campo review ‘16
campo review OCTOBER 2016
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THE CAMPO REVIEW OCT. 16 2
campo review ‘16
letter from the editor As a writer, I understand the need to record life; I feel, invariably, a journalistic responsibility to truth. Fiction does not define truth the way journalism defines truth, but there is a truth in fiction, all its own: the essence of the story. While a journalist might write about a car crash, and give the who, what, when, where, why, the fiction writer will take from the scene the little chrome nugget the broken side mirror makes and the shape of the driver’s jaw and create a tragedy. Where the journalist covers a sports game, I’ll write a story about a way someone made me feel, or how an event conjured in me a specific emotion or impression. Though I may alter the names or plot of the impression from which the fiction was derived, my ultimate goal is to retain the essence, or to express through different circumstance that one specific impression made upon me which I feel the violent and mandatory need to express. This is what Fitzgerald meant when he said, “You don’t write because you want to say something. You write because you have something to say.” It has long been clear to me that I have something to say; likewise, it has long been clear to me that the responsibility to truth that I feel is not mine alone. I respect any participant of the task of setting down life—for life is often large and unwieldy though like a punch bowl it may be beautiful—and I understand him in that nameless, tacit manner in which a crewman or a quarterback understands another of his own. What I hope to achieve with Campo Review is a space where this unwieldy and beautiful thing called life can be set. This has been a team effort. We may have knocked a few Solo cups or displaced some napkins in the process, but I’m confident we’ve cleared a reasonable and mahogany space for the bowl. We’ve made room. We’re still shoving a little blindly. We’re still thinking a little too uniformly in Times New Roman. Bear with us. Have a drink in the meantime. Find another poem in a cinnamon cake. Derive a stanza from the Waterford squares. Alexandra Reinecke, EIC
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editorial staff EDITOR-IN-CHIEF alexandra reinecke MANAGING EDITOR elena koshkin SUBMISSIONS MANAGER brigitte jia SUBMISSIONS TEAM athya uthayakumar (poetry) katie Nunn (fiction) betsy Alter (art) isabel Owens (photo) WEBSITE DESIGN tanya zhong PUBLICTY MANAGER fiona deane-grundman ADVISORY COUNCIL lindsay webb-peploe sarah morgan emmanuel williams
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contributors alexandra reinecke elena koshkin brigitte jia athya uthayakumar katie nunn betsy alter isabel owens tanya zhong fiona deane-grundman henry carr maya jenn jessica gerson david gomez-siu abby armen
hannah portner julia blair kate ginley sierra warhsawsky isabel artiaga katie klein jelina liu zoe del-rosario shaun hou makenna wolf alicia long liv slaby emma quimby ruby lowe
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pink mood by fiona deane-grundman
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vignettes: where i am now, in terms of feet by tanya zhong i. i stand an inch and a half taller, rubbing bones that make my feet curve a little too wide for the narrow silver straps of my new sandals. it is wishful thinking that reaching eye level to more people would make me look into more people’s eyes; wishful thinking that a platform would give me a platform. ii. when i was younger than i am now my mother said my baby toes were like peas, so smooth and round. but as i stand with one foot in and one foot out of the house, there is a roughness that forms on skin where it rubs against the insides of the sneakers i have outgrown, and i wonder where the peas have gone. iii. in my old new car, (old because of the food crumbs stuck around the edges of the cup holder, new because now the car can’t go if i don't have shoes on), in the old car that is my new car, the blur of the pavement that passes me is going simultaneously too fast and too slow. one foot hovers between two pedals, so i can’t brake and accelerate at them same time no matter how much i want to.
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autumnal two by henry carr
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the most that could be managed by alexandra reinecke Most Northeasterners remember September of ’47 as the time Dartmouth beat Princeton with an injured tight end, or when Brooks Brothers had a backorder for blue oxford pajama pants, but I remember it as the time I took the Amtrak line seventeen times to Westchester. It had been the six train that Thursday. The house was clean when I arrived: the piano bench was tucked, the sheet music was stored, Connor’s portrait smirked from the wooden stand. Of the three coffee table books one was open, this on the Kennedy’s—I had, at that point in time, rowed crew three years because it was a Kennedy thing to do. On the couch Rory, supine, smelled of grape cough syrup, Vaseline, and Mane and Tale shampoo. “Brother,” she said, “Jake-man.” I tucked the coverlet under her feet so I could sit. Pulled one leg onto the other. She smoothed some of her hair down. It was that deep brown that passes for black, mussed from the couch, a blue Oriental print couch with a silvery finish to it, with over it a blue blanket. “Bring me any syrup?” “No.” On the coffee table, Rory pushed aside disinterestedly a box of Vicks nasal strips, a halfused Chap Stick, a box of Carr’s. Picked up a dog-eared King James Bible, turned it over. “Eller talking about me?” “Don’t be rhetoric.” Flipping some of the pages, “He any smarter now?” “He’s smart.” We both turned up the corners of our mouths how people do in that mutual, tacit acknowledgement of mistruth. “So you drove here to prod me?” I re-knotted my right-side loafer. Said, “I took the train.” She laughed. Smoothed her hair. “Do you remember,” she said, after a pause, an odd tint to her voice, “what Connor was saying? About tying things?” “You mean at Christmas. When he was tight.” “No. When Lacy Lacamer was over and—” “Nancy who?” “That tawny one with—” “Lacier,” I said, “Nancy Lacier.” “Well he wasn’t tight.” Her eyes gleamed in that particular deep green as that in the glasses at the Astoria bar. I remembered how she and Connor and I used to go there for drinks. That she’d have a gin and tonic and stare into the carpet as though she’d found God in it. “And he said that thing about tying things? About associations?” 9
campo review ‘16 “He was tight,” I said, flipping mindlessly through the pages of the Kennedy book. Glossy, whole page re-prints of photographs. “That whole week at Christmas he—” “I told you Nancy Lacamer offered—” “Lacier.” “What?” “Lacier. It’s Nancy Lacier.” She picked again at the Vicks strip. “Well he said anyway that you tie things so that you understand them. Their place. Like ketchup and chicken. God and pew. Only other people could have other associations separate from yours,” she said, her voice clouded. “And that’s how we make decisions, by our associations—” Connor’s portrait stared eerily back at me from the piano and I hated him suddenly, his reading about death in books and for his own family failing to leave college, his Maple Syrup Land, to touch it. “You should sleep. Be good for you.” “I don’t care what’s good for me,” she said. I looked at my feet. There existed in her eyes the dead effect of sport, as though she were trying to win at some futile and invisible game of tug-of-war. “You never look at me anymore, Jake. Look at me. You can’t just ignore—” “I’m not ignoring anything. I don’t know what the hell Connor’s doing or why he’s not sitting here right now—” I paused. Considered. “He’s just—” “Running from it?” she said. “Writing stories about goldfish and hiding from the phone? Won’t call. Not a single goddam—” “Don’t say that.” “You don’t have a monopoly on goddam. You don’t have a goddam—” “Rory.” She collapsed against the couch. Breathed with her chest, her collarbone against the black of her sweater like the flank of a fractured animal, the limb of a Volvo-hit deer, under funeral tarp, thrashing to live. “Remember your fight after the Carlyle part?” she said. “You and Connor? When Brenny Maher beat—” “Brenny Maher didn’t beat me at anything.” “Well Connor said religion’s a lie,” she ripped the Vicks strip off her nose, violently. “He’s right.” Her cheeks were ruddy from the last coughing fit, her forehead pale. She let her head back on the pillow. “Jake?” she said, after a while. Her voice was starkly young. Transparent. “And what he said about us? About America? That we all think we’re saved and that we’ll live forever and that we have a special deal—” “Yeah,” I said. She laughed then. A horrible, brutish laugh. “Like being an American would save me. Like it’d save the best of us.” Her face was like that of a soldier who in mirror had rediscovered himself a man. Later that afternoon I read her a Hemingway story on whose second page had been a ketchup stain. Let her sleep. Watched the will of her breath, the ridge of bone against the black cotton moving in that manner of animal hit that, like flesh wearied against plastic, was the most that could be managed.
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consumption by audrey nathanson Rolled Up Sleeves. Cold razor pressed deep. When depression hits, it won't leave No matter how much I bleed. And it won't let me sleep, So, I pray, but it doesn't go away Knawing from the inside out, without a doubt, No matter how loud I shout. Just trying to make myself heard, I fear there is no cure for the pain that stirs.
klintesque by betsy alter
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glass by fiona deane-grundman
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mahogany by maya jenn (model: jessica gerson)
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something different by david gomez-siu A shadow of What you once were before A vibrant vivacious White petaled beauty Oh life, you fleeting flower I saw you in a field Of daisies Swaying in the wind, Alive But now you’ve withered And your petals wilted I thought our love Would be forever Would be something different Who knew That if you hope a flower To live forever That it would wilt Just the same.
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complex by abby armen
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bart poem by hannah portner I am all dolled up and ready to go school pictures today, blue sparkley eye shadow but first I must embark on an adventure some girls chose to curl their hair, others like to tease but my beauty secret is in the wind of the bart tunnels sneeze. The Plan for today was to go to Berkeley and talk to some sciency people I wanted to know what they thought about and how the environment can heal with chana masala (but not a fork) packed, I seemed all ready to go. I texted a friend who lived in Oakland.... And these were my thoughts. If I wasn't too slow, we could get together, hug a bunch, and eat some fabulous cinnamon roll dough. But as you guessed, it didn't turn out, just the way as planned you see, I get get distracted I have to go pee! I tend to loose track of time... The seconds escape me out the window... and realize that stop was mine.
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ensemble by julia blair
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the wishing star by kate-ginley I am that little star, the blue one in the corner, You are the brightest sun, shining front and center. You think your power is intimidating and frightful. I think it's quite lovely. Warm rays and solar flares light up the void that I used to be scared of. My own winks are fun but not as awe inspiring as your smile. That smile, I suspect, you hold for the moon. The moon! She's not a star like us! She doesn't shine, only uses your own light for her benefit. She's what remains of a broken meteor shower that left her behind. For good reason too! She's pale, she's different, she's your opposite! Yet, you find her more fascinating than anyone else. I heard humans say that opposites attract but surely that's not true? For we have the chemicals to make our love true. Remember when we used to talk? When we would shine together, as one force, a blend of light and dark for only the legends to see? That's when I knew. I knew that if I had to stuck in this eternal nightmare, I'd be able to shine forever as long as I had you. But you watch the moon with a gaze I can't describe. I just hope it's not the one reflected in my eyes. So here I am, the blue little star in the corner, Dimming each light year as I watch you, my dear, my whole universe, my love, Fall for someone else as I suffer above.
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maroon by sierra warshawsky
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the dancer by isabel artiaga Beatrice Parma. Born and raised in Prato, Italy. English National Ballet School’s star graduate of 2012. Graduated first in her class. At six years of age, she embodied my concept of an ideal dancer. After the Academy, Beatrice danced as the principal dancer for the Turkish State Opera and Ballet. She debuted in the role of the Sugar Plum Fairy in The Nutcracker. I’ve always wanted to be flawless, like Beatrice. I aspired to be like her, so I started to dance. Dance means everything to me. It’s my passion and drives me to wake before dawn. When my alarm goes off at 4:30, I roll out of bed, groggy and half asleep, but fueled by my passion and pursuit of perfection. My roommate Megan and I live at the Academy. More specifically, the English National Ballet School in London. From 5:00-7:00, I take a private lesson with Madame Lydia. Madame Lydia used to be a principal dancer with the Académie d’Opéra in Paris until she broke her ankle during her performance of Swan Lake. Once the lesson finishes, I attend school from 7:30 to noon, then leave and return to the studio for the remainder of the day. At 12:30, I refine my ballet technique for two hours, then I have an hour for studying and homework. Around 4:00, I take my contemporary class with Jean, Madame Lydia’s pas de deux partner in Paris. His love of dance and passion for the art of movement inspires me, making him my favorite teacher in the entire academy. He always pushes my class to work to our fullest potential. He likes to say, “Abigail, la perfection est seulement pour le fort” — perfection is only for the strong. When I learned that Beatrice would be coming to teach at the Academy for a year, words could hardly describe my happiness. I could learn from my idol; I could be taught by her. I remember the first day she came. She looked precisely like the posters in my room; hair up in a bun with a braid over the top, lavender leotard with black legwarmers and a black wrap. She looked bored and had a smirk on her face as if already judging us. The next week, Madame Lydia informed the ballet technique class of a contest to win two weeks of private lessons with the one and only Beatrice Parma. Filled with elation, I spent the next 12 hours with Megan practicing, perfecting every move. I wanted to win - no, I needed to win this contest so passionately that it pained me to think about losing. When I danced in the contest, my form and my technique showed all my years of training. I felt incredibly confident about my performance, so when Beatrice came to speak to me, I already anticipated her words. “You show a lot of potential, Abigail. You remind me of myself at your age.” “Wow, thank you. That’s very flattering,” I said, “thank you so much. I just need to say this; I have admired you and your dancing for the longest time. It would be such an honor to be taught by you.” 20
campo review ‘16 “I’m not finished, Abigail,” Beatrice replied. “You need me. I can help you with your technique, especially your arabesques. I noticed that you are not as flexible in your left leg as your right. I think that it needs to go higher.” “Absolutely, I really appreciate your help Beatrice.” The next couple of days with Beatrice teaching fulfilled all my hopes. She taught me so much; I drank in every word she said to me. At our second-to-last lesson, while working on my pas de deux with Zachary, he had to leave to grab his shoes. “I think that now would be good time to work on your arabesques, Abigail,” said Beatrice. “Sounds good.” “Go to the bar and get in position. Good, now lift your leg as high as you can, with control.” I did what she told me, but I couldn’t lift my leg as high as she would have liked. “I’m disappointed in you, Abigail. I thought that you were more like me. I know that if our roles were reversed, I would try more,” said Beatrice. Suddenly nervous, I replied, “No. No, I can do it. I can take it.” Ten minutes later, we continued at the barre, attempting to get my leg higher with proper form. I could see Beatrice starting to lose her patience with me which, in turn, made me frustrated with myself. “One last time, Abigail,” exclaimed Beatrice. As I lifted my leg, Beatrice suddenly grabbed it and tried to force it higher than I could take it. “Beatrice, stop, that’s all I can take.” “No, you can take more. Don’t wimp out now.” “No I’m serious. Stop. Please. Sto-.” Right at that moment, I heard a snap and felt the most amount of pain that I have ever felt in my life. Beatrice heard it too, I’m assuming, because she immediately dropped my leg. “See, you’re fine. My teachers used to do that to me all the time. Just walk it off and you’ll be fine,” she said. “Are you ok, Abigail? I heard a pop, and you don’t look to good,” said Zachary, rushing to my aid, as he re-entered the studio, shoes in hand. “N-no I’m fine. I-I think that I’m good,” I stuttered. “Mr. Woods, I believe that Abigail believes herself to be fine. Please, correct me if I’m wrong?” Asked Beatrice. “Not at all, Ms. Parma,” said Zachary. “But as her partner, I must look out for her. And I think that right now she should go see the doctor.” “If you take her out of this room, Mr. Woods, her lessons are over,” stated Beatrice. “Abigail, you have a choice to make. You can be selfish and go to the doctor, or you can stay with me, your idol, and learn from the best. What will it be?” 21
campo review ‘16 “I think that I’ll make the choice for her and say that you’re nothing but a selfish and egotistical dancer, who only wants to belittle others, so you can stay in the spotlight,” exclaimed Zachary. And with that, Zachary carried me out of the studio and into Dr. Jones’ office. That day I danced my last as a ballerina. The doctor’s told me that when Beatrice lifted my leg up, one of my lower vertebrae snapped. The doctors expressed amazement that the break hadn’t paralyzed me right then and there. When my parents shared the news with me that I would never be able to dance again, it seemed like a sick joke. Megan, Zachary, and Madame Lydia all had to tell me repeatedly that my dreams of becoming a principal dancer and dancing for the English National Ballet School had come to an end. I refused to accept it. But I think that the biggest surprise came when Beatrice came to visit me the week after the surgeons did their best to repair the damage to my spine. I didn’t at first want to see Beatrice. But after two weeks of her continual requests to speak to me, I agreed to speak to her. “Abigail, first off, I just want to start this off by apologizing to you. I can’t believe that you’ll never dance again.” “Yeah, I’ll never dance again because of you! You did this to me! I told you to stop and you didn’t listen to me and put me in a hospital as a result,” I replied harshly. “I know. I can’t even begin to tell you how sorry I am, Abigail,” she whispered. “Sorry won’t make me dance again. Your apology doesn’t mean anything to me Beatrice. I’ve worshiped your every move. I’ve watched every ballet you’ve ever performed. And now I can’t dance ever again. All because of you, Beatrice, all because of you,” I whispered. “I understand if you never want to see me again, Abigail-” “I don’t,” I interrupted. “Please, Abigail, just let me finish,” Beatrice pleaded. “You have three minutes,” I said, crossing my arms. “Thank you, Abigail,” Beatrice said as she let out a huge breath. “I feel terrible about what happened to you-” “You mean what you did to me?” I exclaimed. “Yes, sorry, what I did to you. I think that when you auditioned for the chance to have lessons with me in the first place, I felt threatened by you. You have such a natural gift for dance, that I felt jealous of you and your talent. I know that’s a pathetic excuse for what I did to you, but that’s the truth. You will never know what went through my head when I heard your back snap. I thought ‘what have I done?’ I want you to know that every day I wish that I could go back in time and reverse the entire thing. I hope that you know how incredibly sorry I am, Abigail.” Once she finished her apology, Beatrice stood and left the room. I never saw her after that. Later, my mom told me that she went back to the Turkish State Opera and Ballet to continue her career. When I came home from the hospital the following month, it sank in that I would never dance again. After crying for weeks, I made a list of pros and cons. Some of the cons seemed obvious. Not being able to dance topped the list, but not seeing my friends everyday also ranked 22
campo review ‘16 pretty high. However, I soon realized the injury offered me opportunities I couldn’t have experienced otherwise; I could have a normal life and go to a regular high school. I wouldn’t have to worry about if my hair didn’t have enough hairspray in or if the seam in my tights split. But the best thing about my injury occurred when offered a spot to teach six-year-olds at the Academy. At first, though excited, I realized that I couldn’t possibly pursue it. If I couldn’t dance, how could I teach? When I returned to the Academy to decline the offer, Zachary offered to co-teach with me. I would teach and he would demonstrate. Happiness overwhelmed me and the two of us went to Madame Lydia’s office to accept the offer. I realized that although I could never dance professionally, I didn’t have to break up with dance forever. I could still teach and watch classes and even continue going to ballets like The Nutcracker and Swan Lake. My life didn’t have to end because of one injury, it could open to a whole different side of dance, which I embraced with open arms.
autumn bath by katie klein
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reincarnation by katie nunn He had always loved autumn. Even before it happened. Summer was too hot, and he could smell himself, and all the other people in the alley. Winter was to cold, spring, to sick. The seasons dictated his moods now, and autumn was romantic, even if he was not. He lived in a big, wealthy city near the sea. At one point the city had had culture, love, interest, some sort of diversity. Now it had been taken over by wealth money, and whiteness. The diversity had disappeared and had been replaced by racial tension, inequality. The sloping hills seemed to represent the way the city had gone in the past decade, since he had gone from being a resident to being something people ignored, and looked down upon. He remembered his humanity in the fall. The alleyway which he now lived consisted of stories of tragedy. He listened to the stories, trying to relate to depressed mother, alcoholism, domestic abuse, mental illness, or even laziness. He tried to relate, but he mostly just found humanity’s failures. He explored the city during these days, attempting to know it, and to understand it. However, he never went into his own district. The district that ruined him. The one time that he did go into the district he was drunk. The alcohol took hold of him, something he almost never let happen, however, he had just gotten into a fight with his daughter, who would phone him from time to time. His daughter was a banker at Wells Fargo who was key in covering up the guilt on Wells Fargo part in the 2008 financial crash. Before his downfall, he had shamefully borrowed money from her for two years, living on the outskirts of the city near the sea, where it was warmer, and he could smell himself more. He was a shame to his daughter now, who would continue to rise even after his death. His daughter, conflicted in her love of a system which had brought her much wealth, and her love for her father, called her father a few times a month, trying to get him to take money from her. He would never take it, he had lost everything but not his pride. When he went into the district he forbade himself to go into his daughter had called him, trying to convince him to come to a free health clinic, to get tested for disease. He shouted at her, calling her names and accusing her ruining his life by working at a bank. She hung up. Feeling angry and sad, he sought solace in drink, where he found himself in the Financial District, unconsciously looking for his daughter. As he slumped down amongst the buildings, too tall for him to see the top of, he thought of the good days, no, the ascetical days. He rolled in his money he made off of his clients and the poor, lonely urchins he now was. He was loved. He had friends. He was happy. No he sits on the sidewalk, and hordes of conformists walk past him, talking rapidly on their cell phones, looking down at him quickly, then looking up, as he is the disease that no one wants to acknowledge or have. He is stuck in a bubble by himself, never connecting, never knowing. But he did know. He knew how to wear black, how to talk, how to nod, how to walk quickly past diseases like him, never knowing and never caring. 24
campo review ‘16 The city, the people, had never cared for him, Money cared for him, once. Now it turned against him. The tree knew the evil, he thought, and the roots turned against them. He wondered how such a metaphorical, philosophical thought could get into his mind, but that is the burden of having too much time on your hands. The city was industrialized. The wealth was once his friend, but also his nemesis. He was a disease to the flow of the wealth, someone who just got in the way. He knew what he had to do. There was a few empty parks in the city. Where the leaves fell like raindrops and the wind blew the smell of fresh leaves and drops of yellow and red and deep plum jewels scattered the group. He needed to get out. To get out the world where money defined the life you lived. He needed to escape his tormentor, his demon. The leaves underfoot him did not judge. They were new, and their money green color had been changed to fire colors of reds and oranges and purple. They had been reincarnated. Nature had taken hold of them and lit them on fire, to realize their role in the year, in the process of change. He took a match and he struck.
eucalyptus by jelina liu
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sketch by zoe del-rosario
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bumper stickers by elena koshkin I once bought a bumper sticker that said “it’s much worse than you think” And plastered it on my car proudly, for the world to appreciate. It was a spontaneous decision: i had decided to live. But now i think i regret it as people ask me everyday “What’s that supposed to mean?” and “why did you get it?” I don’t know; why would i know? It means exactly what it says. There’s nothing in life that’s worse than optimism When it’s driven by false hope And quixotic strands of a threadbare quilt of dreams. It’s melodramatic, don’t point it out, i know, i get it But in some ways it is the harshest truth one must accept. For when you think you got a funny sticker Really all you bought was a burden instead.
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autumn in their eyes by shaun hou
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campo review ‘16
broken by makenna wolf “How are you feeling?” “Fine.” “Did anything exciting happen this week?” “No.” It went on like this for an hour and a half, I would get asked a question and I’d give oneword answers. That was the average day in therapy. If the therapist got lucky I would say an entire sentence, but that had only happened once and I was just feeling generous that day. Why should I tell her all my problems? She doesn’t care about me. No one does. When I walked out of that horrid brick building I’m greeted by the familiar autumn breeze. The weather has become increasingly colder here in the outskirts of Philadelphia. My long blonde hair was blowing behind me in the wind as I took a deep breath of the polluted air. I decided to walk home, the walk was only 20 minutes. I walked down the worn down concrete sidewalk, it was a Saturday afternoon so the traffic was light. I passed the little boutiques that rested on the sides of the street, each owner giving me a sympathetic look, but I’m not a weak, little girl. I don’t need their sympathy. I can deal with my own problems without other people worrying about me. Yes, I’m different, but it shouldn’t affect the way they see me. As I continue down the street I pass the park, the one I used to enjoy so much as a kid. Before I could stop myself I had redirected my path to the play structure. I took a seat on the rusty swing set. Why on earth did I adore this place so much? Times were simpler back then, you were pleased by the smallest of things, but once you grow up that all changes. You start to worry about meaningless things; like how you look or how you dress or if people like you. When you’re at the delicate, ignorant age of 5 none of those shallow, petty things concern you. But alas I’m not 5 anymore, although I may wish to have the same weight as a 5 year old, I’m trapped at the age of 16. I’m a 16 year old girl with no friends. If nobody cared about me why should I care about them? I can’t even remember the last time I said “I love you” to my mother. Those words seem so foreign. It must’ve been right before my father walked out on us. I know it’s cruel of me to deprive her of the love that my alcoholic father couldn’t give her, but she is not the only one in agony. Before my dark past enveloped my mind I decided to go back to the house. When I reached the small building with a tainted history, I took a deep breath in to calm my nerves. I know I shouldn’t feel anxious because this is my home, but that’s the very thing, it is just a house. It’s not my home, it hasn’t been my home since my abhorrent father left. Now it’s just a place of slumber and survival. I don’t care for this pile of bricks that my mother calls a “home”. She knows it, I know it; this is not our home. I entered through the front door which was covered in chipped paint and had creaky hinges that are clearly due for a repair. I don’t even care to look for my mother and decide to head straight towards my room. I could hear the muffled cries and sniffles coming from my mother’s room through the thin walls, but I can’t help her. I can barely help myself. 29
campo review ‘16 Right when I walk into my room I head straight for the familiar scale. I step on...98 pounds appears on the screen. Disappointment fills me. I’m 5’6”; I should weigh less. I walk over to my mirror, my ribs were so prominent that I didn’t even need to suck in. But that wasn’t good enough. My legs had little to no muscle around them, but it suited me. My mother has tried to get me to eat, but I’ve lost the taste for food. She keeps telling me that I’m broken and that she wants to help fix me. But you can’t fix someone who enjoys being broken. I overhear her conversations with her friends, I hear her tell them “Her eyes don’t shine the way they used to” and other absurd garbage like that. I usually spend my days lying in my bed wondering why I’m here. I never took up a hobby like most normal teenagers. Before I knew it, 5 hours had passed and it was time for dinner, one of the worst times of the day. My mom didn’t cook meals anymore for she was still upset over my dad. Today she got Chinese takeout, unfortunately she got too much because I had no intention of eating it. I sat myself down at the wood table that has so many alcohol stains that the original wood could barely be seen. My mom, who was once young and joyful, walked in looking like a zombie. She didn’t even make eye contact with me as she pulled her seat out and sat down. After 15 minutes of complete silence she dared to speak the horrible words I was anticipating she would say. “Why don’t you eat some of your food?” she asked. “I’m not hungry,” I flatly said. “Jocelyn, I want to help you, I want to make you feel better,” she spoke her words of encouragement. I didn’t feel any encouragement from her words, all I felt was anger. “Stop trying to fix me, I can do it myself,” I fired back. “Please Jocelyn I want to help you,” she plead. “Why do you care so much, I’m fine,” I said, my patience running thin. I was reaching my boiling point, ready to explode. “Because I love you and I want to see you happy again,” she said tenderly. How could she say that, can’t she see that this is clearly irreversible. I’m stuck this way, nothing can change me now. I had finally lost it. “YOU CAN’T FIX ME, MOM!” I yelled back. I stormed out of that room. I couldn’t handle it, my emotions had taken over my weak body. Why don’t I just end it? I’m already unhappy, no one would care if I’m gone. I could make all the pain go away, just by one little swipe of a knife over my wrist. A flood of relief overcomes me when I finally see a way out of the dark. This was my only way to euphoric bliss. I went into my room and rummaged through my side table drawer. I had a pocketknife in there just in case I made this fatal decision. I hurried over to my closet and pulled out my nicest dress. It was the moment I had been contemplating for the longest time. I slipped the dress on and slowly zipped it up. It was a light pink, which complimented my slightly tanner skin. I grabbed the knife and headed towards my little twin size bed. ‘This is where I want it to happen,’ I thought to myself. I flipped the blade, making it visible. This is the device that would help me achieve joy. I looked at it, it was brand new, my reflection was sharp. I got one final look at myself and brought the blade to my wrist. ‘This is it,’ I thought. I knew this was the best choice for me. I felt the blade cutting my skin, I cried out in both pain and relief, for I knew that that
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campo review ‘16 moment marked the beginning of my journey to eternal happiness. I heard quick footsteps heading towards my room. My mother barged in and hurried over to my bed. I could see the tears swelling up in her eyes as she saw the deep cut on my wrist. “Jocelyn, what did you do? Why would you do this? Jocelyn!?” She screamed for me. “I love you, mom,” I quietly uttered, but it was loud enough for her to hear. Then everything went black.
blossom by alicia long
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grayscape by maya jenn
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campo review ‘16
fall and elise by liv slaby I couldn’t stop staring at the dent in my plastic cup. If I tried to pop it out, my drink might splash everywhere, and I really didn’t want my go-go dancer costume to get covered in Tommy’s weird fruit punch that for some reason included gummy worms. My heels clicked on the sidewalk and if I focused on the sound hard enough I could almost drown out Elise’s voice. Elise Lyons was a selfish, brash, patronizing girl who also held the title of My Best Friend. She was talking to me about how if she didn’t get into Stanford she’d just show up anyway because she was oh so confident that they’d come to their senses and realize that they needed her. Actually, let me rephrase; she was talking at me. She was either so wrapped up in herself that she didn’t notice I’d checked out, or she didn’t care. I sighed and crunched leaves under my boots as loudly as I could, wondering how we got here. We’d gotten to this specific place because around 11 p.m. I had started to yawn and hope I could slip out of Tommy Hendricks’s Halloween party without anyone noticing. Unfortunately, an all-too familiar voice had called my name and I’d frozen with my hand on the doorknob. My shoulders had immediately tensed up as I’d plastered on a fake smile and turned to face Elise. She’d insisted upon walking me home, which would have been nice if I hadn’t already popped three Advil due to a headache from hearing that shrill voice all night. But I wondered why I barely felt any empathy for the girl who used lift me up so I could reach the monkey bars, bake chocolate chip cookies with me after school, and pretend to be my date for dances when I was bummed that boys didn’t like me. We’d been attached at the hip since the moment we met in second grade. We’d celebrated Christmas together, taken family vacations together, even cried together. I’d loved her like a sister; I had thought she was my friend-soulmate. I didn’t understand that such young and immature relationships weren’t always as strong as they felt. Sometime around the middle of this past summer, something happened. I started to grow up. I moved forward and she walked in place. I learned it was time to stop whining, to start working, to see the world out of other people's eyes. She expressed her insecurity through constant bragging and had yet to see that there was more to her life than her ideas and her plans. I tried to talk to her using words like “maturity” and “new perspectives,” but she couldn’t hear any of it. Growing apart from Elise hurt; it hurt like a piece of my body was getting ripped off. I hoped and prayed for the old Elise to come back and it took me months to realize that I was the one who had changed. In the end, I knew I needed to grow and develop more than I needed a friendship that was as lifeless and stagnant as the brown leaves that crunched under my feet. Thanks to my power walking skills and highly developed ability to daydream, we arrived in front of my house sooner than I expected. “Well, I guess this is where I leave you,” Elise said. I made the same noncommittal “mmm” noise I’d been making during the entire walk home, whenever I thought something she said might warrant a response. “Remember when you used to have that swing that your dad made right on that branch?” She gestured to the oak towering in front of my house. “Whenever I came by after school, you’d always be sitting on that swing and reading.” She smiled. “I miss that.” 33
campo review ‘16 “Me too,” I said. “Well, bye.” She waved and gave me another small smile. “Bye.” In the street behind Elise, a few leaves were swept up by the wind and they danced in a little tornado. I turned and closed the door to the cold air outside.
lookout by emma quimby
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campo review ‘16
on guard by fiona deane-grundman the way you look at me in kind adoration as if i’ve never done wrong in my life fills me with joy and trepidation because little do you know the list keeps getting longer your warmth and light attracts me but i am on guard because i can't imagine disappointing you truth is, i’d want to do it with the lights off because i can’t look at myself the way you do i don't think i’m enough for you or if you even want what i’m selling i’m flattered that you think i could make you happy but truth is i can't even do that for myself
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campo review ‘16
sierra by ruby lowe
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campo review ‘16
august 29, 2016 by athya uthayakumar Dissolving Yet iron Chest Burning Hot gold And gilded Dust Small But not Knit Enough With this strange Warmth In darlings. Dark? Spiraling Spinning Web Like cotton water On the sea Of lies Of tides Let the wash come in Waltz in your spiders Eyes Eyes I still don't want to be afraid Tapestry Full of melody Life And maybe even Something Beyond my one. And in carts Of two and three See we Find Drop and love Hot coals 37
campo review ‘16 Mind on fire Doesn't feel it Not on fire Mind in wash Living spinning Milk Shush hushing not hurt Hushing Hush Or Also known as Indeterminate Unless something is there Undefined Quiet Listening For a melody that captures me Or movement Darling Eyelashes Made of cotton Watching over Windows Skin Protecting Windows Heart Hearth Of this strange poem Mind doesn't try to make sense of it It just lets things be on the page Let's things be Because My my Gold is metal My my Heart is not My my Peace is lacking Or waiting to feel safe
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campo review ‘16
russet by isabel owens
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campo review ‘16
autumn phrases by brigitte jia Words are As leaves are, falling down upon the reader At the base of the tree. Ever-changing With the tone of a voice as the breath of the new season, Autumn A book, from cover to cover, holding Onto bushels and bushels of spider-dyed vermillion and blends of forest, sunlight Syllables like veins across a photosynthesized sheet Taking in the book’s life, book’s growth The reader pulls such a book up off the forest Of others like itself, all decked out in nuances Parts its branches and peeks through it to the meaning Of the leaves pages words letters life Soaking up the sentences like thirsty roots And the reader’s eyes drift down the page, browns and greens and blues taking in the colors of the words like they are the pigments in the falling leaves
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campo review ‘16
contemplation by isabel owens
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campo review ‘16
croissant 10.12.16 an interview with david gomez siu INTERVIEWER This is NPR. . . DAVID GOMEZ-SIU Unconvincing laugh. INTERVIEWER Can you tell me a little bit about your poetic influences? GOMEZ-SIU One major influences of my poetry is nature. I base a lot of my symbolism and the way that I frame a lot of my poetic devices is through the use of natural influences like trees, flowers, and the cycle of death and life. INTERVIEWER Who are some of your favorite poets? GOMEZ-SIU I grew up reading a lot of Shakespeare and Robert Frost and I also drew a lot on Emily Dickinson’s works from the early 1800s. INTERVIEWER Can you explain your favorite quote? GOMEZ-SIU So, my favorite quote is probably “Don’t be bitter, be better.” And the reason I think this quote is really important to me because it stresses the importance of learning from mistakes and overcoming adversity in not holding grudges with other people but rather using that effort you would put into hatred or sadness and putting it into words and into your work. Into creating more. INTERVIEWER Under what conditions do you write poetry?
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campo review ‘16 GOMEZ-SIU I usually write poetry near the evening time and I usually go into someplace in nature where it’s quiet and there are not really a lot of other people and I sit by myself and then I evaluate the world around me through the lens of nature. INTERVIEWER What is it about nature which resonates with you so strongly? GOMEZ-SIU I think it’s the fact that nature’s really solitary and it’s something that everyone can connect to because nature is always ‘gonna exist around us. Everyone knows what nature is. INTERVIEWER How do you foresee using poetry as an adult? GOMEZ-SIU I think poetry as a device in my life is just a way for me to express my emotions in a way that’s different than just talking--saying it out loud. It’s a way to convey to others the way I more deeply feel, without having to talk to each and every one of them; I can show them a piece of my poetry which expresses how I feel. INTERVIEWER Outside of poetry, what are some of your other interests? GOMEZ-SIU As surprising as it may be, I’m actually really interested in sciences, especially in biology. And I think it’s rather interesting because I do write a lot about nature and life as it is and I also want to study about what life is and how it came to be. INTERVIEWER Are you interested in marrying science to the humanities in the future? GOMEZ-SIU I think that every field of study, whether its history or English or science or humanities or whatever, are interconnected. I think poetry’s a good way to use our words to influence different parts of our lives, such as the way we can talk about history through poetry. It’s a way we can connect through poetry.
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campo review ‘16 INTERVIEWER Speaking of your poetic audience, who do you trust to read your poetry? GOMEZ-SIU I do trust a lot of my friends to read my poetry. I do think they give a lot of good feedback—when they do. I think it’s important to let other people read your writing so that they can understand and connect with your experience. INTERVIEWER Can you talk a little bit about what you believe the purpose of literature is?
GOMEZ-SIU I think the purpose of literature is to convey the author’s experience of the world around them. The way we talk and what we say is the most important part of our daily existence. The way we interact, the way that we view the world around is—it’s really important. The way other people can convey their perspective to us is through their writing. INTERVIEWER How has your writing changed as you’ve gotten older? GOMEZ-SIU I think my artistry has developed a lot. It’s shifted from just expressing exactly what I feel in the words I would usually use to describe them and it’s shifted into something more symbolic that has multiple meanings. Because I don’t think there’s a singular way to describe experience, it’s a combination of things—The older you get the more experience you can draw from to create your literature. INTERVIEWER Do you believe there’s a difference between journalism and poetry or fiction? GOMEZ-SIU I think literary art forms are very similar to each other in that they all draw from life, but I think there’s a stark difference between poetry and fiction writing or even non-fiction writing. Poetry allows more of the reader’s interpretation. When you allow a reader the space to interpret the words you’ve created it makes it into a more personal experience where people draw on their own personal experiences when reading. This can’t be done through fictional writing. You don’t apply yourself in the same way.
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campo review ‘16 INTERVIEWER Some authors have strange work habits. Hemingway, for example, was said to have had to sharpen a certain number of pencils before he could write every day. Do you have any idiosyncratic work habits? GOMEZ-SIU When I write, it’s not really that I write under certain conditions, but more--I have to feel what I want to write about. If I’m not feeling that certain emotion the writing’s not going to be good, it’s not going to be coming from a genuine place. Poetry should be created from a place of emotion, of understanding. As for what I do, or as for rituals, I have to be still. INTERVIEWER Could you describe your desk? What are some of the objects you have on your desk or around you when you’re writing? GOMEZ-SIU So--I think this question is problematic. I don’t write at a desk. I do most of my poetry while I’m in bed, or— INTERVIEWER So would you say that your desk is, like, a field outside? GOMEZ-SIU Yeah, I think that my desk is, maybe sitting under a tree. Maybe it’s sitting in a field. It could also be just, a waiting room in a hospital, or sitting at home in bed. It’s anywhere I can feel that emotion and connect to my writing. It’s not where you write, it’s not when you write, it’s what you write.
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campo review ‘16
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