campo review ‘16
campo review DECEMBER 2016
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campo review ‘16
THE CAMPO REVIEW NOV. 16 2
campo review ‘16
The 'gifted’ issue 3
campo review ‘16
letter from the editor Maybe the real culprit of the fakefeeling of this year’s holidays is my age, almost seventeen, almost an adult, maybe it is the fallout which has followed this nightmare of an election season, but whatever the reason, this year has felt particularly empty. It is hard to feel the holidays this year, and that, I have found, is what fills out the holidays after all: feeling. This, of course, is an alarming revelation to have when, for the past month and a half, one has found oneself devoid of the said quality. Trying to grasp the election in its aftermath has been like those days I remember from the US Open as a child, the eerie effect across my line of vision after a point has been played out, which was a ghost of the finished rally. That’s what this post-election season is, watching the country, thinking the best outcome probable and knowing it unlikely, holding out hope for the electoral college, swearing, as I swore sitting in that hunter green plastic bucket seat, age seven, that the point was still proceeding. But just as I knew the tennis rally to be over, just as I, in clearing my eyes with my fists and staring again at the courts found no fluorescent green Wilson orb to be in motion, I’ve found the falsity in the election’s continuation, for it is over after all, and the holidays, I think in effect of this recognition, have revealed themselves to me just as bluntly. It is hard to put stock in the holidays when they feel so false, so constructed. It is hard to see the lights on the garage instead of the price for the lights, purchased in a white heap at Ace Hardware store, to see an array of glowing icicles instead of the tag marked nineteen dollars. It is hard to ignore the barcodes once they’ve made a habit of revealing themselves. How can you put your own value on the leather wallet your uncle got your father, after all, once you know price it asked at Brooks Brothers? How can you fawn gape-mouthed at a new down vest after having witnessed first-hand the accounting at the counter at J-Crew? It is hard to get excited about tinsel when Donald Trump has made an erroneous call to Taiwan, and my friends text “and the shit show begins”: a mistake, the first of many. Likewise it is difficult not to notice the inertia of candy cane wrappers to adhere themselves to the stick, to leave little sticky spots on the pads of your fingers which grow gray and black in handling coats, 4
campo review ‘16 sweaters, when you no longer have the kitchen television on to reassure you, however meekly, that the country is going to survive Inauguration day. Usually enthralled by, in the habit of drawing material from my surroundings, it is a strange phenomenon to have, regarding my surroundings, found myself numb. While I’ve found myself incapable of feeling the holidays, I’ve found the ability to remember feeling them, so that I fill in the feeling, how one might fill in the flavor of hot chocolate on a scorched tongue, knowing it constructed, so that this fall and winter has been the harrowing experience of eating candy corn and constructing the flavor over the plastic, of tricking my eye into seeing wonder instead of garage-warried pinecones shittily coated in glitter. So that I can listen to ‘Greensleeves’ while studying Pre-Calculus in the library and remember how much I had liked the song the night we’d heard it in a play, freezing cold, a high school production of Charlie Brown’s Christmas, where there’d been themed cupcakes outside on the concession table and at which the auditorium had, outside, resembled vaguely the shape of an airplane hangar, but I don’t feel the sounds. So that, while I can watch the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade with my grandparents, I can remember exulting over the same cornucopias and floats, but find myself, presently, deriving more pleasure of a different night’s dinner which held no calendar significance, where my grandfather and best friend spoke of ‘Ochem’ in mutual blue plaid and where my best friend charmed with his whip of a mind and a little red box of jasmine tea. It is startling to experience the holidays with this lack of feeling, this falsity of appreciation, so that I’ve harbored a new affinity with Nick Carraway’s old comment that “It is invariably saddening to look through new eyes at things upon which you have expended your own powers of adjustment.” But I am older now, almost seventeen, surely too old for whining, and so I am left with the task of reconciling the pieces. That is what you do; it is hard to continue, in the wake of horrendous elections, in the unreality of outgrown holidays, but you do. You take your losses as you take your wins, that is, in strides. You continue. You quantify spirit, as Tanya Zhong does, in ‘Christmas: a Recipe,’ or you capture a movement, as does Isabel Owen’s ‘Black Hairband.’ You capture the little things as Lauren Williams’ ‘Blue #1 and #2’ do, or you make ‘A Wish for Fire’ like Christina Ungermann, or look at people looking, like Mary Kate Henderson through ‘Walking.’ You have a ‘First Session’ with Katie Nunn, or look ‘Out of Focus’ with Cassidy McAplin, or find yourself seeking ‘Tissue Flowers’ with Ruby Lowe. You share ‘Dreams’ with David Gomez-Siu, watch ‘A Series’with Jelina Liu and trip over Katie Klein’s ‘Clouded Triptych.’ You find there are nice things: the clean effect of the air contained in the wide basin of the back porch, how the shower fogs the mirror, how the stretch of your mouth matches, in a picture, the cranberry colored dress you wore for dinner. You jump from these things like that ‘escape the lava’ child game, from the light thrown in triangles by a cheap Bic pen to the taste of Mexican wedding cake batter, from the smell of cinnamon to the enigmatic football-felt ‘3’ on the chest of the man in ‘It’s a Wonderful Life.’ You advance this way. You continue. Alexandra Reinecke, EI 5
campo review ‘16
from the issue “Combine perfectionism and apples to make a pie.” “Grandpa wasn’t like most adults; he listened to her like she had something to say.” “The sky was the color of pale cherry yogurt. Light strained itself on street corners and trees.” “Her heart was visible as a ketchup stain.” “It’s me. / From before life happened. / I wish instead of watching, / I could go back.” “And I’m alone now. / With the snow and the cold. / And I’m alone with what I know.” 6
campo review ‘16
“As the democrats say, white, heterosexual, cisgender, male. Top of the food chain.” “A second red flag arose . . . it made no sense for the target to go back.” “But was a dream a dream / If it happened afterwards?” “i kept them / i put them with my own: the boys of the NYPD choir, still singing.” “a soft, dazzling shower of light, falling upon an / oblivious audience, / so intent on their / daily tasks that not once / do they ask.” “The bombs all fall / One by one / And the news is always on.” 7
campo review ‘16
editorial staff EDITOR-IN-CHIEF alexandra reinecke MANAGING EDITOR elena koshkin SUBMISSIONS MANAGER brigitte jia SUBMISSIONS TEAM fiona deane-grundman (poetry) katie nunn (fiction) betsy alter (art) isabel owens (photo) WEBSITE DESIGN tanya zhong SPREAD PHOTOGRAPHER sierra warshawksky PUBLICTY MANAGER fiona deane-grundman ADVISORY COUNCIL lindsay webb-peploe sarah morgan emmanuel williams 8
campo review ‘16
contributors alexandra reinecke (’18) elena koshkin (’18) brigitte jia (’18) katie nunn (’17) isabel owens (’17) tanya zhong (’18) fiona deane-grundman (’18) henry carr (’17) david gomez-siu (’18) lauren williams (’17)
katie klein (’18) muppy gragg (’18) adam frost-venrick (’18) maya jenn (’18) zoe del-rosario (’18) mary kate henderson (’18) jelina liu (’18) ruby lowe (’18) cassidy mcalpin (’18) christina ungermann (’17)
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campo review ‘16
food for thought from the campo review editorial staff
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campo review ‘16
christmas: a recipe by tanya zhong Ingredients: 3 strands of lights for the bushes in the front yard, mismatched 1 storage container of department store ornaments 2 storage containers of homemade ornaments 1 lopsided sparse spruce, about seven feet tall, purchased from the tree lot down the road on Christmas Eve 14 presents, wrapped 10 apples from a tree in the backyard 1 Chinese hotpot dash of perfectionism Prep time: one week. Serving size: 4. Decorate front yard with lights. The usual arrangement consists of yellow twinkles on the leftmost bush, LED twinkles on the right, and retro multicolored in the middle. Make a mental note to buy matching ones next year, then forget. Haul in the last-minute tree through the front door. Position the tree so that its ‘bald spot’ faces the wall. Stand back and say, there now no one will notice. Decorate tree with ornaments, taking 1-2 hours more than needed due to distraction over anecdotes behind ornaments made in childhood. Place presents below spruce. Combine perfectionism and apples to make a pie. Promptly realize 10 apples is way too many to all fit in the crust but for god sakes it’s too late now because they’ve all been peeled. Allow perfectionism to dictate everything about the process, from correct shape of apple pieces to proper butter brushing technique. Prepare an unconventional dinner by filling the hot pot with water and heating it. Cook, meat, vegetables, and noodles while pie bakes. Remove pie from oven and serve, observing that the filling is a bit too watery and a bit too sweet. Throw perfection out the window, because it never did much to make an extraordinary pie, and there’s no reason to shame a spruce.
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campo review ‘16
black hairband by isabel owens
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campo review ‘16
modern poems from christmas classics by alexandra reinecke
from fairytale of new york christmas eve in the drunk tank: rare old Mountain Dew; i turned my face away, got on a lucky one came in eighteen to one. i can see a better time: rivers of gold but the wind goes right through. when you first took my hand the boys of the NYPD choir were singing ‘Galway Bay.’ you’re lying here almost dead on a drip in that bed, the boys of the NYPD choir still singing
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campo review ‘16 ‘Galway Bay.’ i kept them i put them with my own: the boys of the NYPD choir, still singing ‘Galway Bay.’
from white christmas i’m dreaming of a white christmas just like the ones i used to know: where the treetops glisten (and children) listen to hear sleigh bells in the snow. i’m dreaming of a white christmas with every christmas card i write may your days be: merry (and) bright (and) may all your christmases be white.
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campo review ‘16
from rudolph the red-nosed reindeer rudolph the red-nosed reindeer had a very shiny nose. (you’ll go down in history) rudolph, the red-nosed reindeer had a very shiny nose. (you’ll go down In history) rudolph the red-nosed reindeer had a very shiny nose. (you’ll go down in history) (you’ll go down in history).
from last christmas tell me, do you recognize me? it’s been a year. once bitten, but you still catch. tell me, do you recognize me? it’s been a year. i wrapped it up and sent it (meant it); now I know what a fool i’ve been. a crowded room, friends with tired eyes, i’m
hiding a man undercover (but you tore him apart). once bitten, but you still catch.
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campo review ‘16
from so this is christmas so this is christmas (and what have you done?) another year over, another begun. a very merry christmas (and a happy new year) let’s hope it’s a good one: without any fear. so this is christmas (for weak and for strong) for yellow and red ones let’s stop: all the fight. war is over (if you want it); war is over now.
from silver bells city sidewalks busy sidewalks, style. in the air a feeling: people passing meeting silver bells. soon it will be strings of street lights even stop lights blink red and green as the rush, the snow crunch: big scene silver bells. soon it will be strings of street lights even stop lights.
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campo review ‘16
from what christmas means to me candles burning low, lots of mistletoe, lots of snow and ice. outside my door, these things (and more). though i love you madly, it seems i love you more. the card will touch these things (and more). i feel wild angels, the mistle toe, and such happiness; pretty lights. go sleep and wake up (just) before daylight candles burning low, lots of mistletoe, lots of snow and ice.
from it came upon a midnight clear the world in solemn stillness lay still. through the cloven skies they come above its sad and lowly plains, its Babel sounds slow. now glad and golden hours come rest beside the days. the world in solemn stillness lay still.
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campo review ‘16
from have yourself a merry little christmas from now on your troubles will be out (of sight). from now on your troubles will be miles away. here we are (in olden days) happy golden days (of yore). through the years we all will be together; a shining star, the highest bough, a merry little christmas. through the years we all will be; we’ll have to muddle through somehow.
from baby it’s cold outside i really can’t stay (it’s cold outside). i’ve got to go away (it’s cold outside). your hands, they’re just like ice. start to worry, what’s your hurry, pacing the floor? please don’t hurry while I pour. i really can't stay (it's cold outside). i really can't stay it's cold outside it’s cold outside. cold outside.
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campo review ‘16
tiger cub by muppy gragg
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campo review ‘16
from before life happened by elena koshkin It was around 8 o’clock, but because it was mid-December, the night was pitch-black and only the piercing glow of the traffic lights illuminated the streets, as they flickered from red to green like festive lights on a Christmas tree. Driving alone with the thick air from my old, malfunctioning heater practically suffocating me like a bear hug from an overenthusiastic relative it occurred to me that no one in the whole world knew where I was at the moment. It was oddly satisfying and frightening simultaneously. On one hand, there was no one to bother me, to disrupt the meditative flow of my thoughts, to criticize me or cause pain. On the other, there was no one to care. Parked in an empty lot in a deserted park 15 miles from civilization while Somewhere in another dimension, a little innocent girl both pigtails adorned with pink bows is running around happily unaware and uncaring. 20
campo review ‘16 It’s me. From before life happened. I wish instead of watching, I could go back and tell her to never stop running. It would’ve saved a lot of broken hearts today.
brick by henry carr
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campo review ‘16
a change of heart by fiona deane-grundman Elle sat at a stool behind the counter, fiddling with a pencil in one hand and a long light brown curl in the other. She gazed out the window which displayed a green rolling hillside and a sunny spring sky, almost oblivious to the pleasant hum of customers, conversation, and organized chaos inside the busy general store that Saturday morning. She scribbled the last line of the letter she was writing to her grandmother and signed it with a flourish. She added hastily, P.S. I like to think I'm doing an alright job keeping up shop, but I will say that I’ll be relieved when you get home. As Elle was pondering whether or not her letter was complete, she gazed out the window and noticed a familiar reflection in the glass. The coils of blonde hair thick with hairspray, the cold blue eyes and pursed lips and upturned chin, there was no mistaking who stood in front of the counter. "What do you need hair treatment for, Marilyn? Did you burn a chunk off again with your hair curler?" Marilyn’s eyes narrowed. "Why do you need a summer job? Finally gonna replace that trainwreck you call a car?" Elle rolled her eyes deep into the back of her head. Her old red truck, which once belonged to her grandfather, was her prized possession. She named it Harley Jr. and vowed to drive it until the day it petered out in the middle of the road. "Is this it? Three eighty-nine. Out of twenty, great, thanks." Marilyn slipped three eightynine exactly into the tip jar. "It took me twenty minutes to find Advil. Maybe spend less time scribbling incomprehensibly and actually start giving a crap about your job." The bells on the door interrupted Elle's retort and a boy ducked under the doorframe and into the store. "Hey Marilyn," he said, looking past her at Elle. "Hey, Elle." "What can I do for you?" she asked, grinning. "I need some wax," Thomas said, looking around at the aisles. Marilyn's disdainful manner had been replaced by a sycophantic, wide-eyed smile. "Oh, that's in aisle 3. Beauty supplies." His brow furrowed. "I meant car wax. But thanks for the tip." He chuckled and she turned red but collected herself. "Oh. Well, see you at school Thomas. Thanks so much, Elle." She shot her a scornful look and strode out, ponytail swinging behind her. Thomas turned back to her. “Hold on, I think we have some in stock.” She ventured into aisle thirteen and returned with a jar of wax. "What do you drive?" He pointed outside at a red 1967 Ford Mustang, gleaming in the sunlight. “I’d love to take a ride in that,” she said, sighing. He slid over twelve dollars, two quarters, and an old sandwich receipt that he had hastily scribbled his number on. “I’ll take you up on that if you’re free next Friday.” He was at the door when he turned around and called, “You can drive, if you want.” She grinned broadly even after the door slammed shut behind him, and her reverie was broken only by an old woman tapping her sharply on the arm and asking about where the she could find the peaches.
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campo review ‘16 The next morning, Elle sat in a church pew next to her mother, feeling frumpy and hot and tired. At the front, the pastor welcomed a member of the congregation to the stage to give a short speech in honor of the day. He moved over to reveal Marilyn, in a white collared shirt and flowery skirt, looking prim and very pleased with herself. She moved to the microphone and gave a little cough. "June 10, 2008." She surveyed the crowd. Elle reached over and squeezed her mother's hand. "A day this church, this town, will never forget. We lost a great man, a great leader, a man who brought people together and to Christ. That man is my father. We lost him in a tragic accident eight years ago today, and not a day goes by that I don't think of you, Papa." She looked up at the steep ceiling, apparently overcome with emotion. "But your story is more than a story. It is a reality that drunk driving takes a toll on so many families and communities just like our own. Getting into the car of an intoxicated driver was the last thing my father ever did. Please, for Daniel Percy Scott, think before you get behind the wheel, and think about who you are endangering when you do. Rest in peace, Papa. I will never forget you." Elle's eyes had filled up with hot tears, but they were not of sadness. She turned to her mother. "She didn't even mention Grandpa. It's like he wasn't even there." Her mother closed her eyes and muttered for her to lower her voice. "Why didn't she talk about grandpa? Why?" "Elle," her mother began warningly. "No! It wasn't his fault!" The congregation turned to face the fourth row to the back in the right corner. The entire small-town was silent as it glared at Elle. She rushed past the people in the pew, hot with anger. The whole church watched her walk down the long aisle, their beady eyes boring into her. After what felt like forever, she wrenched open the door and it slammed shut behind her. A murmur broke out as the churchgoers gossiped about the scene they had just witnessed. The road to Lupine Grove Cemetery was long, winding, and dark, but Elle knew it like the back of her hand. The graveyard was about 20 minutes out of town and located in a small meadow in the dense forest. Elle pulled into the entrance,tucked away in the greenery, hopped out of the truck, and walked along the familiar path through the clearing. Purple and pink flowers known as Lupines grew in clumps in the tall grass. In the cool breeze and afternoon sunshine, Elle felt a world away from the constraints of the stuffy chapel. When she arrived at the furthermost grave, under a large, moss-covered oak tree, Elle deposited a bouquet of wildflowers she had plucked along the way and plopped down, her back resting against the tree. She and her mother had selected this plot because they had preferred the tree’s formidable presence over the cold impersonality of yet another alabaster stone. Elle’s grandpa hadn’t been frail and old, he was strong of body and mind. He designed and built his own furniture and sold it at his general store in town, and carved wooden sculptures that he placed around their porch and garden. He took Elle camping and hiking almost every weekend in the same wilderness where the cemetery was tucked away. Perhaps her lack of unease at being the only human for miles away was because sitting in the tall grass under the shade of an oak tree was almost like the picnics she had when she was a child. Grandpa wasn’t like most adult; he listened to her like she had something to say and believed in the wisdom of her childish observations and naive questions about the world.
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campo review ‘16 She reached over to brush some pollen off his headstone. Harley Evans, it read. 19512008. She remembered the day far more vividly than she wanted to- when she tried to recall last christmas or what she had for breakfast she came up with nothing but she recollected everything about that day from the shirt she was wearing to what time it was when her frantic mother had dragged her up, telling her to get dressed and get in the car. It was 1:07 am. Her grandfather and their family friend Daniel Scott left on a fishing trip three days before, setting off in Daniel’s blue SUV on Thursday afternoon. When they departed from the river they had camped at, the weather was fair, but halfway through the three hour car ride it started to pour, and they decided to rush through the storm to be with their wives and children the following morning. At 12:06 am, according to the police report, the vehicle skidded and hydroplaned, careening over the side of a bridge into a gulch. They were only 20 minutes from home. Elle could feel a tightness in her chest as she ran downstairs, knowing something was terribly wrong and trying to reassure herself that the things she feared simply didn’t happen to people like them. The long drive to the police station was completely silent, which spoke more than any words could have. But one of the most haunting memories was seeing Marilyn,with tears falling down her red face onto her pajamas and fuzzy robe, glaring at Elle with contempt in her eyes and crying over and over, “Your grandpa killed my Papa!” The front door slammed behind Elle and her mother came out of the kitchen, holding a cup of tea. “What’s for dinner?” Elle asked, heading up the stairs. “Takeout, probably. I was with Eva all day, helping her around the house. Both of her little ones are sick.” Eva was Marilyn’s mother, who had six children. Elle made a scornful noise at the mention of Marilyn. “I don’t think Marilyn appreciated what you pulled at church this morning,” she said lightly. Elle headed back down the stairs, on the warpath. “What I pulled? She’s a liar, and the whole town believes her. And you don’t care if they talk, just like they talk about Dad.” Her mother’s face tensed up. They didn’t talk about Elle’s father leaving very much. It happened before Elle was old enough to remember it. “Grandpa’s your own father, don’t you care?” Her mother rubbed her forehead, looking harassed. “You can’t judge Marilyn for the rest of her life based on what she did at her worst moment.” Elle laughed derisively. “Worst moment? She says it’s Grandpa’s fault every other week. She’s not exactly hiding it.” Elle’s mother sighed. “Don’t be so stubborn, Elizabeth. Have some sympathy. Her poor mother can barely pay the babysitter, and her new husband isn’t much help. They might not have enough to send her to college. Her family is struggling. The very least you could do is be nice.” Elle resigned herself to her room, dwelling upon what her mother had told her. It was Friday evening. The last rays of pastel sunlight had disappeared behind the crest and the last grueling minutes of school had long since been forgotten. The night air was full of humidity and the sense of endless possibility summer brings. Elle glanced at the clock- twenty till eight. She was running late. She tripped on a discarded outfit possibility as she made her way across the room to check the message that she had already read countless times. It was from Thomas, telling her to meet him at the general store parking lot at eight o clock. He had included a smiley face, and she wondered whether it was just a simple gesture of positivity or something more. She grabbed a jacket and jogged down the stairs, bidding a hasty goodbye to her mom. Driving in the dark to the store, she felt anxious but excited for what was to come. It was a pretty 24
campo review ‘16 night, with crickets chirping in the peaceful small-town quiet, and a full-moon shone in a cloudless sky. Suddenly, a loud buzzing noise sounded. It was Elle’s phone, and it was stuck somewhere beneath the seats. She pulled over onto the shoulder and fished it out, expecting to see a message from Thomas, and what was flashing on the screen surprised her: an incoming call from Marilyn. She was tempted to let it go to voicemail, because there was no one she wanted to speak to less at the moment, but she answered out of sheer curiosity. “Hello?” “Elle? Oh thank god. I didn’t think you would answer.” Her voice, though muffled, sounded panicked. “What do you want?” Elle checked the digital clock. 8:13. Marilyn paused and seemingly weighing her words, said, “Look. I really, really need you to come pick me up like right now. Please, I’m not kidding.” “Where are you?,” answered Elle. “Some rest stop on highway 5. Look, it’s not even that far away, Like 30 minutes at the most,” she pleaded. “What the hell are you doing there?,” Elle replied. “It honestly doesn’t matter, I just need you to pick me up. C’mon, I’ll do anything for you. I’ll run the store for a week. Please?” “Absolutely not,” said Elle. It wasn’t a coincidence that Marilyn called her ten minutes before she was meeting Thomas, asking her to drive half an hour to some random rest stop in the middle of who-knows-where. “Are you kidding me?” Marilyn’s voice trembled. “Look, I don’t even know if you’re actually where you claim you are, but to tell you the truth, I don’t care. You knew I was going out with Thomas tonight. You heard me talking about it, you were there. So I don’t really care about your sob story, because it’s probably fake, just like everything about you.” Elle shifted the car into gear and prepared to hang up. “No!” Marilyn seemed close to tears. “I came with Kurt, it has nothing to do with that, I swear!” “Where’s Kurt?” Elle asked. There was a pause. “He’s gone.” “Where is he?” “He left! Ok? he left, and if you don’t care, fine, you can leave me to get murdered at this creepy-ass rest stop in the middle of nowhere!” She was crying now. Elle could hear stifled sobs through the phone. “Why’d he leave?” she asked quietly. “Because...because he wanted to- It doesn’t matter.” Elle didn’t answer. “Because he wanted to do something and...and I didn’t want to and I told him to stop and he said if I didn’t do it he’d leave me here and we got in a fight and he drove away.” The hysteria in her voice escalated as she spoke. “Elle, I’m begging you. Oh Jesus, a car just pulled in.” Elle sighed. It was 8:17. “Can’t one of your friends get you? Or your mom?” “I’m supposed to be at Stacey’s. And they’re at a party, they’re not going to leave in the middle to come get me.” There was a lengthy pause. “I don’t want them to find out what happened. With Kurt.”
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campo review ‘16 Elle opened up her messages and began typing: Hey, I’m so sorry, but something came up at the last minute and I can’t be there. I promise I wouldn’t cancel unless it was an emergency. Hopefully we can do it another time? “Please?” “Fine,” Elle replied. She pressed send. The weather seemed to match Elle’s declining mood. It began to drizzle, then rain, and when she finally pulled into the Bear Valley Rest Stop after forty minutes of endless searching, it was in the midst of a torrential downpour. She looked around the parking lot, empty but for an eighteen-wheeler and a black van. She felt uneasy. Although she was alone, she sensed a set of eyes following her. A shiver went down her spine. Finally she noticed a lone figure sitting huddled at a picnic table, their face hidden in the shadows.. Elle honked and Marilyn gave a jolt. Upon recognizing Elle, she looked elated. She was soaked through. Her hair was plastered to her face and mascara tracks stained her cheeks. She opened her mouth to speak but Elle cut her off. “Just get in the car.” Marilyn climbed into the passenger seat and began wringing out her jacket. Elle fought the urge to tell her to quit it, as water dripped onto the leather seat. “I..Thank you,” said Marilyn. “It’s fine,” said Elle in a monotone. “Seriously, thank you so much, I can’t even-” “I said, it’s fine,” repeated Elle. She wished Marilyn would let her drive in silence. “Yeah...all of my friends were busy,” Marilyn added. Elle scoffed. “I was busy,” she muttered. Marilyn began fiddling with the radio dials. “Ooo! I like this song-” “Can you stop?” yelled Elle, slamming the button down. Marilyn was startled. “I just want to forget about this, ok? Don’t start acting like we’re best friends,” said Elle. “You can do something nice for someone for once without being best friends,” scowled Marilyn. “You know who should have done this for you,” said Elle sarcastically, “your actual friends! Too bad they were too busy not caring about you at all.” “Oh, please,” replied Marilyn, dropping her kind demeanor instantaneously. “I was doing you a favor. Do you really believe that Thomas actually likes you?” She laughed. “Wake up! He just wants to get laid.” Elle’s head began to pound. Her anger seemed to coarse through her body and into the gas pedal, which she pressed down on with all her might. “What the hell are you doing? Do you want to get us killed?” shouted Marilyn. Elle took a deep breath. “I’m going to see Thomas. I’m not letting you ruin this like you ruin everything else,” Marilyn sneered. “I think you can manage that all by yourself.” Elle pulled up short at a stop sign and revved the engine, speeding into a curve. The car leaned dangerously toward the side of the road, and Marilyn gripped the inside of the door with white knuckles. “Jesus, who taught you how to drive, your grandfather?” Elle didn’t express the explosive rage she felt. Instead she was eerily still, and murmured, “Say one more thing and you can get out of my car.” “You can’t leave me here. I’ll...I’ll tell your mom!” The severity of this threat was lessened by its pathetic, childish nature.
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campo review ‘16 “Ok, and I’ll tell your mom where you were and who you were with tonight. And I don’t think she’ll be too happy to hear that.” “You’d better not,” Marilyn replied, her lower lip trembling. “Then don’t say another word about my Grandpa.” For a moment Marilyn leaned back into her seat and stared sullenly out the window, her back to Elle. But all of a sudden, her eyes blazing, she broke the tense silence with a dangerous whisper. “He killed my dad. He was a drunk who killed my father and I won’t stop saying it until the day I die!” Her voice became louder and stronger as she gained confidence in her words. Elle’s head was hot and her heart was beating fast. She had the sudden urge to utter the cruelest thing possible, to inure Marilyn as much as the heartless words spoken so long ago had pained her for so long. “Like your dad was so pure? The pastor who never wronged anyone? He was probably too wasted to read road signs that night. I bet he drank to forget he was part of your screwed up family.” Just as the words left her mouth there was a giant creak, resonating over the sounds of rain and wind. Both girls looked up fearfully. The next few moments seemed to be prolonged, as what was about to happen dawned on Elle. A gigantic, ancient oak tree above the car was swaying in the ferocious wind, and it began to lean toward the road. Without thinking, Elle put all her weight on the gas pedal. The force of her sudden speed thrust her into the back of the seat. The tree’s roots tore violently out of the ground and it paused at a grotesque angle over the road. There was a giant crack and a booming thud as the trunk of the giant tree gave out and it fell into the road, grazing Elle’s roof as she accelerated and barely cleared it. She pressed on the brake just as the truck was about to careen into a ditch. Marilyn’s head slammed into the dashboard as the truck came to a screeching halt. Neither one spoke. Elle took a deep breath, her hands still clutching the steering wheel. Marilyn rubbed her head. A trickle of blood had appeared at her hairline. Elle rummaged in the glove compartment and handed her a tissue, which she pressed to her forehead. Elle turned off the car, and they sat in silence, listening to the gentle patter of raindrops on the roof. Elle pulled up in front of Marilyn’s house. The light was on in the kitchen. It was probably her mother, waiting up for her to get home. Marilyn zipped up her jacket and pulled on the hood. Elle didn’t know what to say? Goodbye? Have a good night? Neither of those options sounded right. Marilyn didn’t get out of the car. Instead, looking down at her hands in her lap, she said, “I was supposed to go with him. Dad, I mean. He told me he would teach me how to fish, and we would cook over a fire and sleep outside and everything. And then I got the measles and I had to stay in bed and he came up to my room early the morning before he left and he said he’d bring back the biggest fish for me.” She gulped. After a while she said,“What was your last memory of your Grandpa?” Elle stared out the front window, remembering. “He..he called my mom the night before, to tell her he was on his way but it might take longer because of the storm, and she let me talk to him. I told him I would make him pancakes because he always woke me up with pancakes on Sunday morning. I put out all the ingredients the night before. And I set an alarm, because he always woke up way before me. I wanted my pancakes to be the first thing he saw when he woke up.” Marilyn looked away and when she turned back her cheeks were wet. “Well..” she placed her hand on the door handle. “Bye, I guess.” 27
campo review ‘16 “See you.” Elle watched her slip in the front door and drove off in the dark. Elle woke up late the next morning. The rain had ceased, and blue skies had returned once more. She stretched and rubbed her eyes, groggy with sleep. She reached over to check the time on her phone. It was half past eleven. She flipped absentmindedly through her notifications, and one in particular caught her eye. She opened her messages from Thomas, and read. Hey- I heard what happened and I’m so sorry, I completely understand why you couldn’t make it last night. Anyway, I don’t know, I guess I was looking forward to it so...I know it’s early, but do you want to get pancakes?
cityscape by maya jenn
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twinkle by brigitte jia A star shines through the night a soft, dazzling shower of light, falling upon an oblivious audience, so intent on their daily tasks that not once do they ask themselves “What am I here for?” As twinkling stars mix with street lamps and twinkle away into the sky
evergreen by brigitte jia A Tree A symbol For many things Life Longevity Strength, Power The wisdom, knowledge Of old No frills, simply Nature in its purest. But Every December a Tree puts on Frills, colors, bulbs of shiny gold and silver Red Green Costume of Cheer
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untitled by isabel owens
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sketch by zoe del rosario
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war with tennis equipment by alexandra reinecke Most everyone in the Bradbury Building had radios and all anyone ate were turkey sandwiches and someone had said we were to go to war with the Canadians. Minnie and Whit often discussed maple syrup war tactics and how marble-modeled statues of compacted white bread should be awarded for silver medals. But they concluded we weren’t to have one just yet, so Minnie took to activities confined to a mile radius about the Pulitzer Fountain. The Duane Reade at 55th and Lexington was a good drugstore. It’s shelves exhibited packs of camera film, rolls of tin foil and those green army men of a new, “chew resistant” plastic for educating the next generation of Bill’s and Bobby’s in pre-packaged heroics. “Play Soldiers,” they said, “Turn your sitting room into the next Battle of the Marne.” But the plastic things of war hadn’t crossed yet into the fronts of Minnie’s conscience. She was to buy magazines, lemon ices, shoe polish, peanut butter (the decent brand), and unwounded fruit for her mother. She intentionally chose the newspaper magazines Katherine disliked, found generic enough leather buffer, the ices from the back of the freezer, a large jar of Skippy, three green apples and a bag of attractively wrapped cherry chews which had, enabled her a sweep of PS212’s elementary voting booths. “Anything else today?” said the counter girl “No,” said Minnie. The counter girl removed the shoe polish from the pile, “Kid ate one of these in Maine.” “What’s that gotta do with me buying shoe polish?” The counter girl took out a highlighted paper, “New policy,” she said, “Minors are not permitted to purchase the following items without adult supervision: Kiwi shoe polish, Cutex acetone nail lacquer remover and all brands of rubbing alcohol as well as other intoxicants, medical, cosmetic or otherwise.” Minnie paid in change. Outside was hot afternoon. The temperature, which would have been met earerly in town prepared in bathing suit and towel, was—as city peoples’ equipment for heat is stored in summer houses two hour’s drives away—unwelcome. On 55th street was a pet store named Canine Somethingorsuch where Katherine had taken Minnie there to look at parrots. She went in. The man at the counter wore that proud, cheek 32
campo review ‘16 stretching grin singular to pet store owners who, more likely than not, count individual kibble pieces and wooden chips for cage furnishings. “That’s a nice coat,” he said. “How much for a dog?” Minnie said, shortly. She competed with the coat. First it had been an extension of her limbs, she’d tugged at the collar how one might an earlobe, but the compliments had grown dull to her and seemed meagre conversation, as was the weather or the score of another school’s lacrosse game. “One of those?” said the man, “Those’re flat-coated terriers. Just got them from a breeder up in Ithaca. Best temperament. Purebred. Antibiotics and all.” “How much?” “A hundred-fifty’d be fair. Purebred terriers from Ithaca. Y’know Ithaca? With the pine trees, and that nice—” “A hundred fifty?” “Mm-hmm.” The counter man ran his hand over the dog’s head and the dog bit at his hand. His jaw looked like a cartoon dog’s jaw. “And he’d be alright in an apartment?” “Yeah,” the man said, “Y’need any dog toys or anyth—” “My uncle manufactures tennis balls.” Minnie offered a slant of mouth. The man arranged a box for the dog. Looked up at Minnie in between efforts at padding down the sheepskin box padding. “Do you know who you look like—hey. You wouldn’t know him would you? A John Caldwell? Heard he’s at the Bradbury now.” “My father,” she said. “He was in my class at Andover, John Caldwell. Know what we said about him then?” “What?” “Said, ‘John Caldwell the Rocket, John Caldwell for President’. Thought it, too. I’d a given a leg to talk how he does. He’s not President yet, is he?” the man said. He said it like he’d missed it somehow on the evening news. “Something like that,” Minnie said. “Chief Somethingorsuch at Wilson Sporting Goods.” “You’ve got all the tennis rackets and tennis balls in the world, don’tcha?” “Something like that.” She counted out the bills. “A hundred?” “Mhmm.” She handed them. Pulled the box toward herself. “Isn’t that a beautiful coat?” “Father picked it, actually. I’d wanted the baby blue.” Minnie, with much difficulty, picked up the box, precarious with both dog and water tin, and the brown bag soggy from the lemon ice box. She decided to go back to Duane Reade. The counter girl who’d been there that morning sat at the counter, flipping through a particularly no-good magazine. “Could you watch him?” Minnie set the box on the counter. “Him?” 33
campo review ‘16 “Him. Tiger. My dog.” “Tiger?” “Yeah, Tiger. That’s his name.” “Kid, just hurry up, and I’ll watch it for you.” Minnie went to the freezer and replaced her then-thoroughly-melted ices back for a frozen box. The new box was cold and the cardboard was stiff. She remembered something she read one time about wearing your heart where God intended it and not on your sleeve. That’s how, she decided, she’d fight the Canadians. If she could be hard about lemon ices she could be hard about fighting the Canadians. “Hey, you coming to pick up the tiger?” “Hold on!” Minnie called. “He’s biting at the magazine rack!” Tiger barked. “The tiger’s ripping up the Post!” “Alright, alright!” At the counter Minnie spoke apologetically. Fingered the wrappers of the brightly-colored candy bars. Mars. Hershey’s. Pay Day. The counter girl put the things in a bag. In went three-fourths of The Saturday Evening Post, the chocolate, a half-decent magazine for Katherine—her heart had ventured part of that snowed and hard-bitted journey toward her sleeve. “You’re not a Canadian are you?” she questioned the girl’s name tag. “No.” “Well here,” she put down five dollars, “for the war effort.” The girl, a plain-looking brunette, tucked her hair behind her ears. Smoothed it some. “What war?” she said. “You gotta buy up all the syrup if they come into New England, alright? They’ll be quick on skis but you’ve gotta hurry it all to the Hudson and pour it—” “What?” “The Canadians. The war with the Canadians.” “There’s no war with the Cana—” “Good luck, now.” At Pulitzer Fountain Minnie assessed her gatherings: one box, one dog, a competitive coat and the single child, an M.B. Caldwell, fifth grade president. It was four in the afternoon. A blueberry scone waited at the Bradbury. There was dinner to arrange and a sitting room to guard against John’s complaints of faulty tennis rackets and Buddhism and dulled leather loafers. Minnie went. Up Lexington the sun was less obnoxious. The sky was the color of pale cherry yogurt. Light strained itself on street corners and trees and blinked on the chrome doorknobs of the well-to-do buildings. Back at the Bradbury, the desk man scribbled in the margin of an agenda book. “You have the Caldwell mail?” Minnie said.
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campo review ‘16 “Caldwell, Caldwell,” the man flipped through the mail bin, “Ah, Caldwell, right here. It was ‘sposed to go up with Whit this morning, but—” “That’s alright. I can take it now.” Her heart was visible as a ketchup stain. “You wouldn’t mind keeping quiet about the dog, wouldja? Just got him, this tiger. He’s more of a cat, but cats aren’t allowed either, so wouldja? I could bring you some biscuits or something, biscuits or tennis balls, I have tennis balls to fill a small swimming pool.” “That’s alright.” Minnie slapped seven cherry-chews on the counter. “You be careful, alright? Save ‘em for the war.” “War?” said the desk man, “we’re not having a wa—” “With the Canadians. You gotta get some hair dryers, that’s what you’ve gotta do, melt the snow so they can’t fight. They can’t fight without snow.” “War with the Canadians?” “Don’t worry,” Minnie shifted the box at her chest, “they can’t use elevators. But you’ve gotta get some hair dryers fast. We’re to have a war.” The lobby was nearly empty; save two small children who sat about the oddly tufted chairs. Whit was in the elevator and she was glad. As she took the elevator she tried to devise a role for him in the war. She decided he could fill the elevators with tennis balls and throw rackets from the apartment windows. The Caldwell apartment smelled like cold chicken and tennis balls fresh from the cannister. Minnie went to the kitchen, and returned with the blueberry scone and a milk with two ice cubes. John was in the sitting room. “Where’s the shoe polish?” he said, unpacking the bag. “They wouldn’t let me buy it,” Minnie said. “At 55th and Lex?” “Some kid ate one up in Maine, so they can’t sell them to kids anymore.” She took a bite of the scone. A singular crumb fell to the carpet. John removed his polo coat. “Where’s Katherine?” “At Duane Reade, getting your shoe polish.” John wore a hunter green sweater. He was a good-looking thirty something. He was picking at a plate of cold chicken he’d brought in from the kitchen. “Met a friend of yours,” said Minnie, “said he knew you at Andover.” “Yeah?” John continued to pick at the cold chicken. “Said he’d give a leg to talk how you—” “Paul Atkinson,” John dropped the chicken, “He here in the city?” “Yeah.” “I tell you that time I took off his car door?” John was back at the chicken, “And that he drove alla way to his parent’s country house in a raincoat?” John had his legs crossed at the ankles then. Evening fell on his hunter green sweater. 35
campo review ‘16 “Want some chocolate I bought?” she said. “Okay.” She broke it apart into pieces over the mound of John’s polo coat on the couch. They ate the chocolate square by square; they thought it uncivilized to eat it otherwise. “Hey, John?” “Yeah.” He was cracking a bit of chocolate in his hand. “You think it’s indecent to wear your heart anywhere beside your chest?” “Where’d you hear that?” “Read it somewhere.” She ate a piece of chocolate. “The heart’s not something to be conservative about.” “Yeah. But we’re to have a war. Maybe at war it is.” “War with the Canadians?” “Yeah,” said Minnie, “we’ve gotta get everything together. Gotta have biscuits and cold chicken and maple syrup—for pouring, not eating—Whit and I’ve drawn up the plans.” “Alright.” At seven Minnie fell asleep and John put the chicken away. Katherine returned with the shoe polish and three boxes of maple syrup. Minnie woke in the sitting room at three in the morning. She changed into the best of her three baby blue sweaters and tucked her heart in her chest. She went to the pantry and began to gather up the tennis ball canisters. “You behave now,” she said to her tucked-away heart, “we’re to have a war, now. We’re to have a war with the Canadians.”
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clouded triptych by katie klein
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helicopters on christmas by adam frost-venrick Let’s play pretend: Let’s pretend he wasn’t who he was Let’s pretend I won’t become who he was. Let’s pretend that I’m not a workoholic just like the old man. And I’m alone now. With the snow and the cold. And I’m alone with what I know Who I know. There was a time when I didn’t Know a thing about it. And a time when Christmas was all about the gifts. All about the presents presented. Now it’s about the old man’s side. Let’s pretend I am… no. Let’s abandon that, come to think of it. Sorry. Let’s talk about the time I wished for the Helicopters. We went over for Christmas as usual And wouldn’t it be Wouldn’t it be Wouldn’t it be something If he wasn’t just a man But a superhero Flying. What if he was the man in black. Mr. Secret Agent in disguise. Off for thirteen years on a covert mission. Freedom fighter. 38
campo review ‘16 What if he was Mr. Bad Ass Mr. Secret Agent in disguise. Home in a firestorm of helicopters. What if I can come on that next mission. What if, my mother wonders, my aunts Were hiding him away. What if, my brother, wonders, He had seen him once more before he’d died. What if he hadn’t just gone off into The fog. What if, my aunts wonder, I didn’t Just show up for Christmas, eat their food Impose. What if their brother wasn’t dead? What if life gave breaks to The Wicked Witch of the West? What if the connection wasn’t Cut with the umbilical cord? That was years ago. The dream of him flying in Guns a’blazin. But that’s not what it is. Mr. Secret Agent isn’t coming. Just like Santa. The fun little childish lie. I never really believed in Santa. But he was fun. Thirteen becomes seventeen. Dreams become harsh Uncompromising realities. I dream sometimes. Always in color. But I’ll never dream of those helicopters again.
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east bay: a series by jelina liu
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east bay: a series by jelina liu
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dreams by david gomez-siu Dreams are dreams, And dreams are dreams. But was a dream a dream If it happened afterwards? Then, would it not just be A premonition of the future? If dreams are dreams, Then would my dream Cease to be a dream If my dream were to come true? Then why dream, When a dream is just a dream?
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tissue flowers by ruby lowe
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first session by katie nunn I am not gifted. I just try really hard. I also make it a point to let everyone know how hard I tried; how late I stay up, how I sacrifice my happiness for grades and an Ivy League education, how much I earned my place. People tell me I am talented. I see my brother as naturally gifted. When he was 13 he had an IQ of 150. I blamed it on him being on the spectrum. We had a huge fight and he left the house for three days, to “ ponder the world, without a retard tied to his shoelace”. ( He used that word a lot for his condition). My parents, allowing him to go about free as always, let him run around the community for three days while it poured buckets. I am not gifted. In part I do not see his struggle with his autism, and only see his success. I work hard, the same way he does, but get no where close. I shut myself up, without social interaction; emulating him, studying the world without really living it. So I am not gifted. I just am afraid to live. To give up this competition. I am a normal Joe. As the democrats say, white, heterosexual, cisgender, male. Top of the food chain. I don’t know why I am writing this. I’m showing myself to you like a Freudian basketcase. To be completely fucking honest, compared to most of America, I am doing just fine. Senior at Columbia. About to start a job at a huge firm. I’m ahead of my brother for once in my life. I’ve feel like I’ve earned his respect. I came home last Thanksgiving and he was playful to me. Playful! When has he ever been playful. It’s always work work work work. I ask him how his love life is and he says “I know when I see her”. What the fuck? Why can’t you just tell me? My parents have all but given up. The amount of doctors, specialists, shrinks (no offense, of course) they have had to go see just so he could go get enrolled at the local public school is ridiculous. My brother has never acknowledged their presence in his life. Never acknowledged how much time they spent with him playing, reading, taking him to doctors appointments. Not being crack addicts. For god sakes, I read this article about an autistic boy in East Harlem whose parents were crack addicts and never took him to anything and he progressively got worse and worse until he was so scared of people that he lived in his room for the rest of his life. Charles had never thanked them. But the thing is, they don’t want to be thanked! It's like they are okay with him never recognizing how much they fucking worked to make sure he didn’t die or some shit. I never got that attention. Please. I think at this point he just expects it. It would be fine if he demanded it from people, but expecting it and never telling anyone of your expectations leaves people feeling wronged. Demanding it gives them no choice. I’m out of paper. See? I’m not gifted.
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out of focus by cassidy mcalpin
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elusion by tanya zhong The instructions I had received from my partner were simple. The target is approaching your location in approximately twelve minutes. Follow him on foot to the destination, then report and await backup. It had grown dark outside, and I stood in the shadows of an alleyway that cut into a deserted street. I watched for any activity while at the same time meticulously keeping track of the seconds and minutes in my head. Five minutes and forty-one seconds had passed, and I was mentally going over the orders I had to follow when a faint noise caught my attention. It was the sound of fast footsteps, and a peek around the corner confirmed the fact that a man was running down the sidewalk. Immediately, a red flag went up in my brain, since the target had arrived much earlier than when my partner had informed. I considered radioing in to clarify, but I knew if I waited any longer I risked losing the man. As he ran past the alleyway where I hid, I made up my mind to follow him, but just as I was about to dash into the street, he passed by again, this time heading in the other direction. A second red flag arose now, since it made no sense for the target to go back the way he came, but I had no choice but to follow him as he was getting farther and farther away. I tailed him all the way to an apartment building where a crowd was gathering. I was now more confused than ever as I saw before me a building in flames as fire trucks pulled into the parking lot nearby. I had lost sight of the target by now, and could only stare at the plumes of smoke rising into the night sky. My careful mental timekeeping had failed me, and I don’t know if I had stood there for seconds or minutes before I received the message from my partner that confirmed my worst suspicion; The target got away, and I had tailed the wrong man.
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walking by mary-kate henderson
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a wish for fire by christina ungermann A cold wave of bitterness Enters your lungs You don’t know how to thaw the ice So the frost persists, ignored The bombs all fall One by one And the news is always on The ads all say you can cure the anguish Sell your joy in technicolor So you decorate your world like a magazine Put on a glossy smile Paint over your seams You don’t know how you’re still frozen The age old cheesy Christmas story says All you need is love to save you So you search for something sacred A smile, a laugh, a hand to hold There’s nothing but mirror images Maybe next year, hope will win
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blue #1 by lauren williams
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blue #2 by lauren williams
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