until after I flipped the switch on adolescence, but seeing Carmen Santiago walk into the convenience store wearing pumps and a fastened coat, and clutching a designer bag in hand made me just a bit salty. As the doors slid closed behind her, thunder boomed, and the downpour of rain continued. Carmen was solo today; it was a rarity for her kind. With her mini stilts, she walked with an irregular grace around the cardboardcovered linoleum to the soda aisle in the back. Thankfully, she didn’t look like the hen of seventh grade anymore, trying to accentuate things she didn’t have enough of yet by sticking out her chest and backside. She’s a much more natural-looking chicken. A smile popped onto my face and just as quickly disappeared as I remembered this was Carmen Santiago, the girl whose crew used to call me a loudmouth chatterbox and made fun of my non-accented perfect Spanish. “Calladitas se ven más bonitas,”
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my mother used to say. Silence makes girls look prettier. Maybe, that’s why I haven’t been able to hold down a relationship for more than two and a half weeks. My mother blamed me for not following rule number one. For not looking pretty in silence. For not growing up as a natural mini-Latina like Carmen Santiago. Carmen wandered into the candy aisle, parallel the cash register with a Coca-Cola in hand. When had she grabbed a CocaCola? What a Latinx thing to buy. Her soaked thick, dark, lioness-like mane dripped, wetting the floors where she went. The wet hair covered a large portion of her face. She stared down at the ground as if she were inspecting the cleanliness of the floors. The thought of having to mop up the trail later prickled my skin. “Can I help you?” I asked in a stupidly small voice. $8.50 an hour was too little to put up with Carmen Santiago and anything she must be plotting. She stiffened, turning in a ninety-degree angle as if to leave, then retreated from the idea. She grabbed the first bag of candy in
her direction and walked to the counter. Sliding the candy and a Coca-Cola onto the counter, in her hoarse voice, she said, “Èsto y un ticket de lotto.” “$4.03.” And I rang up her randomized Lotto numbers. She put her handbag to the left side of the counter, pulling out her wallet and looked up. Her eyeshadow was an outline of the Mississippi River smeared on her puffed cheeks. One cheek was a shade of violet red that will surely be black by tomorrow morning. Like an earthquake, she trembled, all while fighting back a flood of tears. “Should I call el nuevo once?” I offered her the Lotto ticket and her receipt. She quirked a small smile, pulling herself together. Taking both the ticket and receipt, she placed them in her bag, “Calladitas se ven más bonitas. Didn’t your mother ever teach you that?”
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EUTIERRIA Erica Vanacore prose Time melts away in the colors of dawn and dusk; the seasons wither and blossom each year, and for those years, I have not taken a single breath. The mystery of how the world reacted to my sudden disappearance will forever linger as I remain. Slowly, disgustingly, beautifully, and solitarily, I have rotted away within this forest. At first the moisture from my body, half-decayed, invited mushrooms to peak their heads from the ground and germinate. They appeared in all kinds of colors; from ivory caps to golden cups, they multiplied, and spread their network of nutrients and information across the entire forest. Once there wasn’t an ounce of flesh left, the moss came to visit. They decided to create a home from my bones, thriving within the small fractures and hallowed centers. Then the vines slithered down, coiled around my femur, weaved through my ribcage, and rested. Leaves died and withered next to me. With the abundance of foliage that created a city from my body--with their roots like roads and weeds residing in my carcass-an abundance of critters created a trough from which they ate.
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It was common for deer lips to nuzzle me during winter. Sweet berries and nuts are scarce during the season, but it’s easier to find fallen leaves and twigs on the frozen soil. The deer inevitably gets spooked, either by a sound or smell, and leap off in a hurry using and breaking my carcass in their running start. I didn’t blame the deer; they were just scared. Scared like the rabbit that approached my body in spring, nose twitching, ears erect. Noticing the bounty of food in front of them, the cottontail bounded over and nibbled on the moss that sprouted atop the newly exposed bone. Then it ran off. Perhaps to find something tastier, like cabbage or dry hay. I didn’t mind. I couldn’t imagine how sour the moss must taste if its only source of nutrients comes from death. In the summer of this year—after many years, rather—my skeleton turned to dust, consumed by terra. From the center of the Earth to the top of the highest branch, I now travel amongst the interconnected systems that expand for miles. I can feel rivers flow at my fingertips with hundreds of fish flapping and twisting across my
knuckles. I can taste the minerals the waterway provides, absorbed by the ground and allowing me to drink after death. I can smell the worms eat and excrete, squirming their thin bodies through the soil. I can hear the whisper of wind that dances through many tree branches, and twirling with each individual leaf that crosses its path. I can see the large pile of twigs and logs that carry a secret: an underground den where beavers raise their young. They do not notice me, for I no longer move against the Earth, but with it in total sync.
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Imagine Losing Life: Imbalance
Relief Ink on Paper
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Tracy Lam
Antonieta Lairet
Tookie Tookie
Digital Painting
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Eternal Memory
Alexander Knobloch
Digital Photography Composite
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Claudia Prado
Camera Shy
Prismacolor Pencil
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Sydney Schenone
Impressions of Salvation
Collage
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A Gentle Evening
Matthew Mosquera
Digital Photography
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Salty Night: An Homage to Starry Night
Sand Dyed with Food Coloring
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Maria Cedeno
Allison Van Tilborgh
Speak Life
Collage
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*BINGE Barbara Hughes poetry Pick your poison, you will find The unknown and unthought, but always real. I have never lived in the realms of gold. You say my fragile mind is sold. Faceless, I am lost in the reflection of glass. Pick your poison, you will find Sweet nectar, a delicate delight down my throat, Uninvited addiction demands my whole being. I have never lived in the realms of gold. The touch of the bottle chills my body. Dead hearts dancing under broken twinkling lights. Pick your poison, you will find An iridescent light in a land of dreams is kind. One more drink and I will be picking moon petals. (I have never lived in the realms of gold.) I am in the company of intoxicating shadows, Praying away the drunk spirits of the night before. Pick your poison, you will find I have never lived in the realms of gold...
*Content Warning: Implied addiction
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NECTAR Mya Destefano poetry The wings, the wings, the butterfly sings disillusioned by candied nothings and melodies. Fluttering between honeyed dreams. Dignity lost to a self-absorbed disease. She eagerly consumes without thought, bumbling through life until she finds Mr. Right. Gullibly drunk on the saccharine nectar of flawed promises laced with syrupy poison, hallucinogenic, corroding her mind with sentiments of privilege. She trusts what she’s fed, floating by as if to say the breeze was created for her ease. The butterfly wishes to soar, straining towards the heavens but is earth-bound by oppression. Perched on a flower, a tease for the masses looking to devour. She makes friends with bees, swarms of insects, traipsing with their stingers ready to perform. But still, she’s filled with naïve surprise when then they decide to prick. Consent is for the birds, not her, as they shred through her paper-thin appendages. Tatters, remnants, of who she used to be, a cloying reminder, bittersweet. The butterfly sings, her song just a fantasy, lying to herself to fall asleep. Held together by strings, pretty from a distance but one touch of the wings, she’s soiled and can’t be redeemed. Wasted beauty on the weak, we tell her she’s begging for the attention she did not seek. But look at the way she glides. Not afraid of the skies when she leaves expectations behind. When the nectar turns rotten with festering masculinity, the small little brain of the small little bug is free to dream, outside of the flower that she’s been forced to drink.
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GRAINS OF SAND Elizabeth Smith poetry I am a soul, billowing across the sapphire river—The Nile. Wind whistles through my clouds of stardust, sparkling shimmers of silver sterling. I am a soul who has searched the seas: The Pacific, Atlantic, Indian, Arctic, Mediterranean, Caribbean, Gulf of Mexico. Only one, I have found. Earth has been abandoned. Forgotten. Sun blisters the only one I have found, Mayra, a young girl, lays upon the sand with no pulse. Her black hair spread far across the grains of sand. Mayra wore an emerald, on the links of a golden chain across her neck. A crimson gown reached her ankles. A silk cloth lay over her face. Whistling wind carried my clouds of stardust into her very mind. Mayra’s rhythm, her heartbeat, began again. Off with the cloth! Her eyes. Blink, Blink, Blink. She rose. Her feet melted into the grains of sand. Her essence befuddled from death. Her heart awoke from the presence of me, a soul. Mayra’s mind was so peculiar. It was intricate, like the pyramids. Thoughts imploded, as if every star died. Yet, within her I could not find the moon. Invisible, complete vacancy. She ran. 360-degree view, nothing. Nobody was left.
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Even the sun fell, into the crust of the earth. Whistling wind blew grains of sand into her bloodshot eyes. Mayra fell into the sand, staring at the dune before her. Climb, climb the sand dune, she did. I, Mayra’s soul, felt her say, “It is only I. And I alone am left to this earth. It is only I. And I alone will collect the grains of sand.”
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WHAT LIES BENEATH WHITE GLOVES Siobhan Cooney fiction It’s a Saturday night in early December, and New York City is wet, windy, and cold. It’s six in the evening, and the sun has long since set in the sky, weary from a day’s work, jaded with its cyclical and inescapable progression. The snow refuses to cease; they say it’s one of our worst winters yet. I crank up the speed of the windshield wipers, and my headlights part the seas of white as I carefully maneuver through the backroads. How I wish I could be back at my apartment right now, under my favorite fleece blanket and marathoning the Harry Potter movies while Kevin and I stuff our faces with pizza and wings. That’s how I’d really like to spend my birthday, in the arms of my fiancée. “But that’s why you’re here, Beth, driving alone on black ice.” I say to the steering wheel. It’s been a month already since our engagement, and I still haven’t worked up the courage to tell my family. Kevin doesn’t blame me, though. He knows they aren’t his biggest fans, especially Mother. All she wants is for me to land a man whose pockets are deeper than his personality. He could even
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have a nose the size of Texas and Mother wouldn’t care, so long as his last name was Vanderbilt and his bank account matched ours. And don’t even get me started on my siblings. Michael never misses an opportunity to crack a “broke college literature professor” joke about Kevin. That way Michael is too busy laughing to swig down yet another beer. Portia, our darling baby sister, is always quick to criticize Kevin’s manhood just because he’s sweet and sensitive, and not a rich, pretentious jerk. She would know a lot about those; she’s slept with enough of them to write a manual, if only she could string two intelligent words together. But of course, all Mother sees in them is the successful stock broker and dazzling debutante that she can parade like show ponies at all of her events. My fists clench the wheel. I take a deep breath. This never bothers Kevin, or if it does, he never lets his frustration show. He does not, however, understand why I keep tripping over myself running in circles around my family, desperately trying to get on the
inside. It’s true; I’ve never been Mother’s perfect socialite heiress, or the perfect middle sibling that my brother and sister want standing between them. But there was always Dad. He would follow me in the garden, watching as I got lost in the beauty and the science of the flowers. Shoulder to shoulder on the shaggy carpet of the study, we would sit together for hours pouring over books about botany and poetry that he knew only I would read. Dad, with a strong hand on my shoulder, made me feel like I had a place in all of the upper-class chaos, telling me to be an orchid in a rose bush. But after he died three years ago, I started slipping into the shadows once again. I guess I feel like I owe it to him to somehow find my own way back into the family. It’s a long and winding road. Before I know it, I’m parked outside after entering the gate code. I know Dad’s birthday like the back of my hand. I sigh. “Let’s get this over with. You can do this.” Correction. “You don’t really have a choice.” I grab the handle about to open the door when my engagement ring catches my eye: A simple,sterling band with a small, star-shaped diamond no bigger than a dime. That’s what Kevin likes to call me, his North Star. I think he was more nervous about giving me the ring than asking the actual question. He was afraid that it wouldn’t live up to the countless
tennis bracelets, emerald pendants, or whatever that I have in my collection. I smile softly, gazing at the ring as it rests on my finger, rotating it under the map lights. It’s modest and clouded, straining to catch the light on a starless night. It’s shy to sparkle, as if it doesn’t know how beautiful it really is. But I know. I can’t bear to take it off, but I decide to conceal the ring so that I’m not bombarded with questions and judgement. My family may be clueless, but they aren’t stupid. And if I’m finally going to put myself on the line, I want it to be on my own terms and in my own words. I text Kevin quickly letting him know that I made it over safely. One more look at the ring, and then I slip on my white silk gloves that Mother gave me on my 21st birthday. Five years later, and still as white as the powder pillowing on the ground. Just to be safe, I also put on a pair of thick fleece gloves I wear when I shovel snow out of my parking space. Every time I come here the house seems bigger, less familiar, and it takes longer to climb the steps. The front door keeps moving farther from my reach. Tonight’s the night. It’s my birthday. I mean, they have to be nice to me on my birthday… Don’t they? Before I have the chance to talk myself out of it the door flies open, and I’m ushered inside. I’m startled when I’m greeted not by Albert, our lifelong butler with rosy cheeks and short
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white whiskers, but a young man with long hair gelled back and a smug mouth to match. “Good evening, Miss. Your mother will see you shortly.” I can see her from the front hallway standing in the study right off the dining room. She’s sipping a martini in her right hand while smoothing her jet-black hair that’s pulled in a taught bun with her left hand. Michael and Portia are on either side, drinks in hand as well. Michael nervously tugs on his tie, his top lip quivering. Portia keeps twirling a blond curl in her tiny finger. After a moment of awkward silence, the mystery man loudly clears his throat, hoping to catch Mother’s attention. Only then does she notice me standing in the foyer. She straightens her silk white gloves, adjusts the pearls that hang pointedly on her porcelain neck, and approaches me, striding past the Golden Boy and Girl. “Elizabeth, dear.” She brushes back wind-blown strands of my brown hair and kisses me on both cheeks, though I can barely feel the touch of her cold red lips. “I can see you’ve met James, our new butler,” she says, gesturing to the statue of a man behind me. “But what happened to Albert?” I gasp. “Please tell me he’s not sick.” “No, no silly. I just fired him. He was getting too old, couldn’t keep up with my schedule, dead weight really.”
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Dead. It still cuts through my ear like a knife. “Anyways. Your brother and sister have already arrived. We’re just having some drinks in the study.” She starts making her way down the hall, then turns around, clearly an afterthought. “Oh, and happy birthday, darling.” I’m surprised you all know where the study is. The rest of my family was never the literary type like Dad and I. After leaving my coat with James, and demanding that I keep my gloves on, I join the group in the other room. I politely sip the martini, but it tastes like vinegar. I try to join the conversation, but stock jargon and tea-time gossip helplessly slips through my glovedfingers. Sighing and succumbing to muscle memory, I recline gently into the loveseat closest to the bookshelf. A quick scan of the shelves and my favorite book appears. Even through two pairs of gloves, my fingers fit into the familiar folds of the warm leather cover. Hues of gold, purple, and red from the Tiffany lamp dance over my hand as I fondly trace the velvet seat cushion.The words float off the page and into the flooded light. All of a sudden, I can see Mother’s bony fingers snapping in front of my face. She would always do that to me as I child when she would catch me daydreaming. I still hate it. “Come along, Elizabeth,
James says that dinner is ready. And take off those ghastly glasses. I’d like to look at two of your pretty gray eyes, not four of them.” There must be a compliment buried in there somewhere. The dining room is just as cold as ever. The embers in the fireplace are dying; someone needs to put in more timber, a spark or something before we all freeze. As we take our seats, my eyes are drawn to the large centerpiece. It’s Dad’s golfing trophy from decades ago. The pewter chalice is starting to show its age in the handles and around the rim. And it’s filled with orchids, but they look like they are wilting. I can see my siblings through the stems and petals. We share the same light smile as we think of Dad. Mother calls James in from the kitchen. “What is the meaning of this, James? I specifically ordered roses for the table, not these limp weeds!” Tiny beads of sweat start to form on his brow. “My apologies, Madam, but these were all that the florist had on such short notice.” Sensing his excuse isn’t cutting it, he quickly adds, “But I can trim the stems so that they can absorb the water better! That should give them a little more life.” “Yes, yes, fine. Just go, do whatever.” Mother takes a quick breath and settles into her chair. “Well, before we eat why don’t we give Elizabeth her birthday presents,” Mother says to Michael
and Portia. Then she looks at me. “Aren’t your hands hot, dear?” Her mouth spouts the question, but the arch in her eyebrow barks the order. “Yes, Mother.” It takes every effort to carefully remove them without simultaneously removing the white gloves underneath. They are my last line of defense, the last things that stand between Mother and my announcement. I’m not ready, not yet. I keep my whitegloved hands under the napkin on my lap. “I gave you the gift of life, of course,” says Mother, “but since that doesn’t seem to be enough for you people anymore, I got you these.” Bead by bead, a string of shimmering pearls emerge from a small purple box. They look identical to the one’s on Mother’s neck. Like a pendulum, they swing back and forth from her neatly manicured fingertips. “They’re, they’re gorgeous. Thank you, Mother.” I absolutely detest pearls, but I wouldn’t expect her to know that. Michael speaks next. “Well, Elizabeth, I had my gift delivered to your apartment, because well, it simply wouldn’t fit in the car.” “Wow, thanks, Michael,” I say through a painted smile. “I’ll be sure to keep an eye out for it.” “I, on the other hand,” says Portia, “got you something that you can actually hold in your hand on your birthday.” She puts a small perfume bottle in front of me. “Ta da!”
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Cautiously, and with my right hand, I open the lid and take a whiff, pleasantly surprised. “Lavender and vanilla! You remembered my favorite scent?” “Yeah. And I figured Kevin would get a kick out of it too.” She clicks her tongue and winks at me. Michael scoffs and grabs his temples. “How classy of you, Portia.” My cheeks burn with enough heat to light three fireplaces. “Where is he anyways?” Mother cavalierly twirls the wine in her glass. “How nice of him not to show up to his own girlfriend’s birthday dinner. I would have thought he’d come for the free meal if nothing else.” Her retort is quickly followed by, “Of course I am only joking, darling.” I grit my teeth. “Yes, Mother. I told you this on the phone last week that Kevin would be late because he has to take the later train after his department meeting.” Michael leans in from his chair, looking at Portia and me across the centerpiece with a slight grin peaking at his dimples. “Remember when Dad used to take us downtown on the weekends? We’d just hop on the subway and ride all over the city, getting off at random stops and back on again.” “Yeah,” Portia says, leaning over as well. “And then he’d take us to almost every hot dog cart and make us try a sample. I’m pretty sure we all got sick on the train rides home.”
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I start giggling with my siblings, and try to glance at Mother through the drooping orchids. Her eyes are ashen. “Yes, yes, all great fun running around like fools and eating fake meat from a street vendor,” she says. “But seriously, Elizabeth, when is Kevin going to get that poetry collection published? He’s already been turned down by what, two publishers already? And is a promotion on the horizon or is he going to stay associate professor forever?” In a single breath she extinguishes our only source of light. My happy, smiling siblings slip back into their Golden skins. All four of their eyes turn on me. My palms begin to sweat. “Well, Mother, I wouldn’t exactly say ‘turned down.’ The first two publishing companies wanted to make too many changes to Kevin’s work that would compromise his artistic integrity. And you know how it works at NYU. It’s a political game.” Portia and Michael chime in with their usual quips about Kevin, but this time they seem almost forced, hesitant even. Their mockery and snickers echo off the empty walls and clog my head. My siblings disappear once again behind the centerpiece. The stems collapse, and the leaves are crumbling before my eyes. This isn’t happening. This isn’t how it was supposed to go. I can’t see them. I can’t hear them. My head
and heart are pounding. There is a commotion at the window. Shaken branches shiver against the glass, pleading for an escape from the cold. Tap. Tap. Tap. They are wearing white gloves too. Or is that snow? Don’t bother, you won’t find any warmth here. Tap. Tap. Tap. The snow is up to the windowsill. Elizabeth. The voice is far away but right in my ear. Kevin? Where is he? I can’t breathe. Tap. Tap. Tap. Can’t let the fire die. Need a spark, need a spark. Snap. Snap. Snap. ELIZABETH! “Please! Stop it! All of you!” I slam my fists onto the table. The centerpiece quakes in the aftershocks. Mother opens her mouth, probably to rebuke me, but once those cat eyes catch a glimpse at the bump on my left hand, she instead clears her throat. A sly grin grows on her face, and she says, “I don’t know who you think you are fooling here, Elizabeth, but I can see that ring under your white gloves, and I can tell you right now that it’s not big enough.” It’s all over now. There is no going back. “You know, Mother, I was actually hoping to avoid this conversation entirely, but the gloves are off now.” I yank the white shields from my hands and throw them indignantly onto the table. I can feel Kevin rolling his eyes at my cliché. “How could you possibly marry that man? Look at the life I’ve given you,” she glares at Michael and Portia, “all of you!”
“Don’t bring them into this, Mother. And yes, you did give me a life. A life filled with jewelry and tea parties and social events and money that I just don’t care about. The one thing you never gave me was love.” Mother says, “Oh, and that’s what Kevin gives you, huh? ‘Love’ won’t pay your bills, sweetheart. All it can do is maintain a garden in the backyard and keep you up at night until you cry yourself to sleep.” She stares long and hard at the centerpiece before speaking again. “I don’t want you to make the same mistake I did.” Without missing a beat, I say, “Doubt thou the stars are fire; Doubt that the sun doth move; Doubt truth to be a liar; But never doubt I love.” Mother’s green eyes roll almost to the back of her head. “Oh, great, now she’s quoting Romeo and Juliet. How appropriate.” “Kevin calls me every night, before I go to sleep, to tell me that. Not to sob drunken tears, or to complain about how this week’s lover left before sunrise and without leaving a note.” Michael and Portia share a despairing glance and then slouch in their chairs, not daring to look at either me or Mother. “It’s because he loves me. We spend days at the Met or Central Park, talking about what makes life worth living. I sit up with him for hours while he grades papers. We listen to each other’s hopes and dreams, and he tells
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me how beautiful I look when I wear my glasses.” I unsheathe them from their case, Excalibur from the stone, and put them on with every accentuated muscle I can muster in my hands. “On the contrary, Mother. I see everything clearly now, and believe me, the only mistake I could make is letting myself suffocate in those pearls and prioritize money over the man I love.” James returns from the kitchen with a pair of scissors. “It’s useless,” I say to him. Then I look Mother straight in the eyes. “You can’t cut the stems of a flower that’s already wilted.” I grab my purse and make way for the front door. Now it’s Mother’s turn to get up from her chair. “Get back here, Elizabeth, and sit down right now.” “No! I’m tired of doing what you say. I’m sorry if it upsets you, but I’m going to marry him.” Mother makes one more attempt to rope me back in. “If you leave now, I swear to God, you lose everything.” As I grasp the doorknob, Kevin’s ring presses firmly into my palm. The star shines the brightest I’ve ever seen it. “No, Mother. I already have everything I need.”
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BETWEEN RED AND BLUE Robyn Perry
poetry
The panic begins in red. Crimson explosions at my temples hot blood shooting its way up, up to boil behind my eyes and then to simmer into a bright orange once it’s reached its preferred consistency. It begins to drain down, dulling to a muted tone that wraps fingers around my heart squeezing tight to kick-start rapid beating and then drying up into sour yellow. The yellow begins to crumble, cascading down my ribs onto velvet green turf that itches with envy as it rotates emerald hues, making me dizzy and sick, especially sick but as it slows I stabilize, sinking in turquoise; I can’t touch the bottom, I can’t reach the top, but at least I’m steady. The muted shades of sadness come from all directions and the panic ends in blue
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THE BROKEN PLATE OF MY FAMILY Julie Bennie
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I had completely forgotten about it. I found it in my cupboard, hidden underneath muddled piles of jerseys and jeans, neglected like an abandoned old toy from my younger years. I struggled to lift it; it was a lot heavier than I remembered, or perhaps I had become much weaker since I last picked it up. I stared at it for a moment before I turned the heavy cover. For the first time in months, I had found the courage to look through my parent’s wedding album. The pages had aged with the years. The once gleaming, flawless pages had wrinkled into light brown creases. The photographs, however, had not lost their glamorous quality. I viewed endless photographs of my family members drinking glittering champagne that complimented the twinkles in their bright smiles. Both sides of the family were dancing together to the iconic moves from the song Macarena. Every photograph captured the celebration of two families, the product of my parent’s marriage, which had newly joined into one. The golden evening of December 20th 1996 marked the creation of
prose
our family plate, one that was new and undented. My parents obviously feature in most of the photographs; they gaze at each other with a beautiful fondness. I pause when I come across one particular photograph, one in which their arms are entangled in one another. Their young eyes glimmer with naïve excitement. My father was most likely imagining names for his unborn children, while my mother was probably daydreaming of their honeymoon and holidays to come. I glance again at their entangled arms. It scares me to think how much things can change. This young couple’s future indeed did involve two bubbly babies and adventures abroad, yet was also abundant with hardships and intense arguing which formed uncomfortable cracks in the family plate. It took 16 years for the plate to finally shatter, when my father finally gave up on finding glue to fix it. Initially, divorce papers fell lightly around me like snow, but soon they transformed into a vicious blizzard of paper and ink that left me shivering. My home became one of violent whispers,
abruptly shut doors and angry emails, as my parents attempted to disguise the inevitable from me and my brother. Words like ‘settlement’, ‘lawyer’ and ‘legal fees’ became part of my daily vocabulary as they forged boundaries between the two sides of my family. Those joyful family members from the photographs no longer dance to the same song. Every cousin, uncle, and grandparent of mine belongs to a specific team aimed at a specific opponent, either my mother or my father. My brother and I are the only ones who don’t belong to a side: we are not sure of which side to choose. We stand alone as outcasts in our own family. When our plate shattered, my parents charged at each other, hastily grabbing the pieces they needed. Whether it was the car, or the bond on our house, my mother and father were determined to receive what they thought they rightfully owned. They are so caught up in the snowstorm, however, they have forgotten about my brother and I. I know that they love us, but the chaos of their battle has left their minds too preoccupied, only fizzling with dominant anger towards one another. How are we coping? It doesn’t cross their minds to ask. Justin and I are the only ones who hold fond memories of lazy Saturday breakfasts, special birthdays and family car trip games. I no longer have the security of a complete family, the beautiful unbroken plate that I had always taken for granted,
yet I still have my little brother by my side. We hold each other’s hands as we proceed through the snowstorm. People often comment on how close we are for a brother and sister, although I don’t think they entirely understand what significance our sibling bond holds for us. It is the only remaining piece of our family plate that has not yet been broken.
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SUNSET ON HOGBACK MOUNTAIN Influenced by Charlotte Smith, William Wordsworth, and Alfred, Lord Tennyson Inspired by Leslie E. and Betty W. Reeves
Kelly Porter
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poetry
1 Our laughter echoes through the mountain’s heart— That sacred space of rhythmic memory. While beating pulse and mingled-chords revive, The time when summer bloomed a vivid scene— Of Dogwood’s white and Mountain Laurel pink. A vibrant show the Rhododendrons threw, As Trilliums grew in hues of indigo. 2 The sunlight captured shades of summer’s June In brilliance. Orchid’s cherished petal chutes, And rolling Shelby-Jean, the quiet stream— Her current held my childhood gaze in awe, Where native yellow Lady’s Slippers grew— Along our sacred winding walking trail. 3 Side by side we walked Through Dawn’s clouds As the clay gravel trail took impressions of our steps. She whistled sweetly along the way— And Hogback reverberated her tune, While the bumblebees, swallowtails, cardinals, And ruby-throated friends floated through the atmosphere Of our memory making. Yes, It was a summer long ago— Which sweetly smelled like Christmas. 4 The rushing creeks, Big and Little Buck, were bordered on the banks by earth’s velvet cloak— Jade Moss, her fragrance is so sweet.
I swam in the swimming hole of their song And stacked the mica rocks to build a dam, where Salamanders tucked themselves Between the treasures— Garnets purple, sapphires blue, and rubies red. I rolled the smooth and glistening rocks between My childhood hands And clung to the moment— Sunlight pierced her rays through the Dogwoods, White Pine and Walnut’s shade— Where he laughed at the nuthatches By our creek’s embrace. 5 I cherished and received Their Love With each passing day. Detached from time’s constraints, we hung each moment— On the memory tree for safe keeping From the savages of life— Age and death— The thief of three. 6 Life altering— The events which change and express, Who we once were and who we have become. The continuous ebb and flow of the creek’s currents Define boundaries, as I have succumbed to the drowning force— Of death’s tumultuous blow. I cling to the air of the Summer— Which sweetly smelled like Christmas. 7 There is sadness in beauty and beauty in sorrow. These things I wish I didn’t know, as Destiny had set into motion The time and place these moments Would retreat— As all things received, Will indelibly fade away. 8 When He took him Home— Every blade of grass bent toward
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His yellow crown of rays. Every flower petal folded— To the melody of the wind’s embrace. 9 The memory of your face and the echo of your laughter, Now hang gracefully from the boughs Of the memory tree— We once planted together. 10 Walk freely without pain— Among the angelic meadow, And laugh with all your soul, so that we may be reminded of it From the depths of the thundercloud’s echo. 11 We have loved you. We have lost you. Though without us, you are not forgotten. Forever, we will hold you In the mountain’s beating heart— Beneath the cardinal’s song, Under your favorite shade tree Beside the rushing creek. 12 Our favorite time of year— Summer— Now infinite in possibility His happiness In Eternity— Where now he hangs the moon in the middle of the sky— To guide me through this life. 13 So far away, Yet still he shines so bright— Among the mountain’s heavens where we used to bathe In Summer’s night. 14 Upon the fallen Poplar, we sat— The seats you carved with love, As June’s campfire light haloed our faces Among the locust’s serenades. We three hummed the peaceful tune, While prophetically we were
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Permeated by the hues of Sunset’s painting. And refractions of our glowing smiles were captured— By the Artist’s brushstrokes. 15 As gravity extends her arms to hold the earth within our galaxy, Your love embraces— Our heart’s vacancy, Merely imagined, yet deeply felt. 16 You call us with your loving smile— Amid dream’s teardrops on our cheeks. To console two hearts— Who remember what life was like— When there were three. 17 The embrace of the atmosphere sustains— A wearied soul the landscape’s memory restores. Where you were swinging among and beneath the boughs Of the memory tree— We once planted together.
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LEGATO AND STACCATO Emily O'Malley fiction
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We sit in perfect rows. It is only rehearsal, but there is no friendly chatter among us, nothing to suggest that this is not serious. To us, a rehearsal is just as important as a performance. Random notes mix together in the air as we tune our instruments, the cacophony weighing us down andpressing us into our seats. Our bows drag across the strings in short bursts until we find the right notes. The bitter smell of rosin is almost suffocating to an outsider, but we are used to it by now. Our bows slide soundlessly across the hunks of amber, nothing like touching the strings. It is always uncomfortably silent when we rosin our bows at the same time, so we take turns, following an unspoken order. Our lungs must be half-full of the sharply sweet residue floating in the air among the dust. Out walks our conductor, striding across the stage. When we perform, he takes his time, basks in the audience’s gaze. Today though, the seats are empty except for our purses and jackets in the front row. Maybe he imagines those are his crowd, the shells of us watching the soft flesh within, waiting to pass judgment. We are no better than insects.
The tuning stops when he reaches the raised platform that tells the audience he is better than us. There is no exchange of pleasantries – he might not even know our names. Instead, he taps his baton on the edge of his stand to get our attention. We sit up straighter, hold our instruments and bows in front of us like sword and shield. “We’ll begin with Beethoven, Symphony No. 9. The first movement. From the top.” He raises his arms before him, so we raise our weapons. The flick of his wrist counts time. His arms sweep wide, and we begin to play. What was cacophony before is euphony now. Our notes mingle across sections, the boom of the cello dancing with the airy violin. There is no guessing; we know where the right notes are. Our fingers seem to move without any sort of command. The stage grows small below as the music carries us up, up, through the rafters, the ceiling, the sky. We look down from space, listening to the music. “Natalia, please.” The orchestra is silent, instruments returned to a rest position. Only
one of us was still playing, but now, nobody is. The silence sounds worse than the tuning, and we are drilled down through our seats, the wood of the stage, the cement of the building’s foundation, and layers of dirt. We reach the Earth’s burning, churning core. Our conductor swings his arms again, and we fly up again. He throws us back and forth, up and down with his baton. Our arms are tugged by strings, him controlling them. The music sounds beautiful from up here. “Natalia. You need to pay attention.” We are silent again. Everyone stares at the offender, the one of us who plays even when the swinging stops. Then, we try again. The music forces us up, lifting us higher and higher. We are among the stars now, and they sparkle in time with the beat. It is – “Natalia. Enough.” Rehearsal is over for one of us. The only sound is a clack of the metal buckles on the case as the viola is packed away, a velvet cloth draped over the strings before the instrument’s casket is sealed. She stands, holding the case, its weight heavy in her grip. Before, there was beauty in the way she held her instrument; now, her arms hang limp. As she walks across the stage, down the steps, her footfalls set the tempo. We begin again. --Natalia has perfect posture on the couch, despite the thick
cushions begging her to sink into them. She is never comfortable on this sofa, her foot always shaking back and forth at the ankle as if she is running late for something. Maybe rehearsal. Her discomfort is out of place among the dim lights and paintings of birds. Anyone in the orchestra would notice that her foot keeps time for the trickling water running over the rocks in the little fountain next to the couch. “So, Natalia, how are you feeling this week?” he asks her. Dr. Phillips is only a little bit older than Natalia, with a shock of brown hair and sneakers that rest comfortably flat, not trembling a foot above the floor. “Not good,” I answer slowly. “I don’t feel like me.” He stares at Natalia, searching the space between the thick frames of her glasses to find the two green irises that blink like “vacancy” signs for her soul. “How about you elaborate,” he tells her. His smile is tight-lipped. Dr. Phillips taps the nib of his pen on his yellow legal pad, and Natalia adjusts her shaking foot to match the syncopated rhythm. I have no idea what to say. “It’s just like I’m watching my own body, but I don’t think I’m inside it. The only thing I’m part of is – ” “The orchestra,” he finishes, jotting something down just underneath where he wrote the date. “We’ve talked about this, Natalia. The episodes.” She only swings her ankle in response. Her
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thoughts drift back to the orchestra, where we all play together. Part of something larger. “What do you mean, ‘part of something larger?’” Natalia must have said the thought aloud because Dr. Phillips leans forward, elbows on his knees. “I like playing with the orchestra. It makes me feel connected to something,” I say finally. Natalia avoids eye contact with Dr. Phillips. Stares at the floor instead. She never noticed the flecks of pink and green in the blue carpet before, but it reminds her of the time she snorkeled over a coral reef with Jeremy. He had loved her then. “I miss Jeremy,” I tell Dr. Phillips. Natalia’s voice sounds flat as the words come out. She did better when she was in a couple. Connected to another person. Now, she only has the orchestra. Dr. Phillips squints at Natalia, then says, “I have an idea. What if you didn’t go to rehearsals this week? Play on your own instead. Just you. Can you do that for me, Natalia?” “Yes,” I say, even as the hole grows deep in Natalia’s chest. She is nothing without the orchestra, but what Dr. Phillips says goes. He keeps her alive. --Tension runs the length of her left bicep, mounts the peak of her shoulder, inches along the curve of her neck until it reaches her chin. The spot on her wrist just below her thumb strains slightly as
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her fingers drape over the strings, calluses finding their makers. There is no stage, only a bay window overlooking the city street below. Streams of light peeking over the rooftops across the street reveal the powdered rosin drifting off her bow as it mingles with the dust in the air and the floating strands of fur from her cat. The little gray thing slinks around her ankle as she stands tall before the sheet music. For a moment, her right forearm bears all the weight of the bow, suspended above the strings. Then, it swings and tugs. Horsehair against metal. The note is deep and sweet, drawn out for several measures. She lets her finger wiggle back and forth, the vibrato adding emotion to the note. The changes are slow at first, a finger or a string at a time, nothing drastic. Faster. From whole notes to eighth notes. Sixteenth notes. Her entire body rocks back and forth on her heels as her fingers dance from note to note, never falling behind. The ceiling melts away, and she floats into the apartment above her, where the old woman is cooking soup. It smells warm and gentle against the sharpness of the rosin that flies off the bow with each change in direction. Natalia leaves the soup to boil over while the woman watches Wheel of Fortune, the booming voice of Pat Sajak tinny underneath the sound of Beethoven. The roof of the building disappears. The buildings that loom
tall in the bay window shrink as the music carries her toward the clouds. A pigeon tries to perch on her bow, but the notes change too quickly for it to latch its claws around the wood. She is forced to move into a crescendo to push herself through a cloud, thick with rainwater. As the air thins, the music seems louder. She does not need to breathe, not if she keeps playing. Even the clouds get smaller, dwarfed by the stars that twinkle in time with the tempo. Heat draws her closer to the fiery corona of an unknown star. Her fingers barely touch the strings anymore. The music is coming from the hole in her chest. It propels her through the aura of plasma until she reaches the star’s core. We collide. A supernova. I stop playing, let my arms fall to my sides. Viola hangs from one hand, bow from the other. The notes tremble on the sheet as I let out a shaky breath. It has been so long since Natalia and I have been one and the same. The hole in her chest is gone, filled with me. With music. My aura is not plasma, but rosin, tart and thick in the air. When I look out the bay window, all I see is my hand pressed against the glass.
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EDITOR BIOGRAPHY Siobhan Cooney '22
Editor-in-Chief
Siobhan Cooney, 19, is a double major in Communication Studies and English with a minor in Spanish. She is preparing for a career in the publishing, cultural arts, or entertainment industries. Words cannot adequately express the sense of fulfillment that Brushing has given her in nurturing her passions. After hitting the books, Siobhan hits the stage as an Open Championship Irish step dancer. With fifteen years of both competitive and performance experience under her belt, she is now studying to become a certified Irish dance teacher.
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CONTRIBUTING STAFF Readers Bernadette Coyle Danielle Gober Alex Lichtner Samantha Maris Sara Mehdinia Allison Wilson Nicole Zamudio
Editors Alexandra Arnold McKinnon Bell Charlie Lin Elizabeth Trepanier Talia Viera
SPECIAL THANKS TO Greg Golden Director of Student Media
Victoria Brown Faculty Advisor
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