Table of Contents
Covers.........Julianne Cinoman 1.........Alexandra Smith...( ), [ ].........Caroline Brewer...Untitled.........Charlie East...Untitled 2.........*Pauline...Untitled* 3.........Kate Dudek...Excerpt from Idols are Burning.........Pauline...Untitled 4.........*Ella Thompson...Invite Only* 5.........Julia Gong...Untitled 7.........Katie Baker...Jaime and Ygritte 8.........Lily Levin...11:13 PM 10.........Anonymous...Untitled 11.........Jessica Hamm...Untitled.........Mohala Kaliebe...Untitled 12.........Micaela Rosen...What People Think Other People Don’t Notice 14.........Cat Cobb...Untitled 15.........Julia Gong...Untitled 17.........Eesha Sachdeva...We the People.........Justin Reich...The River 18.........Jessica Hamm...Forgotten Strengh, A Lyric.........Margaret Velto...Home 19.........*Evan Ehrhardt...15 Short Poems-Unrelated* 20.........Tommy Bright...Untitled.........Pauline Pauwels...Untitled 21.........Micaela Rosen...Untitled 22.........Anonymous...What is happiness? 24.........Maddie Mizelle...Untitled 26.........Jessica Hamm...A Murdered Heart, A Free Verse 27.........Kate Dudek...The Gift.........Jessica Hamm...Looking Back, A Ballad 28.........Michelle Schwartz...Self-portrait 29.........Lauren McCoppin...The End of August 30.........Jessica Hamm...Untitled 31.........Julianne Cinoman...A Verbal Vow 33.........Pauline Pauwels...Untitled.........Sarah Godwin...Untited 34.........Anonymous...Untitled 35.........Jessica Hamm...For You, A Ballad 36.........Pauline Pauwels...Untitled.........Meghan Cowen...Untitled 37.........Vera Wei...Bloom where you are planted 38.........Jessica McCoppin...The Shining Movie Review 39.........Anna Go...Landscape in Ecuador 40.........Pauline Pauwels...Untitled 41.........Vera Wei...The Non-Ideal Gas Law 42.........Jeonghun Lee...Ode to Shreyas 43.........Micaela Rosen...simit/tornado potato 44.........Henna Judge...Potato, Potahto 46.........Abby Geigerman...Colorful Thoughts 47.........Claire Goray...Excerpts from An Elephant in the Bathroom 50.........*Jessica Hamm...Untitled* 51.........Margaret Velto...Marionette
Untitled
Caroline Brewer
his mom told him he shouldn’t believe in silly superstition, but he still stays up night after night, waiting for it to strike 11:11, because there’s a part of him, he thinks, that believes in the idea of wishes, more than he believes in the idea of himself. you see, it’s 11:11 and he’s wishing for no more. no more sympathetic saccharine smiles breathing out some apology, some excuse, between a forced grin, purely because – what was it, again? you couldn’t pronounce my name? no, you didn’t even want to try? yes. but to him it’s so much more than that.
( ),[ ]
Alexandra Smith
wishes of a new identity wander aimlessly in his brain, inhibiting his thoughts until he can barely think straight, yet, somewhere in the distance, the sound of a train manages to triumphantly echo in his mind.
I sent that text to them four hours ago. They’re ignoring me. They hate me. [No they don’t] I did something wrong. [Everything was fine] I’ve just been annoying them. No, they’re probably just busy. Or maybe their phone died. (That’s just an excuse) That’s it, right? It has to be that. Seven hours and twenty-two minutes. They’re probably just busy. (No, I’m definitely being ignored) Why didn’t I just admit it earlier? I need to stop opening the text. Everything is fine. (I knew I was just annoying) I was never wrong. I need to just leave, [Stop saying that] They’d be happier. [Maybe I’m right]
...1
it’s 11:11 and he’s wishing for completion, because he’s an unsolved puzzle. and he’s puzzled by himself.
Untitled
Charlie East Please stand back From the doors From the rails From the metal beast That comes hurtling down the tracks Just as frequently As the turnstiles that churn in new travelers And count out the old The ones who dress in crisp suits On their way to work Their motions as mechanized as the rail That has come to a screeching halt Their actions still As do the trains Because a few miles down the track No one told him To please stand back.
Untitled
Pauline Pauwels
Winner of Literature Magazine Art Competition
...2
Excerpt from Idols are Burning Kate Dudek
In the week of autumn, three children were born. The last was only a day away from pity, a few hours if the priests were to be believed, but the other two had no chance. Each of them would meet the same fate, so it really didn’t matter when they were born, in the end. They were cursed children, either way. And they were all cursed when the last was born, for those hours while everyone was waiting for the priests to dictate that winter had begun and the child was safe. But when Occasus sends a servant to walk among the living, he ensures they arrive at the proper time. The child was born a few hours before the dawn of winter, and everyone knew it. They had all been awoken by the priests’ song, ringing through the night. Those who could rose and joined the procession behind the child, taken from its ungrateful mother’s arms. Lysandra looked up to find her mother standing at the entrance, peering into the darkness with a blanket drawn across her shoulders. “Must they kill the children?” she’d whispered. Lysandra shook her head, pulling on her own boots. Her mother was still barefoot, she’d noted. It wasn’t technically winter yet, but that didn’t mean snow wasn’t in the air. “It’s been twelve years.” “I know.” Her mother, Helen, turned away from the outside. “The poor children.” “Don’t let anyone hear you pitying Occasus’s servants.” “I know.” Helen sat back down on her mat, tucking her feet beneath herself. “Don’t worry, Lysandra, I know.” Lysandra nodded, but she left her mother anyways. That woman may not have cared about the curse autumn children could bring, but Hesiod would not have let Lysandra live down missing the sacrifice. It hadn’t started snowing yet, but the air bit like it would within the hour. Lysandra tugged her furs closer around herself and listened for the song again. It still rang through the air and a few others were emerging, tiredly, from their tents to bear witness to the death of a cursed child. They all looked like Lysandra; half-asleep, but drawn by some alliance that they couldn’t force themselves to deny, even if they had to prepare for the upcoming winter. The group moved together towards the temple of Occasus, shuffling so that they could warm themselves up. They stayed silent, letting the song be the only sound in the air, save for their footsteps on the hard ground. A few priests stood beckoning them into the temple. Lysandra ended up close to the altar, standing at the edge of the crowd, with perfect view of the upcoming death. She was slightly surprised to see that it was Hesiod himself who entered the temple with the child in his arms. The baby was already crying, confirming its fate, and a few people winced once the sound was amplified inside the building. Hesiod, however, remained as stoic as he normally was. He placed the baby on the altar and knelt, beginning the prayer to Occasus, the apology and the wish that he would take his servant back. The people took on the prayer, though they were much quieter than Hesiod himself, as another priest stepped forward with a knife in hand. Once the prayer finished and the room went quiet, the child died.
Untitled
Pauline Pauwels
...3
Invite Only
Ella Thompson
Winner of the Literature Magazine Prose Competition I have watched sidewalks change from badly-lit drug cartels to digitally lighted canopies with Wi-Fi induced wire-traffic. The younger people have stringed headphones in and touch screen watches. The Microsoft and Apple stores face each other across the street every two blocks. Starbucks scans Gold Cards on phones and communicate through headsets. Taco Bell has a Facebook account that’s trending on Tumblr. Jaden Smith tweeted “dish soap” yesterday at 9:22 AM and 1.2M people liked it by 10:15AM. My granddaughter Rebecca insisted I sell my 2001 Ford Focus because of the putrid shade of dark green and appalling absence of Wi-Fi. I was still new to social media, but I recognized the importance of being ready to “like” the next Lady Gaga tweet. Rebecca said that everything is about timing, being the first comment, and that’s why she had such a high virtual status on Instagram. The Tolopas Mexican Restaurant chain had just opened up a sixth location in the city and Rebecca demanded that we visit for my other granddaughter Winnie’s tenth birthday. Winnie was ten years old and six-feet-two-inches. I held her hand walking up the busy downtown sidewalk because I feared losing her. She had short blonde hair, size 11 feet, and tiny hands. She didn’t shave her legs but Jennifer Lawrence followed her on Twitter so no one could comment. “We should hail a cab, Clark,” said Lynn, my wife of nearly forty years. “But not the one with the advert for constipation.” “You don’t like the cute little pink stomach that runs around?” asked Winnie. “It’s unnecessary. Just give me the facts about what you’re selling so I can get back to Day of Our Lives,” said Lynn. Lynn refused to use the iPhone 6S I bought her for anything other than phone calls. She was very practical, wanting everything as it was without any extra flourishes. She curled her hair the same way every day and wore panty hose. She couldn’t grasp that flourishes are what made you relevant. I was likely the only person to every notice her. “Grandma, the pink stomach is verified on Twitter. You should be begging to ride in the car with that advert,” Rebecca said. I stepped off the curb to whistle for a cab, but Rebecca quickly stopped me before I could. “I’ll get an Über, Grandad. I’ve got the app.” Lynn grabbed Winnie’s other hand as we scooted up against the glass window of the Dunkin Donuts that displayed their new heart-shaped donuts, only available for a limited time. Rebecca Instagrammed a photo of her eating one on Feb. 1 and got 472 hearts. Two empty yellow taxis drove by. I felt sorry for the next people to hail them. You can’t very well tweet a picture of yourself in a yellow taxi. “Do you think they’ll sing happy birthday to me?” asked Winnie. Rebecca rolled her eyes and tucked her dark brown hair behind her ear. “Obviously. They’ve got their own version of it that they made. I watched a two hour loop of it yesterday before the new PewDiePie came out. I’m more excited for the D&PG Undertale, though.” “On Vimeo or on Dailymotion?” I asked. “Neither.” “Viooz? Putlocker?” “No, YouTube,” Winnie said. “It’s obvious.” The Über pulled up a few moments later and we got in. Rebecca sat in the front while me and Lynn sat in the back with Winnie in between us. “I assume you’re going to the new Tolopas,” said the driver. His iPad was duct taped to his front windshield, which was cracked, and two phones were plugged into a wall outlet that was wired into the cup holders. “Obviously.” “Perfect timing. It’ll only be new for so long, you know.” “Is the happy birthday song new, too?” asked Winnie. Rebecca rolled her eyes. “For a limited time only. It’s vintage right now. It’s the same song, of course, but the location is new so it’s paying homage to the Tolopas they opened up two months ago in downtown, which was paying homage to the fourth one they opened up at the new zoo two months before that, which was paying homage to the third one they opened up by the supermarket two months before that, which was paying homage to the second one they opened up by the library two months before that, which wasn’t paying homage to the first one that’s now a start-up Baptist Church. The stain glass at the library was much more photo-worthy than the church.” “That’s the only reason to go anywhere,” said Winnie. “Vintage is my favourite Instagram filter,” added Rebecca. “Kelly Clarkson tweeted about her new baby this morning,” I said. Winnie gave me a respectful nod.
...4
Untitled
Julia Gong 3.141592653589793! You know, my Econ teacher always says “Julia, you are such a math person.” And then, one day, I messed up some multiplication, and he says “well, Julia, I guess you’re not such a math person after all”. And I was like GASP and he was like GASP and everyone was like GASP. I mean, one numerical mistake, and now my identity is changed? Who said I was a math nerd again, anyway? Oh wait. Me. Anyway, as a class A math person, I can safely say I’m labeled with numbers every day. But, as it turns out, I’m not the only one. Numbers have stealthily crept into our everyday lives to the point that they are nearly the only way we measure worth and success. As Pythagoras, an ancient Greek philosopher, once said, “Number is the ruler of forms and ideas…Numbers rule the universe.” Today, we see numbers aren’t only ruling forms and ideas, but people as well. In a society with so many dimensions, statistics should not be our only consideration. First, we’ll examine our universal number slumber, then, discuss the cause of the problem, and finally, take a look at how we can overcome it. Let’s all become math people and face our problem. Our first issue is that we treat statistics as the sole evidence of progress. We’ve all read futuristic novels where ideal humans are actually experiments with numerical names. Hello, I’m human 5934. Quite ironically, this is already happening in the present. As Dr. H. James Harrington once asserted, “you can’t improve what you don’t measure7”. Our mindset of strictly objective approaches to progress is so prevalent in our society, we don’t even notice it. When asked, ‘how was your test today?’ most of us say, ‘good. I think I can get a 95 this time.’ Or when workers ask themselves, am I successful? They turn to salary and wage. We value numbers so much, we don’t consider other methods of evaluation legitimate. We see numbers as larger-than-life, that only numbers matter. Author Robin Black voices this concern in a 2011 New York Times article: “I’ll get a letter from someone who says, ‘My daughter died, and reading your book really helped’. That’s so meaningful. How do I measure that against 500 Twitter followers?29” Many of us may scoff and say, of course the letter is more important. But because our society sees everything through statistics, it begs the question: to the company, to the university, to our peers, is the letter really more important? In order to satisfy the objective number, we often lose sight of what meaningful progress truly is. Not only do we forget to look beyond numbers, but we are also losing ourselves. Because numbers are hailed as the symbol of truth and objectivity, we have learned not to question them. We accept them as truth, the end-all, be-all, the ideal. Every day, we strive to be the perfect weight, get the perfect grades, earn the perfect income. What results from our obsession is a fear: the fear of being inadequate. Ever since we were little, we said: if at first you don’t succeed, try, try again. But what about the second time? The twentieth? Human beings are not and cannot be numbers, yet we try so hard to fulfill them. Elizabeth Eyre of MindTools, a corporate educator, adds: these unattainable goals can be “terribly demotivating”, lead to “unethical behavior”, and cause “high levels of stress”. Ironically, numbers may not even be right. They can be misleading or simply, wrong. We become unsatisfied with ourselves because we try all our lives to attain these numbers. Without even questioning their authenticity and power, we lose ourselves to the stats. I guess only the numbers count. So now that we know we’re all math people, why are we mathematic fanatics anyway? We, the human race, we want control and consistency. We dislike the unknown, and numbers are the cure. Journalist and author Jonah Lehrer concurs, numbers make “intangibles tangible. They give the illusion of control.” Once we have control, we think we have definitive answers, concrete solutions. By applying numerical measurements to everything, we feel more empowered, more certain about our decisions. Why does arbitrary knowledge matter if you don’t get an A+? In addition to control, we also want consistency. Psychologist Leon Festinger’s dissonance theory explains: we expect consistency, and when there is none, we work tirelessly to restore it. Consistency is then a “form of human gravity”. Statistics, the perfect illusion of consistency in a world of change, grounds us, bringing control to our lives. 1 plus 2 will never fail to be three, and 100% will never cease to be perfection. By craving control and consistency, we glorify numbers as flawless solutions to every problem. Our next reason is we are competitive and want efficiency. Not so much the steady tortoise, we’re more like the hare. On steroids. We want to race to the finish, be the best, solve the problem, and move on. Now, psychologists have an ongoing feud as to whether our competition is by nature or nurture. But regardless, it’s there. Ray Williams of Psychology Today adds in 2012 that the American culture tends to value competition as the best indicator of “individual and collective” success. The number, the statistic, is then a direct manifestation of our values. Numbers allow for efficient, one-size-fits-all comparison. Who doesn’t want an easier way to determine a winner?
...5
All of a sudden, our judgments are quicker, even impulsive. To have a higher income is to win, to have more Instagram likes is to win, to have better grades is to win. By putting too much emphasis on efficiency and victory, we see numbers as the only way to assess ourselves. So that’s why only the numbers count. As my Econ teacher would say, bless you. Bless you. Now stop. Let’s put a stop to our numerical problem. First and foremost, we need to question the numbers. Numbers are useful and powerful tools, but are still imperfect. Numbers can be wrong. Dawn Casey-Rowe, a Rhode Island educator, reminds her students that numbers can mislead just as much “as the written word.” Sometimes, all it takes is a computation error. Other times, there’s deliberate manipulation. To use statistics effectively is to understand what each number actually means, how it was obtained, and what it can be used for. We didn’t invent numbers just to accept them, or to categorize people. So what should 500 Twitter followers really mean? What does the minimum wage actually represent? By asking these questions, we consciously build a filter between what we are told and what we believe. The next, and perhaps most challenging step, is to stop our numerical tunnel vision. Numbers are something, not everything. It’s our responsibility to change how we react to them. Every time a number is thrown at us, we can’t see it as the whole picture, but as a part of it. My SAT score alone says little about my intelligence. Your salary is only a part of your life. Her weight says little about her worth. As Ron Delegge II wrote in Gents with No Cents, “99 percent of all statistics only tell 49 percent of the story.” If we wish to improve ourselves, to grow, to achieve, we have to understand true progress is not only defined by numbers. In fact, setting a number as a goal is just as dangerous as not having one. Our goal is not to have the best number, but to be the best us. Now that we’ve seen numbers in a different light, why not throw in a fourth point? Point number four: The worth of my speech is not determined by the number of points I have. That, my friends, is priceless. In order to become more dynamic people, we have to stop seeing numbers as the only way to assess. Remember, numbers are not inherently bad; however, they can be damaging if accepted as the only truth. We’ve realized the need to question numbers and stop our numerical tunnel vision. So when my Econ teacher calls me a math person, he’s not exactly wrong; I mean, I know my numbers, my fractions. We all know in a fraction, zero can never be in the denominator. Why? It makes it undefined. I challenge all of us here today to break this rule. Step off the scale and look in the mirror. We are not numbers. We are undefined.
...6
Jaime and Ygritte Katie Baker
...7
11:13 PM Lily Levin
It’s 11:13 p.m., two minutes after 11:11you’ve missed your wish. Eyes sore, vision warped from the light of your phone and the dead quiet of nothing but tears falling onto your bitten nails and bleeding cuticles. your silence reminds you the songs you once heard on the radio, how they represented your pain but you still refused to sing. It’s 11:13 p.m. and you’re afraid of your own shadow. Your pillow is your only company, struggling against the devil that screams that every inch of your body is flawed— but somehow, never quite defeating the devil--- the voice inside your head. It’s 11:13 p.m. and you stare at the night sky and billions of stars and feel dizzyingly alone. It’s 3:13 a.m. 3:13 a.m. 3:13 a.m 3:13 a.m. 3:13 am 3:13 AM and your obsessive mind spins and the room follows until suddenly you’re lying on the ground brain diseasedrest its only medicine. It’s 3:13 a.m. but you can’t sleep because anxiety wants you to keep it company3:13 AM so you stay awake just for the sake of being kind. It’s 3:13 a.m. and compulsions return the favor, cradling your shaking body with enchanted lullabies 3:13 am and the lullabies resemble 3:13 am and the lullabies resemble 3:13 am and the lullabies resemble the nursey rhymes you learned as a child where humpty dumpty could not be put together again— because humpty dumpty fell, and you’ve fallen, too. It’s 6:13 a.m. and you’re tired and groggy and your mattress is stuck to you like a magnet but daylight shines through your window and massages your shoulders and brings your vision back.
you can smell the wonderful aroma of pancakes, made especially for you, and you fight the demon that shrieks through every nerve and every muscle and every pore of your skin that food is poison.
...8
It’s 6:13 a.m. and you’re not certain of anything but death, yet somehow you’ve made it out of bed. It’s 3:13 p.m. and you’re flushed and sweaty but you’ve fought bravely with the blade of a warrior It’s 3:13 pm and you’re still surrounded by other people, it’s 3:13 pm but for the first time, you don’t feel so despairingly alone. It’s 3:13 pm but for the first time, the silence doesn’t seem as deafening. It’s 6:13 p.m and your scars are healing and they match the color of your shoes, so you decide to change into short sleeves. It’s 6:13 p.m. And you look into the mirror and for once, put more effort into accepting yourself than you do into changing who you are And it’s 11:13 p.m., two minutes after 11:11you’ve missed your wish. Eyes sore, vision warped from laughing and crying— from staging a bloody battle every second of the day. It’s 11:13 p.m. and your recovery reminds you of the songs you’ve heard on the radio and screamed along to the lyrics. It’s 11:13 p.m. and your shadow is a reflection of the darker parts of you— reminding you to kiss your wounds, Understanding that you will burn, but the fire will still be beautiful. understanding that healing means falling off the cliff sometimes but other times, it’s standing at the edge, looking back at the brutal climb. Your pillow beckons you closer, and you finally listen to the sound of its comforting voice— but not before you open your window. It’s 11:13 p.m. and you stare at the night sky and billions of stars and know that they are staring back at you.
...9
Untitled
Anonymous I feel as though I should be crazy, Brilliantly, undeniably, insane A well-balanced person never did anything truly remarkable after all I crave the unstable, unhinged lunacy that sinks in around the mind Like a monsoon-wetted mud That whips away- strips away The mind-numbing plaque and roots around The festering cavity, The fermented, rich, undertones of twilight Those forgotten greys Give the velvet black night and pin-pricked stars Meaning I crave the manic, clawing fingers That can rip the beating, Bleeding, Tomato-red sun from its sunset Something that can tear with rotting fingers, The frozen peaks from their lofty thrones, And yet still steal a waxing moon in its palms, and kiss it into my eyesStill yank from orbit the planets And chain them down my vertebrae Give to me the kind of insanity That breathes into my bones The nerve-splitting anxiety, Sings into my veins the watery sadness, Then exhales the purple into lavender, Stomps the green into olive, Whispers the samplings into maples Let the world consume meexhume me, From this urban placidity, And drag me into the burning unknown
...10
Untitled
Jessica Hamm
Untitled
Mohala Kaliebe
...11
What People Think Other People Don’t Notice Micaela Rosen
I didn’t want to buy food that afternoon. It was one of those days where everybody at work had decided to bring in doughnuts for the break room. Newbies always care about being voted “Best Employee of the Month.” Chocolate-glazed, jellyfilled, Boston cream. Yesterday the T.V. told me that the Red Sox played at Fenway Park. Then the commentator said that the Russian Communist Party seems to be experiencing a revival. I was feeling peckish, but not hungry. I didn’t want to eat necessarily, but no other option sounded more appealing. I got in my car, turned on the radio, and let news of the water crisis and the gas leak crisis and the coal ash crisis flow in one ear and out the other. All I heard was intermittent exclamations such as “death-inducing!” and “cancer-causing!” and “kitten-friendly!” I pulled in at a place that specialized in free samples and coffee-flavored beverages. It would be sufficient for my needs. I ordered a coffee, black. I was too lazy to read through the chalk-written list of fancy Italian names. I eyed a basket of bread and decided to take six samples. Only the pieces with the highest crust-to-crumb ratio. I held five in my mouth and slathered the last with a massive mound of pimento cheese that dwarfed the bread. The cheese appeared to float above my fingertips. Did anybody notice me? I tiptoed to a corner table, balancing coffee and bread and cheese in hands and mouth and fingertips. There was a kind of excitement in this. I opened my laptop to a blank Word document and changed the font to Times New Roman, 12-point, doublespaced. I typed: “Once upon a time.” I was in the mood to be a fairytale author. Shifting my attention towards my bounty, I laid out the pieces of bread to form a perfect brown circle around the interior heap of orange cheese. I was reminded of a flower. The sun. A Kandinsky painting. My arrangement of the bread seemed to emit something deeper, something meaningful. The slightly crumpled napkins. The hint of a permanent lipstick stain on the rim of a mug that contained a steaming yet tepid coffee-colored beverage. It all exuded the air of a scene slightly deliberate yet accidental, the perfect moment to be captured by iPhone, filtered to black and white, and delivered to the world as the forty-two million, four hundred eightyfive thousand, nine hundred sixth Instagram post with the hashtag #coffee. I procured from my outer coat pocket the disposable fork and knife I keep stashed for occasions such as these. I spread cheese onto bread, onto tongue, onto nose and eyelash and every place where cheese isn’t supposed to go. I wiped my nose on a napkin, then wiped my fingers on the same napkin. They say we’re supposed to protect the environment. I cut each sandwich precisely in half, fork piercing through cheese piercing through bread. Did anybody notice me? Small bites interspersed with small sips interspersed with small bursts of typing: “The prince offered her a ruby-red rose. She held the stem daintily between its thorns, her blond hair cascading down to conceal her blushing cheeks.” I was in the mood to be a fairytale author. A generic woman walked in, her clothes labeled “Target” and “J.C. Penny.” She picked up a bread sample, eating quickly, chewing precisely four times before swallowing. She developed an automatic process: select bread sample from basket, making sure to touch at least three surrounding pieces; pop entire piece in mouth, no matter the size; chew precisely four times; swallow, or rather, gulp; repeat. After nine cycles, she exited the store. Did anybody notice her? Nine samples times four chews per sample equals 36 chews. I looked down at my watch. 5:33. Time to pick Archie up from band practice. I looked at my computer. 5:29. Four more minutes before it was time to pick Archie up from band practice. I uploaded my Word document to the Cloud, grateful that my work would be stored forever with the click of a button. But what is this Cloud? When did the word “cloud” become a proper noun? And is it a cumulonimbus or an altostratus? Does the Cloud rain PDFs and JPEGs instead of water? I closed my computer, brushed crumbs off my chin, and stood up. On my way out, I sidled up to the basket of cake samples, squirreling cubes of chocolate raspberry and cinnamon streusel into my napkin-lined coat pocket. The cheeks of the boy next to me were bursting with yellow cake mush. Partially-chewed chocolate spewed onto my pants. I exited through the entrance. If one exits through the entrance, is one entering rather than exiting? I got into the car and drove, mindlessly. I drove behind gray cars and green cars and Hondas and Hyundais. I changed lanes to drive between a run-down pick-up truck and a red Porsche convertible. Driving is the great equalizer. All cars use the same roads. All cars get you to the same place. All cars are stocked with dental floss and out-of-date maps and stale chocolate covered mints. I stopped at a red light and checked my rearview mirror. They say to check your mirrors every now and then. I watched the man in the car behind me. He held tweezers in his right hand. He was plucking his face of stray eyebrow hairs, stray flecks of skin, stray bits of dried snot. I watched the heap of human detritus grow. Did he realize that somebody noticed him? I pulled up in front of the middle school where Archie plays trumpet every Tuesday. Sometimes on Monday. Never on Thursday. The dashboard read 6:04. 26 minutes early. Good, I thought. Archie told me to come early.
...12
I decided to listen to the band instead of waiting in the car. I took a seat next to the tubas, which were located across from the bassoons and perpendicularly from the oboes. The band sounded like a kitchen avalanche, copper pots hitting cast iron frying pans shattering glass plates. Mixed with the sound of a dying cat, a vomiting infant, and a triangle ringing over and over again. A pretty typical, mediocre middle school ensemble. I scanned the rows looking for Archie. He’s so small I always miss him in a crowd. Finally I found him standing there, trumpet to his lips, seemingly blowing his chops off. At least he looked like he was blowing his chops off. It’s always hard to tell with middle-schoolers. The band instructor began to sermonize and the boys all slumped in their seats, eyes glazed over and instruments limp. My attention paused on a scruffy-haired trombone player in the second row. He was biting his nails. Not a nail. All of his nails. At once. I was transfixed. I had never seen anyone bite his nails so voraciously, so incessantly, for so long. Did he realize that somebody noticed him? Fingers replaced by trombone replaced by fingers. He brushed off his tongue so as not to ingest too much nail. Repulsive, yet riveting. I realized why I usually wait in the car. In front of the nail-biter sat an obsessive phone-checker. Illuminated by artificial light, the obsessive phone-checker scrolled through his Twitter feed while emitting reedy, yet not entirely displeasing, honks. One thumb resting on cold brass, one thumb moving up and down on glass screen. When the lick required maximum concentration, the boy stashed his phone under his crotch. His penis quivered against the iPhone 6S Plus, aroused by the continual vibration of incoming messages and alerts. Did the band instructor notice him? Did the boy notice himself? The room suddenly fell silent, except for the scuffling of chairs and the zipping of instrument cases. The stark contrast between the pandemonium of 6:29 and the hush of 6:30 was discombobulating. I waited for Archie by the door. He walked out first and led me to the car. I turned on the engine and backed out of the parking spot. I checked my side mirrors. The radio turned on: “Children are beginning to exhibit coughs, flu-like symptoms, and a craving for Good Humor Strawberry Shortcake Bars.” The radio turned off. “Do you like ice cream?” I asked Archie, trying to fill the radio’s void. “Sometimes.” He paused. “You should know that. You’re my dad.” “You told me that fathers have to pick their sons up early from band practice. You never told me that fathers have to know whether or not their sons like ice cream.” “Fathers have to know everything. That’s why we call God ‘Our Father.’ Because he knows everything.” “Only Google knows everything.” “Google doesn’t know how many times I’ve pissed today.” “Do you know how many times you’ve pissed today?” “Babies piss ten times a day.” “Are you a baby?” “Everyone’s a baby compared to someone else.” “Google says that the term ‘baby’ can be applied to a child between the ages of zero and two years old.” “Google doesn’t know everything.” Cumulous clouds gave way to altostratus, altostratus to cumulonimbus. At home I went straight to bed. I didn’t want to eat food that night. I turned on the radio and let the news flow in one ear and out the other. I buried myself under the covers, head and feet and elbows and fingernails. Clipped, not bitten. I fell asleep to the lullaby sounds of knife cutting through steak, fork piercing through potato. Did anybody notice me?
...13
Untitled Cat Cobb
...14
Untitled
Julia Gong One night, my sister was sitting in her room, when my mom came by to ask us what we wanted for dinner. Consumed in her texting (probably to her boyfriend), she didn’t respond when my mom knocked at the door. So my mom asks, “what do you want for dinner?” She says, “mmmm.” My mom asks her again, “I’m taking that as pizza?” Again, my sister says, “mmmm.” Seeing as she didn’t really know what she was agreeing to, my mom inquired again. “So, to confirm, that’s raw octopus with a side of anchovies?” And to my absolute amusement, she says, “mmmm”. Let’s just say her stomach didn’t fare well the next day. Although this story is utterly impossible, because one, octopi are expensive, are you kidding me? And two, well, it just didn’t happen, this occurs to everyone on a regular basis. Whether at school, at work, or at home, we just don’t have the desire to listen to other people. And, for the most part, we’ve ignored it. But as it turns out, listening to others may be a sound skill worth talking about. First, we’ll switch keys, and talk about the difference between hearing and listening. Then, I’ll pitch to you the positives and negatives of listening and talking. And finally, we can tune into a balance between listening and talking that certainly paid off. Ever hear from your parents, “You’re not LISTENING to me…it’s going in one ear, and out the other”? Ha, well, my sister sure did. Yes, I know. We’ve all been there. But the distinction our parents make between listening and hearing is, on its most basic level, true. According to the Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy, the act of hearing is the perception of sound, the “direct or indirect objects of audition” without necessary comprehension. This perception is, in layman’s terms, better described as a sense, an anatomical fact. But what we often don’t realize is this biological fact, hearing, doesn’t automatically qualify us to be listeners. Dr. Seth Horowitz, an auditory neuroscientist at Brown University, writes that the key difference “between the sense of hearing and the skill of listening is attention”. Essentially, listening is active hearing, or, hearing with purpose. In many cases, it is quite possible we heard others’ words, but did not actively process what they had to say. However, just as we can hear without listening, we often listen with purpose, but not necessarily effectively. Author Stephen Covey, in his book The 7 Habits of Highly Effective People, wrote “most people do not listen with the intent to understand; they listen with the intent to reply.” Or, in the case of our parents, to scream back. But listening with the intent to reply is actually not effective at all. The Harvard Business Review explains this mode of listening causes our brain to work with “hundreds of words in addition to those that we hear, assembling thoughts other than those spoken to us.” We are thinking of our own words, not listening to theirs. So, although we have established a purpose, we have not established a purpose that fosters thoughtful interaction. Listening with the wrong purpose, for all it’s worth, becomes as primitive as hearing. The master of listening identifies an effective purpose, whether empathetic or constructive, and respects another’s words as if they are their own. You may not know this, but octopi and anchovies make a literally KILLER combination. As it so happens, so do listening and a good life. Let’s begin with a DEAFENING statistic: we are distracted about 75% of the time when we should be listening, says the International Listening Association. Yes, it exists, and yes, they conduct tons of research on listening. The association explains one of the most obvious benefits of listening is it helps us avoid misunderstandings. You know, the little ones that only happen 75% of the time. For example, by listening, we can avoid being the person who asks “What time should we arrive?” a few minutes after the teacher says, “Be here at 7:00 SHARP!” Listening carefully to others makes us more respectful people, and others will appreciate that. And the benefits don’t stop there. As it turns out, the more we listen, the more we are liked. In 2010, the Journal of Experimental Social Psychology found that people who expressed “interest in their conversation partner’s viewpoint”, or listened attentively, were more likely to be chosen for future dialogs. In daily life, this ‘choosing for future dialogs’ leads to job opportunities, social status, friendships, and more. The simple act of listening, whether in a job interview, at the dinner table, or over the phone with our BFFs, implicitly but greatly impacts our reputations. By mastering the art of listening, we make ourselves better people. That being said, strictly listening may not be such a great idea, either. In American culture, talking inherently embodies dominance. Those who speak instead of listen get more immediate rewards. Dr. Kristi Pikiewicz of the American Psychological Association notes “From an early age…listening becomes culturally associated with…deference and obedience.” “To listen means…to heed a warning or to comply with a directive” rather than to understand. In our society, listening too much to others makes us seem weak. Listening too much makes us seem incapable. Most of all, listening without talking makes us nonexistent. And in an office meeting where you’re trying to get a promotion, simply listening without providing ideas of your own will definitely backfire. The key to success is a balance between talking and listening—so, what I like to call tistening.
...15
I’d like to share one of the most inspirational movements I’ve seen—no, not like the one my sister suffered—I mean a social movement. Humans of New York, an extremely popular Facebook page and blog site, was first started by Brandon Stanton, and has really caught on with a lot of people around the globe. Stanton goes around the streets of New York interviewing strangers he meets, takes their picture, and asks them to share their life story with him, in hopes of allowing silent voices to be heard. He has interviewed Syrian refugees, the homeless, the posh, the young, the old, and pretty much anyone! Stanton has already gained millions of followers and has even published a few books on the subject, and has more support than ever. But what does Humans of New York have to do with tistening? In a recent interview with Good Morning America, Stanton attributes the candid responses he receives from strangers to having a listener who has no preconceived notions. Having a listener who isn’t judgmental and can empathize with their sorrows, pains, and worries. As he says, you know, “there’s something liberating about that”. That’s it. Humans of New York is the incarnation of tistening. During each interview, Stanton always finds a way for the interviewee to fully express themselves. The interview is not about asking them questions; it’s about hearing their answers. This shift in perspective that Brandon brings to journalism has transformed the way we see interpersonal interaction, and we can learn much from his style of talking in order to listen—rather than listening in order to talk. The best part about Humans of New York is, when Brandon posts these stories on Facebook, thousands of replies of encouragement always flood in. Let me tell you—this is tistening at its finest. As we tune back into our daily lives, let’s not forget the nuances we’ve examined today. By switching keys and thinking from a different perspective, we realized the difference between hearing and listening. Then, we were pitched the pros and cons of listening and talking, finally realizing that a balance of both is needed to be at our best. And, if you need some motivation—octopi don’t taste so good.
...16
We the People Eesha Sachdeva
We, the people, Of the United States of America United by the country we exist in United by the places we call home United by the faces we encounter As we drink in our star-spangled surroundings. We, the people With bright eyes, calloused hands and sincere hearts, Each of us overflowing with stories to be told, And eagerly anticipating those to be heard. We are united in warmth Engulfing us like a wool coat being draped across our broad shoulders, Stretching from sea to shining sea. As the cool moonlight reflects off of the balmy waves, And the black midnight sky threatens to send us into shattering oblivion, The glittering stars of our flag make their presence known.
The River
Justin Reich The knife slices through the earth Cutting through the forests and meadows They stand on the fallen, the tree sprawled across the Trickling stream that dribbles down the countryside into a mighty river The infant river is gagged and bound, Turning by the will of the rocks and foliage around it The mature flow free and strong, Carving its own path with precision and power The more earth it traverses The more the world takes its shape, The more the world adheres to its demands The natural neon sign, commanding attention It learns each day, Experience growing, the ways of the woods are ingrained in its path The animals that replenish life from it The trees that sprout about its banks It is the caretaker, the mother of the wilderness The more the river provides life The farther it gets from its source The farther it gets From that little trickling stream Changed And changing.
...17
Forgotten Strength, A Lyric Jessica Hamm I wake up in the morning to find the same old thing People brushing past me, pushing me down like I’m nothing They think I’m different, strange, a monster Just because of my hometown, I’m someone to alter Don’t forget, they think I’m too dumb to spell And that when I get older, I’m sure to be in jail cell So here I stand, with my life crumbling in front of me “Will someone come and save me?” That is my plea For now, I’m the poster child for society’s ‘problem’ I don’t think they realize that with money, I’d blossom But they don’t, so I go to school with my books falling apart Somedays, I’m sure they have no care in their stone hearts For they turn their heads to look away at the chaos made Not recognizing things would be different if they gave some aid So here I stand, with my life crumbling in front of me “Will someone come and save me?” That is my plea When will I wake up from this nightmare that I’m living? I swear that each night I’m praying for some forgiving Even though I’d did nothing wrong, here I am to confess For each day, I’m afraid of getting shot and add on to the mess Now, I understand, there’s nothing to change in the first place That I should just leave things be, stay quiet, and keep my space So here I stand, with my life crumbling in front of me “Will someone come and save me?” I no longer plea
Home Margaret Velto A lover I once had was like a stone. Constantly cold and forever unamused, they seemed an unlikely candidate, but despite all of this, they made me feel at home. Soon, the cold was overwhelming, and the darkness never left. That home I once had became a house. When that home burned, a new one grew from its ashes like a phoenix. This one was stronger. The light stayed on longer, but batteries die, and electricity bills were forgotten, and just like before, the darkness came and never left. Just like before, the home I once had became a house. A new one came in an unexpected way. Despite being a bit of a fixer-upper, the potential thrived. It took time to fall in love with the house, but you learn that flaws are meant to be loved. The warmth never left, and the darkness never came. The house someone once had became a home. My home.
...18
15 Short Poems—Unrelated Evan Ehrhardt
Winner of the Literature Magaine Poetry Competition 1. The lake glows gold this time of year. Yellow trees. Amber sky. 2. I remembered you the way the sea remembers waves. You came and went But were always there. 3. There’s no place like home Isn’t true. Home is people. 4. Gold and yellow used to be my favorite colors. I don’t hate them now But I do try not To think of them. 5. How would one find the end of a golden lake But move the water elsewhere. How can I find the end of my golden lake But move my water elsewhere. 6. I was locked in a room of ten thousand keys with only one lock. You were locked in a room of ten thousand locks with only one key. 7. Home is people.
...19
8. How would one find the base of a yellow tree But tear it out at its roots. How can I find the base of our yellow tree But move the water elsewhere. 9. Home was us. Before the rooms of keys and locks. Before the tree and lake. Home was us. 10. The lake is beautiful this time of year. I wish I had excuses not to know. 11. You are in a box called home with ten thousand locks. I am locked out, trying to fit my ten thousand keys while golden waves steal them away. 12. Home is not a yellow tree. 13. Home is not a golden lake. 14. Home is not us.
Untitled
Tommy Baker
Untitled
Pauline Pauwels
...20
Untitled
Micaela Rosen
...21
What is happiness? Anonymous Happiness is the ultimate state of mind, the highest achievement of mortality. Happiness is the goal that some strive for with leaps of confidence. Others edge towards as if the jump spans a chasm. They don’t see the other side, only the cliff’s edge. The gaping hole. One you cannot climb out of.
They told me happiness is finding myself. So I became obsessed with who I am.
Forms and passports and doctor’s appointments. Blood tests and blood types and the color of my skin. The people I like. The gender I choose to be. Finding yourself will make you happy, but then why do all these descriptions fill me with dread? Discrimination and the fear of being judged and the sense of being lost. Alone. On a whole other world. I crave for a stereotype I will never have. I yearn for a community that doesn’t want me. Doesn’t need me. Doesn’t know I exist. The color of my skin says I belong here, but the way I talk and the music I like and the places my parents came from tells me something else. Forever caught in between lands. Forever floating in water, never finding the right shore. They say happiness comes with learning who you are. With taking the steps to understanding what fits you. Well I took those steps, those treks down steep roads that led straight to the cliff’s edge. And I hit that cliff edge the second I heard “don’t act like that, people will think you are gay.” Because sometimes I don’t understand the female community even though they say that’s what I have to be. And sometimes the skirt they tell me I have to wear to that concert feels like a cage. Sometimes I want to sit with my legs open without caring what’s between them and what it says about me. But still I am caught within the void. Without a home. Because I like my curves and I like the way I look in the mirror. I don’t want permanent scars where breasts used to be and a body without hips. I want to be muscular but not unrecognizable. I don’t want to pick a side. And what does that even say about who I like? Because that question alone has caused me enough anxiety to last a life time. Because when that teacher asked me why I was holding that girl’s hand, a whole new kind of panic seized my chest and the silent urge to run crept into my legs. Run. Running sets you free. Running takes you far away from the things that give you anxiety and aches at night and pain in your chest and oh god, there’s another label I have to find. Because suddenly I wake up and I don’t like the person I see in the mirror. I don’t like the bags under their eyes that reflect how little they sleep and the shaking in their arms because they haven’t eaten in two days. Not because they want to transform into this stick of a human being, but simply because they don’t deserve to. Don’t deserve the rewards. Don’t deserve happiness.
Understanding yourself will bring you happiness. Well understanding myself has brought me to hell.
...22
Searching into the late hours of the night with unrelenting end because I have to figure out why I feel like this. What is wrong with my head. It wasn’t always like this. Was it? I don’t know, the gray tint that has recently covered my vision has blocked out any sunlight from the past. So I search on and on, ignoring the time as it tells me I have only two hours to sleep. It doesn’t matter. I don’t sleep anyways. And if I do, I will wake up the same. Depressed. Or maybe bipolar. Or maybe with PTSD. All these words and definitions and explanations, ridden with symptoms and causes and treatments. And none of them fit me yet all of them do. I have the crippling urge to be alone. Stay alone. Live alone. Hide my face and my mind and myself from everyone who walks down the hallways. Everyone who said they would be there for me and never were. I have the urge to see my blood even though I know it will hurt, leave a scar even, because now it’s the only thing I can control. The only thing that gives me a rush besides the rush of dread I feel on those days where I have slept and have to rise to another day full of nothing. Nothing. Emptiness. Sometimes I feel emptiness. And maybe that’s okay. Emptiness doesn’t bring you happiness but neither does this hole in my chest, gnawing away at the rest of my being. Emptiness is better than the hatred I fell towards myself. So I search for permanent emptiness. And it seems the only permanent emptiness is through death. I knew I was better than this once upon a time, eons ago. I don’t understand what has happened to myself, even when they say that it’s just a disorder. Just a trick of the mind, a temporary one even. But I know what that really means. Things happened in my life that I was too weak to understand, too weak to cope with, and so I broke. I had nothing to eat so my mind began eating itself. Temporary? I will make it more than temporary. The weak do not deserve happiness. The weak are a waste. And that is what I am. The final label. A waste. Happiness is so much more complicated than a simple achievement. Happiness can’t be found through labels. Happiness will never come from understanding oneself. So instead, happiness became the girl who holds my hand and tells me I am worth her time. That none of those things that I try to define myself by matter to her. Happiness became the boy I’ve known for nearly half my life, who puts an uncontrollable smile on my face for reasons I can’t explain. Happiness became the face of the child who I can only see for minutes a day, but whose eyes light up whenever she sees mine. I don’t understand why, but they do. Happiness is temporary, a feeling found in the spur of a moment, kind of like the disorder they keep giving as the reason for why I have a hard time feeling it now. Happiness became the song that tells me how I feel in a way that no doctor can. Even if the words are distressed and the voice is cracking and the key is minor. And through those songs and through the boy and the girl and the child, I get more than just the official report of who I am. I learned that my disorder is not an exception, and my sexuality is not an excuse, and maybe gender is just a continuum in my eyes but that’s okay. And as I took my first real leap across the chasm, over the cliff’s edge, it became clear to me that anyone can find oneself, but not everyone can accept oneself. But I think, maybe that’s the only way to find happiness. Even if it is only temporary.
...23
Untitled
Maddie Mizelle
...24
Untitled
Maddie Mizelle
...25
A Murdered Heart, A Free Verse Jessica Hamm
When I lost you I lost myself It felt like my heart had been ripped out And shattered in a split second Now I struggle to breathe And the tears don’t stop running I ask myself every second, What did I do wrong? Was I not pretty enough? Smart enough? Loving enough? For I thought we would last forever.
Thinking about moving on? Impossible. We had created our future together The wedding by the beach The house we would buy The kids we would have All now the sweet dreams of our imagination So here I sit in my room Box of tissues reading all the texts we sent Who knew things would be like this? Our dreams? Blurred by the harshness of reality. Our love? Crushed under the weight of the world. So please, come back and fix the mess that was made.
What was it something I said? I remember telling you I loved you everyday And you always did the same. We would send each other off with a kiss A, "I'll miss you" and a "good night, sweet dreams" Now I just go home all alone
Untitled
Jessica Hamm
...26
The Gift
Kate Dudek We used to sit and watch the stars fall behind A broken down bike-shed. Last Year you said love like it hurt to Stay quiet. I fell With you While we looked up at death.
Looking Back, A Ballad
You used to say you'd never die Because there was so much you'd leave behind. You would spread your arms wide and you Would shout at the sky that you would be the last Broken thing left in the universe. Stars fell But you didn't want to. We would clasp hands and look up, two Souls locked together. Death Was a distant thing and falling Was not something we did. Behind Laughs we'd hide worries because worries last And you liked to pretend they didn't matter to you. Gifts were your favorite thing to give and you Did it well. Catching stars in your hands to Give to the lone man, another last Broken thing, not wanting to die. And with your hair tucked behind Your ear you balanced and never fell.
Jessica Hamm
Strolling down the streets, The only sound was our heartbeats. I could hear no people telling us we aren’t wise, Or see them giving us stares out of their judging eyes, “Too young”, they used to tell us. Remember, how we would fight them and cause a ruckus? For we never believed our love was too weak To shatter in our faces after only one weel. Instead, our love grew through the years, Much to the surprise of our peers. We showed them the affection in our hearts wasn’t fake Nor was it a charade or a measly mistake. We realizzed that we’re not too young, That love wasn’t just some word from my mother’s tongue. Because now that I’m here in your embrace, My love, I can only see your smiling face.
Your favorite were the stars falling Fast because you thought you'd Be able to catch them if you ran quick enough. Hide them behind Clutched hands and throw them back to Where you thought they were meant to be. Death Was not something you wanted to last. And as the last Broken thing in the universe you were never meant to fall. Living was to be your legacy and death What you ran from. When we sat behind The bike sheds, two souls too Scared to die, the universe bended just for you. Watch me fall; it's my gift to you. Stars don't last because you want them to. They burn and die and leave you behind.
...27
Self-portrait
Michelle Schwartz
...28
The End of August Lauren McCoppin
It’s a honeysuckle night, And the fireflies are rattling like snare drums, Or coins in a tin can. Sun skirts the horizon; we are not night nor day. Dusk caught like dust in your eyelashes. Tears caught in mine. Not together, nor apart. The last light broken mirror. The last night in this fever. It’s a honeysuckle night. You nurse the hot air, Swallow your dose of silence Goodbye comes sharp as a bee sting. This is what falling out of love feels like; Sharp as an inhale. Breathe out and release Everything you were too damn scared to say. Is it even an end if it tastes like bubblegum? Last kiss candied as the first. It’s a honeysuckle night. The black river beyond has flooded; It seeps through the sky now. You, child of pride Will save your birthright over all else. Decided this thing is too just much for you. This thing you call love Only when it’s too dark to see my eyes. You. Can only watch as The pale, clear, butterflies laugh To their places in the sky; Pin themselves down; Their twinkle wings finally sleep. I close my eyes, Imagine that we could turn constellation. Let little lights guide us home. You are tying worries to wishes, Launching them at stars, Hoping to knock one loose like a baby tooth. Wishes only go so far.
...29
With other lovers Goodbye has always slammed like a car door, Has always bruised, Always cursed. Goodbye has always burnt the throat. Never gone down without a fight. Still, your syrup whispers catch in my teeth. It’s a honeysuckle night. Neither asleep nor awake, As the sun returns from war. We are wearied soldiers Showing up late to the surrender. This, a dream that cannot fare the day. This, a song heard underwater. This, is what falling out of love feels like. And as the taillights fade, You will suck in this bubblegum ending, This honeysuckle night. Enjoy that you felt this fleeting warmth at all. Years from now, When this sugar coated memory Is glued sticky to a bar top. My name will be nothing but a toothache to you. This honeysuckle night Will remain Sweet as summer In my mind.
Untitled
Jessica Hamm
...30
A Verbal Vow
Julianne Cinoman “You make your living watching people fall out of love. You draw up George RR Martin length contracts, you always argue ‘their side of the story’, and for as long as I’ve known you you’ve carried around the most expensive pen I’ve ever seen and the only time it’s ever used is when your clients finally ‘sign on the dotted line’.” He bought that pen the day he graduated law school. I remember how we went out to dinner to celebrate, just me and him. We sipped a bottle of too-sweet red wine at a restaurant we couldn’t afford. After, we danced tipsy in the street to the swinging melody of an old man with a saxophone playing jazz for nothing but pocket change. I remember how he took my hand and swept me down the street, my dress billowing softly in the summer moonlight. We stumbled through the door of an antique stationary shop, door chiming softly behind us. He asked the old man at the front desk to see his finest pens, and the man silently pulled out a box of classic wood varnished fountain pens. He choose the sleek red-brown pen, and paid with money we didn’t have. Picking it up, he clipped it to the inside of his breast pocket, claiming that he was then ‘officially’ a lawyer. From that day on the only time I’ve ever seen him remove it from the breast pocket of his work suit is when his clients are finally ready to sign. I’ve watched him come to resent that pen; to hate it for its very purpose. To him, that pen is the final decision to end a marriage, to give up on someone once loved dearly enough to bind their life to. “I’ve watched you slowly lose faith in the sacredness of marriage. I’ve seen you come home exhausted and worn out, desperately questioning why you choose to help those who want nothing more than to hurt. You’ve asked me with pleading eyes and a broken heart how people can fight over petty possessions while they’re fighting to destroy the most sacred love they’ve ever had.” He came home late one night, eyes clouded with a watery sheen that could mean nothing other than that he’d been drinking. He tiredly tossed his suit over the back of a chair, collapsing onto our bed, head in hands. When I’d asked him what was wrong, he shook his head and looked into my soul. He told me that he had watched a couple that morning fight over who would get to keep the house, only to in the afternoon argue over who wouldn’t have to take care of the child. There was nothing I could do to mend his splintering heart except hold him close and try to keep his shattered pieces together. “I’ve also seen you glow with absolute pride for your work. I’ve always been amazed at how your face lit up with utter glee after changing a life. You’ve helped children stay with loving parents, you’ve helped mend broken households, and I’ve even seen you save lives. I am in love with the man who comes home worn down by the hopelessness of modern marriage, and I am in love with the man who goes right back to work the next morning, convinced that if he can save just one person, that would make the job worth it.” I’ll never forget seeing him beam with pride for the woman strong enough to leave her abusive husband, brave enough to win sole custody of her young child. He came home and swept me into his arms, happier than I had seen him in weeks. He smiled and asked me if I wanted to go for a walk in the park. Grabbing my hand, he led me down the street, laughter crisp in the autumn air. I stared at him as he paid for steaming coffee from a local stand, and I noticed how his frown lines had become permanent pleats in his once-smooth skin. Years in court had hardened his mouth into a politely neutral expression, and seeing him so open was almost bittersweet. “You told me once that you didn’t think that you could bear to ever get married; watching so many marriages ruined had caused you to lose belief in the sanctity of marriage, and you couldn’t imagine watching that happen to us. Marriage had become a curse, divorce the inevitable end to every love story.”
...31
With something akin to disgust, he shook his head and told me how it had struck him today how many people still fell in love with faces and not souls, and how so much love seemed to end once the beauty was gone. He pushed microwave-warmed meatloaf across his plate, and I didn’t know what I could say or do to help. Before I could do anything, he stood slowly, leaving his food uneaten on his plate. I stared helpless at the table as I heard the shower start upstairs. Tears burned behind my eyes as I mourned the slow burning hopelessness that grew after every late night and long day. I was beginning to fear that I was losing the ambitious man that I had fallen in love with, left with nothing but a jaded shell of his soul. “I was so afraid I was losing you to the horrors of your job, afraid that you would drown in work, losing yourself in the process. So I held my breath and took a leap of faith. I proposed to you. I told you that we weren’t those couples that you see in the courtroom. I love you for your heart and soul, and I always will. I’ve stuck with you through the worst of times, and I promise you that that won’t change, whether we’re married or not. And do you remember what you said to me? You told me that I was like nobody you’d ever met, so of course we wouldn’t end up like your clients. And you said yes. You, who have been tainted by watching divorce after divorce tear couples apart, agreed to get married. To me. And I love you for that bravery as much as I love you for your soul.” I was so scared to propose. I was shaking so visibly that he was concerned I was too cold, even though it was nearing the start of summer. We circled our neighborhood lake, stomachs full with pizza from the local Italian restaurant. We were nearing the beginning of the path when I finally gathered enough courage to take a knee. Vibrating with nervousness, I slipped my hand into my purse, pulling out a small velvet box with unsteady hands. Voice cracking, I started my well-rehearsed speech. I stared nervously at his face, watching carefully as his expressions changed with each passing emotion. When I finished my piece, I waited with growing unease as he stood speechless. He blinked, and with sudden animation, he smiled. A moment later he said yes, pulled me off the ground and kissed me with a passion I hadn’t seen since the day he graduated Law school. When I slipped the ring on his finger, my own still bare, I knew with plain surety that I had made the right decision, and that I was marrying the right man. “So I do. I promise, as your wife, to love you for all of eternity.” His love spills softly down his face, leaving tracks of unbridled emotion on display. We’re standing in the colorful stained glass pattern painted across the church floor, baring our souls to our families and friends. The church we’re standing in isn’t the church where his parents married so many decades ago, as they had divorced when he was only 11, nor is it the church where my sister was wedded three years before, since she’s been divorced for a year and a half. No, this is the church three blocks from our apartment that I walk past every week when I visit my husband-to-be at work. I’ve passed it countless times on the way to his office, wondering how many of his clients had been married inside, unknowing that their end would come just a couple years later in the divorce court down the street. So, today I stand inside that very church and make a vow. I promise to him, and I promise to myself that our marriage won’t end in a courtroom, I won’t ever have to use the most expensive pen I’ve ever seen. Most importantly, I vow that I won’t ever fall out of love.
...32
Untitled
Pauline Pauwels
Untitled
Sarah Godwin
...33
Untitled Anonymous
The truth is the un-seeable is so terrifying because un-seeable means un-fixable. That’s what it is. Unfix-
able. You’re unfixable. Unattainable translates to perfection in our small human minds, and somehow the world seems so small to you. The world seems too small and you’re in a bubble. You are self-isolated. Because that’s easier I suppose. Thinking you’re alone is better than knowing you’re in fact incredibly miniscule. Incredibly. Alone. Because miniscule has a certain comfort to it. But it’s sad. It kills me. Because everyone has a selfish mind. Despite your unimportance, you have the guts to say you’re alone. You have the guts to be sad. You’re alone and you get all messed up about it, when there are so many other lonely islands of people in the world. The world may seem small to you to your small human mind, but what’s even worse is its true magnitude. Because you can feel sorry for yourself, but you don’t even matter. There’s a sense of guilt in that. There’s a sense of guilt in self-worth. And that’s what makes you so damn unfixable. Can’t you see? You’re the one that’s different. It doesn’t matter if you’re right because the world is a bully and even though there are millions of lonely islands, that doesn’t mean that’s all there is. Self-worth equals guilt. Because you’re defective and you need help, and god these words get thrown around and god your mind is filling up. And maybe they’re right maybe you’re defective, and it doesn’t matter if you’re right or if you’re real or if you’re the one that sees the truth. It doesn’t matter at all. Because that doesn’t make you okay. And you’re the one that’s self-isolated. You’re the one on an island. And it seems messed up doesn’t it. It seems messed up that even more than unattainable, ignorant equals perfection. Ignorant. The realizations you’re having about the world don’t make you enlightened. Maybe they do. But that enlightenment isn’t good. It’s world changing, all encompassing, and god it fills your mind up. Your mind seems so. Incredibly. Flooded. And you’re so damn un-fixable. And guilty. And you deserve the hits you take because you’re the one that’s messed up and you’re the one that’s un-fixable, and god how do you deal with this and god this is getting messy. You want to scream and fight it but you’re on an island. And you’re alone. And who is even here to hear you? Un-seeable means un-fixable and yes. I guess that’s you. I guess that’s me. I guess it’s all the lonely islands, because when no one hears your screams what’s the point? You are unfixable and miniscule, and you are horribly, awfully enlightened and your head is full of water and you wish things were how they used to be, god you wish that. You are surrounded by small human minds and they don’t understand and they’re ignorant and they see you but at the same time they’re so damn blind. God it makes you feel messy, god it fills your head up. You’re un-fixable.
...34
For You, A Ballade Jessica Hamm
I hate watching these tears stream For I know your smile can shine oh so bright Come here, so I can make it beam I’m here in shining armor, your knight Ready to face anything that lurks in the night I know that any battle, we’ll make it through Because no matter what, I’ll make sure you’re alright Darling even if you’re far away, I’ll be there for you I hate seeing you in pain, or hearing you scream Run into my arms, I’ll protect you and hold you tight I’m here to turn that nightmare into a dream Even if I have to stay up until the break of daylight I’ll watch over you and scare off any fright Because seeing you safe is the best view And my heart begins to soar and take flight Darling even if you’re far away, I’ll be there for you You should know that we make a great team For your happiness fills my day with unquenchable delight I know you might be scared, and difficult it may seem But there’s a spark in me, that when I see you, it ignites To make you happy, and protect you will all my might While there is distance between us, we’ll stay true Because I’ll comfort you through the words I’ll write Darling even if you’re far away, I’ll be there for you Even through your darkest nights, I’ll be your light Together we’ll stand and fight, just us two Not just for one hour, one week, or just tonight Darling even if you’re far away, I’ll be there for you
...35
Untitled
Pauline Pauwels
Untitled
Meghan Cowen
...36
Bloom where you are planted Vera Wei
...37
The Shining Movie Review Jessica McCoppin
This cinematic thriller, adapted from Stephen King’s novel, The Shining, follows the lives of the Torrance family, as father, Jack Torrance, played by Jack Nicholson, accepts the position of offseason caretaker of the Overlook Hotel. Jack, an aspiring writer, jumps at the opportunity to board himself up in a cavernous mansion for six months to overcome his writer’s block. His impish eyes gleam and menacing smirk widens when imagining such consuming isolation. Jack’s submissive wife, Wendy, played by Shelley Duvall, meekly agrees with her husband’s desires; however, her young son, Danny, played by Danny Lloyd, is rather wary of the Overlook. Danny embodies a psychic essence that conjures ominous visions in his mind – the bodies of twin girls, chopped and mangled, a tsunami of blood flooding out of the Overlook’s elevator doors and drowning the empty halls, the word, “REDRUM”, scrawled upon a door. And as the intense deprivation of normalcy and human interaction gnaw at the cores of the Torrance family, they all succumb to the plague of insanity that the Overlook gleams upon them. The Shining deviates from the typical horror film, as it not only quietly terrorizes its audience, but also evokes the eerie realization that powers beyond our control can infiltrate humanity’s weaknesses and mold us all into monsters. The phenomenal cinematography captivates each viewer by producing the intensity of raw human emotion, the chaos of life, and the fingers of fear that clench your heart in every shot. Specifically, the dollying camera work that inserts the viewer into the body of Jack as he chases after Danny in the maze expresses the genuine experience of running through a snow-covered labyrinth, as the camera shakes as Jack shivers and tilts up and down with each footstep. The shot alternates between the footsteps of little Danny and close ups of Jack’s face, allowing the viewer to feel both the savage need to murder and the frantic need to survive. Jack Nicholson’s acting is equally as impressive as the camera work in the penultimate scene. Jack’s authentic facial expressions expose the horrifying demon that he has become, a portrayal that transcends the television screen. However, the awful rage inside Jack dissipates as he wanders through the maze. The further Jack travels into the maze, the further he loses sense of reality and sanity. This desperateness that overcomes Jack inside the maze needs no words to be understood, as Jack’s crazed stare that scans for his son gives way to frantic glances, and hunched shoulders, and icy lips flaring with each exhausted breath, and the realization that he will be the one to die. The combination of excellent cinematography and acting fuse to reveal the deterioration of a human being and produce the chilling shot of Jack’s frozen, lifeless shell. Throughout The Shining, each camera angle brings about a certain perspective, each perspective unravels the truth about the characters, and each truth exposes the human, emotional core that the film so grotesquely mutilates. The movie details the brutal decline of man. When his work consumes him, when his family frustrates him, when his loneliness turns agonizing, when his life is so dull it becomes overwhelming, a man is reduced to nothing. This theme of the deterioration of a person and all of the qualities that make them human is what’s truly most terrifying about this film, and the possibility that this mental breakdown could happen to anyone at any time makes The Shining even more thrilling.
...38
Landscape in Ecuador Anna Go
...39
Henry David Thoreau claimed that “Olympus is but the outside of the world everywhere”. The godly beauty and splendor of Olympus can be seen in natural landscapes all around the world, and painters do their best to capture those moments in a way that can be shared with those who cannot see them in person. Part of the Hudson River School, a romantic art movement that sought to share American landscapes with the middle class, Louis Rémy Mignot traveled to Ecuador to paint landscapes. Using oil paints, Mignot translated one of his views of the natural world onto canvas through Landscape in Ecuador. Its vibrant colors and meticulous details demonstrate that ideal unity can be achieved through total freedom. The size of humans and other artificial items relative to the landscape itself demonstrates the balance necessary for a positive relationship. The painting features untamed foliage and vast mountain ranges, interrupted only by a small town in the distance and a man with his donkey walking down a barely visible path. The man’s size is comically dwarfed by the trees to his right and left and the white village in the background only catches if the viewers eye if they look for it. There is also a bridge over the body of water in the center of the painting, but it is cast in shadow and, like the man and the village, does not catch the eye of the viewer. Mignot deemphasized the importance of people by making artificial items miniature compared to the natural features. In his painting nature is free and unbridled but the people aren’t stifled by it. There is a sense of comfortable symbiosis; both humans and nature are free to express themselves. The freedom of expression is what creates a unified image; rather than one feature oppressing the other, a balance is struck to create a single landscape. The balance of colors in Landscape in Ecuador also unify the different aspects of the landscape. The man is wearing a red shirt, which would normally be striking against the green background of trees and other plants. However, when superimposed on top of warm browns and small red flowers, the man seems less remarkable. Rather than an intrusion upon nature, he is now just another collection of reds and browns. The bright blue sky is also balanced with the red-toned rocks by the purple mountain range that acts as a transition color. The mountains buffer the sky from the other rocks and make the change in colors flow smoothly. No color is singularly disparate from the others in the piece, giving it a unified color scheme. The cohesive color scheme demonstrates that opposites can be reconciled by compromise; in case of this painting, the stark contrast between red and blue is rectified by purple in between. Those compromise colors can also be compromises between two opposite tenets among people. Everything has an opposite, but finding the metaphorical compromise color can mesh the two. Even if the opposites are literally on top of each other, a balance and unity can still be achieved by finding smaller, more detailed compromises. The focal light source in Landscape in Ecuador draws all the smaller components of the painting together into a unified landscape. In a landscape overflowing with details and miniature images, the major feature that the eye is drawn towards is the sun. Given the appreciative tone of the piece, it appears to be rising over the rocky horizon and casting its light on the center of the painting. It’s almost as if God, or some other deity were smiling down upon the earth at that moment in time, and the beauty of the landscape is amplified by the transcendent light of the sun. This light draws all the different details together into a single snapshot of time. Everything in the unified landscape is free: the mountains, the plants, the water, the birds, the village, the man. However, they are all touched by the godly light coming from the sun, thus demonstrating that what is free is divine. This sacred idea of freedom is central to the painting, and also to America.
When people uphold the belief that freedom is invaluable and should be respected by all, unity is achieved. The United States of America was founded on the idea of freedom, freedom from monarchs, unfair taxes, religious persecution, and slavery. However, not all these freedoms have or are being respected by the government. Mignot painted a Landscape in Ecuador in 1859, only a few years before the Civil War started, and a time during which many Americans were living in slavery. He didn’t see freedom or unity in the United States, so he went to Ecuador to find those ideas in nature. His painting espouses that when nature is free from people, it thrives and its beauty can be appreciated. However, when people oppress other living beings, the beauty in the world lessens. A subtle commentary on slavery and oppression in general, a Landscape in Ecuador implies that total freedom yields unity, and unity yields beauty. That causal relationship is not uniquely American but is universally applicable. If there was a unified effort to preserve the environment, mountains and valleys would no longer be blurred by the fog of pollution. If all people in the world are part of a peacefully unified global civilization, unparalleled sorts of art and music and technologies and innovations that would develop. If all people of are totally free, there can finally by true unity, and only from that true unity will the beauty of life be found.
Untitled
Pauline Pauwels
...40
The Non-Ideal Gas Law Vera Wei
High school has been quite the journey: zeugmas, mitosis, differential equations, and perhaps the most memorable of all, the Ideal Gas Law. Some assumptions that guide this law in chemistry: 1) Gases are composed of a large number of particles behaving like hard, spherical objects in a state of constant, random motion; 2) no force of attraction exists between gas particles; 3) the volume of a gas particle is negligible. To me, the non-ideal gas law seems much more ideal…
A. Graph of Sine Function
B. Graph of the Greatest Integer Function
Slide 1: Don’t randomly change! We have a propensity for change: committing to one club and dabbling in another, choosing one side of a debate and switching to the more “popular” side seconds later…Yet, this sort of oscillation, as rapid and natural as the sine graph’s movement from -1 to 1, doesn’t always come in handy. We start prioritizing productivity over quality, conforming to status quos that constrict our potential within a range. By contrast, the non-ideal gas law allows moratoriums from that constant, ambitious motion. Follow the steps of the greatest integer function, perhaps, as its upward trend allows for breathing room at discontinuities...
...41
Slide 2: Let attractions exist! The Ideal Gas Law highlights the absence of interaction between particles, which holds some truth in the real world as we dedicate most of our energy to work and reserve little for other interests. Belonging to different atoms and elements, we precipitate in some reactions and refuse to function in others. This diversity sometimes curbs the intersection of paths, and our eyes, rather than marveling at minutiae, focus comfortably on the person in the mirror. I believe we benefit the most by looking, instead, beyond the self and interacting with others. With every dialogue, gesture, and sincere attempt to learn about others, our own identities also accumulate more meaning. Be fond of the projects where the teacher gets to randomly select your group members. You’ll end up exploring many more cultures and personalities and find elements to love in each; this sort of accidental learning continually shapes me, a tiny and sidling particle, into one
that seeks purpose…
Slide 3: Believe that you have volume! Find a hobby to utterly fall in love with, and use it as your motivation to grab a microphone or pencil. Through speech or writing or any other non-scientific method, let your voice have more volume than your body could ever muster. When you reach the end, take a risk and omit the conclusion—let your audience have curiosity, have imagination, have a reason to chime in with a volume of their own…
Ode to Shreyas
Jeonghun Lee
Shreyas, the mighty one. Whose name’s origin lies in virtue Leaps from the balconies of the sound booth Ascending to apotheosis with tranquil steps. Shreyas, the omniscient one. Swift with his stylus in math, Cunning with his words in physics, Lays his grace with scholar’s hands. Shreyas, the vocal one. Pouring out the vibratos of his tunes. His voice – liquid gold, The world - his cup. With our ears we toast to his magnificence. Shreyas, the king Running to the adversity outside. Fanning the fire within. Passion follows where his footprints lie.
...42
simit/tornado potato Micaela Rosen
...43
Potato, Potahto Henna Judge
Chips He looks anxiously from one side to the next Beads of sweat dotting his brown And coating the nape of his neck. Distressed He turns and pivots Eyes wild He is alone. His fingers quake And he finds it funny how While he combusts inside Screaming and breaking The world around him continues to bustle. Finally his cushions return to him and he is surrounded once more No longer a lone wolf in a sea of judgement But simply One in a pack of many. Someone picks fun at him Scoffs at him And He breaks. There’s so much air Yet he cannot breathe it in And He breaks. Someone in the distance complains About how they don’t get enough time with him About how he is so thin and shallow About how He breaks So easily. This poem personifies what I believe to be the nature of a chip: thin, fragile, easily broken, always in a pack surrounded by others, and short-lasting. I attempted to convey this in a boy who is overridden by anxiety at the prospect of being out of his “pack”, and portray fragility in his inability to deal with his anxiety and the emotions that he faces.
...44
French Fries “She screamed at me yesterday” “She hugged me goodbye today” “He told me I was his best friend” “He told everyone he hated me” “I hung out with them yesterday, they said they had fun” “I asked them to hang out today” “Tomorrow” “Even the day after” “No no no” “Who, her? She’s amazing” “So sweet” “Told me she loved my shoes” “He’s the nicest guy” “Always asks if I want to play football with him” “He introduced me to his friends” “I love spending time with them” “They tell me how unique I am” “They’re warm and bubbly” “They make me feel good.” “I feel happy.” “She’s a toxic person” “Only let compassion into your life” “Don’t let the haters bring you down” “I don’t feel like myself when I’m with her” “They make me feel bad about myself” French fries, to me, convey a sense of comfort and, in some ways, addiction. They’re delicious and warm but they’re unhealthy and bad for you- they slow you down and are ultimately not the biggest purveyors of health. In this poem, I devote my first stanza to their quick changing nature- how they can transform from a starchy, hard potato, to a soft and crunch French fry in one quick flash fry. In my second stanza, I portray the infatuation we have with French fries, the almost blind love we have for them. In my third, and last, stanza, I convey the toxicity of French fries.
...45
Colorful Thoughts Abby Geigerman
...46
Excerpts from An Elephant in the Bathroom Claire Goray
ACT 1 Scene 1 SETTING: The boys’ bathroom in a high school. Typical sinks and stalls and mirrors, nothing unusual AT RISE: Zelda, 17 years old, is standing in front of the sink furthest from the boys’ bathroom door. She doesn’t look in the mirror, just down at her hands holding the multitude of pills. She doesn’t do a lot, just stares down and breathes steadily. Scott, 17 years old, walks in. He pauses when he sees Zelda, not because she is about to commit suicide, but because she is in the boys’ bathroom. Zelda pauses for a minute and looks at him in a subtle kind of shock. SCOTT Oh, um, it’s okay, I just need to wash my hands. (SCOTT walks over to the sink closest to the door/furthest from ZELDA. He begins to wash his hands.) The guys, you know, like to spread peanut butter on my hands and call me “Peanut Butter and Scott,” which now that I’ve said it out loud is anything but funny… I’m sorry, I’ll leave now. (SCOTT turns off the faucet and gets a paper towel. He turns and looks into the mirror and sees the bottle of pills beside Zelda and her clenched fist. He pauses, again, and turns to her.) But I mean, the guys aren’t all bad. There’s this other guy, Sam, and they spread jelly on his hands and call him “Sam and Jelly.” Which still isn’t that funny. Most days their jokes end up flat as bread… Oh god, that really wasn’t funny. I’m sorry. (SCOTT stops, but looks for ways to essentially stall what ZELDA is trying to do.) So now you know why I am in here. In the boys’ bathroom… because I am a guy… And this is kind of the logical, um— ZELDA I mean, I guess, I’m just in here because you know how no guys ever seem to use the bathroom. And it’s just better… SCOTT Yeah, no, I get that. Girls always seem to travel in packs to the bathroom, like they are on the hunt for a good toilet. (SCOTT stops talking, realizing how horrible this is going and looks down, laughs a little in embarrassment.) I’m really, really, really sorry. I’ve been in here for less than three minutes and I resort to talking about toilets. It might be a little obvious I’m not too thrilled about going back out there and being called “Peanut Butter and Scott” for the fourth time this week. ______________________________________________________________________________________ (A boy opens the bathroom door and walks about two steps in before seeing ZELDA and SCOTT and abruptly turning around. ZELDA and SCOTT look at each other. SCOTT looks amused but ZELDA actually laughs.) ZELDA What if he actually had to go to the bathroom? SCOTT That’s the question you’re asking? ZELDA Well, what other question would you be asking right now? ZELDA Well, what other question would you be asking right now?
...47
SCOTT I don’t know, what scared him off so easily? Why he still walked in two steps before turning around? What tipped that kid to leave? Who was that kid?
ZELDA You don’t think he left because of…? (ZELDA looks down at the bottle of pills. SCOTT notices and stares at open space. SCOTT is unsure if that is the reason the boy left but does not discredit the idea.) SCOTT No, he probably just walked in and, um, realized he actually needed to go to the library. ZELDA The library? Are you sure? Really? SCOTT Without a doubt in my mind. I mean, that little sign outside with a stick figures clearly isn’t obvious enough. I’ve walked into multiple bathrooms thinking I was going into the library. ZELDA I feel like you’re lying to me… SCOTT I mean, yes… I’m just not sure what to tell you. (There is a tone shift between the two of them.) ZELDA What did you think when you walked in? SCOTT I, um, well… I don’t think I can articulate it well. ZELDA What? SCOTT It’s just something… I can’t seem to find the words… ZELDA What? No, that doesn’t make sense. I can imagine you talking for hours about crashing into your garage or about the austerity of the chicken tenders or even how you talk to your damn dog but you can’t tell me what you thought when you saw this god damn bottle?! Why? What is it that provokes you? How is this any different?! (ZELDA is angry but still never asks him to leave. SCOTT is left a little stunned, silent, and looking down at the ground.) SCOTT It just is. ZELDA It isn’t. And you know it is. I know why you’re still here. It’s not hard to figure out. It’s because of that god damn bottle. You can’t fight me on that. It’s exactly why. And now you won’t even say so. God, stop pretending to walk on glass and just fucking spit it out. (ZELDA is enraged while SCOTT looks at her sympathetically.) I can’t stand it. You just can’t ignore it like that. You say I’m the elephant in the room but we know it’s that god damn bottle sitting right there ready to be open and emptied. And it isn’t fair. It isn’t fair that you can sit there and pretend it’s not there but it’s there. It’s there for me. It’s never not there for me. But you can’t even talk about it. (SCOTT sits in silence.)
...48
SCOTT I can’t. I can’t talk about it. I can talk about my aunt’s cats, why I can’t drive. I can talk about the dumb stuff I pull. Hell, I can about chicken tenders for days. But I can’t talk about that. (SCOTT looks exasperated. He clearly is doing his best, but does not know how. ZELDA seems to understand there is nothing SCOTT can do for her. She looks a little lost. She doesn’t know what she can do right now. She’s confused but knows she doesn’t want to talk about the bottle anymore.) ZELDA Um… well… I guess I would really like to go to Mount Rushmore. SCOTT Right now? Well, I don’t have a car but we can always walk. It would take a while but if that’s what you’re really feeling like— ZELDA No, not right now. I was just kind of thinking about where I would like to be right now. And I’d like to go to Mount Rushmore. SCOTT Mount Rushmore? No, no. Grand Canyon is where it’s at. ZELDA What? How? SCOTT Because man made Mount Rushmore. Nature made the Grand Canyon. And that is cool. ZELDA Are you saying Mount Rushmore is not cool? SCOTT Yes. ZELDA Okay, so if we’re limiting this to just nature-made things, which one is better—the Grand Canyon or Niagara Falls? __________________________________________________________________________________________________ ZELDA Could you…? (ZELDA opens her palm to show the bottle. She wants SCOTT to take them but doesn’t actually want to ask him.) SCOTT Yeah, yeah, I can do that. (ZELDA drops the bottle into his open palm. She takes a deep breath.) ZELDA Yeah. (ZELDA lets out a weak smile.) I, uh, I hope your mom lets you drive soon. And I hope that when you do drive you don’t crash into any more garages. (SCOTT smiles.)
...49
SCOTT No, it’ll probably be a living room or at the very least a mailbox. (SCOTT and ZELDA laugh, SCOTT feels more assured now that ZELDA seems less unstable.) And I hope you go to Mount Rushmore, although the Grand Canyon is better. ZELDA Agree to disagree, Peanut Butter and Scott. SCOTT Okay, well that’s not an official nickname so… ZELDA I’m sorry, were you going to patent your nickname or something? You can’t call rights to that. SCOTT No, but I can try. ZELDA You can try. (They both laugh softly. ZELDA takes a deep breath and then pushes the door and leaves. SCOTT follows her, turning a moment to look behind him, but then ultimately leaves.)
Untitled
Jessica Hamm
Winner of Literature Magazine Art Competition
...50
Marionette
Margaret Velto Limp limbs pulled taut, Head high, gaze empty. Strings pull lips into grimaces Everyone sees through and believes. The day begins. Clumsy stumbling through daily routines, Monotonous motions move To the sound of a ticking clock. Over and over, day by day, My thoughts and actions are controlled by you. Stomach growling, I reach for food. Strings twist, arms restricted, The pursuit ends. Food forgotten, hunger remains, Back to work. Question asked, hand raised, Name called, mouth opened, answer given. Over and over, with mechanical movements, The day continues. Drive home. Ignore the ravished stomach. Ignore the desire to socialize. Ignore the tears threatening to fall. Ignore all who are not you. Just ignore.
...51
Night falls, embracing us in dark. Strings go slack. Feeble body falls. Pretending is finished for now. The day is over. Continuing through life, Every day, every moment, Just the same as it was Until one day, the strings sag abruptly, Without warning, not in daily routine. The strings have been cut. Falling, falling, falling. Falling into my mind’s depths, Drowning in thoughts I dared not touch before. Standing aside, you scream, “Stupid little girl, You should know how to swim.” But how can you know when You’ve always been kept above water? The water is calming. Finally, I can breathe. Under clear blue streams you cannot penetrate, The dark gray above recedes. I am free. I am in control.
The Literature Magazine 2016
Mr. Urioste (Advisor), Lauren McCoppin (Editor), Kate Dudek (Editor) Justin Reich, Julianne Cinoman, Maneesha Palakurthi, Jae Muth, Cat Cobb, Esra Balkas, Charlie East