Spring 2022
Letter from the Board
W
e are so beyond proud of all the hard work that went into making Cherry Bomb a reality! When we started out last fall, Cherry Bomb consisted of a few students sitting in an empty classroom in the Cathedral with no idea where to go from there. Fast forward seven months, and here we are, publishing our first edition. We cannot express how thankful we are for our contributors, club members, and everyone who has supported and believed in us over the course of this year. We can’t wait to see what’s in store! We hope you enjoy this magazine as much as we enjoyed making it.
with love,
Board
Club
Abby Morgan, President
Allison Radziwon
Aniqah Rafi, Vice President
Mica Siegler
Ella Grant, Business Manager
Alexa Walter
Caroline Waters, Head Editor
Jessa Flowers
Pamela Smith, Head of Design
Julia Szymanski
Julia Kebuladze, Social Media Manager
Chelsea Pappa Gabi Herring Lydia Blazey
Cover art by Lucy Calotta
Table of Contents The Feeling- Ilhaam Husain.............................
1-2
desert lilies- Alex Jaden Pierce.......................... Coral Skeletons- Naomi Bastiampillai.............. Chaos Yawns Contagious- Liam Weixel............ Seeing in Red- Donna Hildebrandt................... fire sign- Caroline Waters................................. “what would you call this?”- Caroline Waters... We Are Open- John Hollihan............................ $2.75 With Tax- Naomi Bastiampillai............... Nomad- Ella Grant........................................... In My Spaceship- Madelynn Lederer................ Untitled- Ilhaam Husain.................................. Prayer For The Sick- Naomi Bastiampillai....... last person- Eva Cat......................................... Afrofuturism Cento- Alex Jaden Pierce............ Roadtrip- Katelyn White................................. Think of it as a Rubber Band- Theo Segura...... i Was born On rolling Hills- Caroline Waters... To Ren- Theo Segura........................................ Kintsugi- Jacob Williams................................. Late Bloomer- Annabelle Cotton..................... Self-Portrait as The Crane Wife- Alex Jaden Pierce To my Saturday Friend- Julia Kebuladze......... Unbidden- Liam Weixel................................... What I Want to Remember- Alex Jaden Pierce Blanket- Doron Loewenberg............................ Blinding Sun- Darian Justine..........................
3 5 7 8 10 11 12 13 15 17-18 19 21 22 24 25-26 27 30 31 32 33-34 35-36 37-38 39-40 41 42 43-44
Art by... Megan Ackley...............................................
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Ryan Bonomolo........................................... Ella Grant.................................................... Des Greene.................................................. Hannah Kaplan........................................... Julia Kebuladze.......................................... Matthew Nzasi............................................ Chelsea Pappa............................................. Janvi Patel.................................................. Pablo Peltier............................................... Jaz Potts..................................................... Trisha Shah................................................ Mica Siegler................................................ Nina Stepniczka.......................................... Ksyn Taylor................................................ Khan Tran.................................................. Jacob Williams...........................................
29 45 4, 17, 30 46 43 2, 6, 9, 23 32 4 26 34, 36 16 20 7, 38 21 28 31
The Feeling- Ilhaam Husain There was this feeling that I was never able to explain to anyone “Don’t you know that feeling in your stomach?” Sinful, dangerous, lustful, exciting, scary. Utterly terrifying but seductively captivating A feeling that tugs at the strings that lay deep in your gut. Pulling at your heart A feeling that crawls up your inner thigh, caressing each microscopic hair standing atop your goosebump ridden skin Pomegranates and strawberries dripping dew under the summer sun Gripping your own wrist until a white band has been branded into you, just to hold yourself back from it’s tantalizing touch A man’s eyes gazing at your soft body spinning in the grass At what felt like curves and bumps and hills and valleys, but were in fact vast fields of pillowy white dandelions Delicate dandelions. Collapsing at even a gust of wind too strong That feeling came with every gust, or tornado or hurricane. An illusion of a silver lining that fades when you’re old enough to realize that a storm is still a storm even if it’s followed by a rainbow And a rainbow? Just a fragmentation of light. Light that came a little too late It is a feeling of shame for the sins of others How confusing, right? A feeling that convinces you that you yearn to be exploited. To be broken. Stolen. Beaten. Abused. And an hour later when you’re up late at night wondering why you can’t breathe every time you are touched, that feeling tells you to touch yourself, because no one else is to blame for those sins other than you It rots you from the inside out. Locking you in a disgusting grime that leaves you scrubbing at your decaying skin until you cry tears of insanity You spend a decade trying to escape this feeling. Closing your eyes so tight that you see stars, just to squeeze the thought of it out of your mind. Yet sometimes when you try so hard to forget something, it ends up consuming you and then you’re addicted. 1
Suddenly, it’s strawberries and pomegranates and dandelions all over again. Licking of lips. A gentle graze of your breast that makes you gasp in…desire…or fear. But this time the innocence is gone because you know exactly what is going to happen next. You know that you’re chasing the same feeling that you’re running away from You know that when you look in the mirror and see the bite marks and bruises you’re going to cry because you’re only a child. You were only a child. You have only ever been a child. You will lay on the floor of your shower and let the scalding hot water burn your body until you’ve muted your sensory receptors And you will wholeheartedly believe that the only way to escape this plague of a feeling is to never feel again.
by Matthew Nzasi 2
desert lilies- Alex Jaden Pierce You do not notice it at once—being in the middle of the world—but imagine all your blood splitting to its antipodes like a superbloom of desert lilies after a deluge, and you floating in the milk-white aperture. What you call death I do not name as such—I know it as being charted through galaxies and milky ways; as trapeze artistry, vantablack gravity securing my swing; as the stars and the heavenly bodies using me as target practice. Understand: these are our ancestors moving through us. And when they have had their way with you and I, we will find our voices, see the light at the end of oblivion again: I will walk out of the tree line before you, waiting with the wind on my face for the first stirrings of you under the still-damp earth.
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by Des Greene
by Janvi Patel 4
Coral Skeletons- Naomi Bastiampillai Rotten wood peeks from a distance, protruding from silver slits of sunlight filling the horizon. Seemingly untouched by civilization, save for the remnants of my footsteps yet to be washed away the plumes of smoke from boats in the distance and the occasional plastic straw or styrofoam cup floating alongside seaweed dotting the bay. The salted water burns invisible cuts, soothes aching feet; a solace from the beach of bleached white coral skeletons that threaten my skin now and my life later. Life is suspended within the nooks and crannies gently washed by the tide. Life is flowing with muted color, iridescent tails swimming near spiny sea urchins poking out of sandy divots above crabs frantically burying themselves away from the harsh sunlight above. Soft seaweed blankets a path between the sharp crevices; a green carpet to observe the sea stars extending a lazy arm to wave from their pools below. Salt sequining my hair, coating my tongue, tearing up the back of my throat fingers pruned, red, raw from hours stuck in water. Life siphoned from my body, returned to melancholy sea creatures below.
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by Matthew Nzasi
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Chaos Yawns Contagious- Liam Weixel When the ink-spitting ass-end of my pen puts thought to paper and shapes arguments, I’m alone in my room. Entombed and enshrined I climb many mountains in fitful sleep. I grab fistfuls of the beard of Santa Claus and pull – revealing all those eyes in the back of his head. Fall asleep like a dead man and wake up like a dead man. The difference is easy to miss and easier still to keep under wraps
by Nina Stepniczka 7
by Donna Hildebrandt
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by Matthew Nzasi
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fire sign- Caroline Waters I curl up against your glow as your soft light pulsates on the inside of my eyelids Asphyxiated by your smoke, I don’t notice the pregnant Cumulonimbus threatening us overhead Really, I knew there was a chance of rain, But left my umbrella at home In defiance I didn’t want to need it As the cloud spits I climb over your flames Not minding the way I catch fire I know I’ll miss the feeling But no matter how I stretch I will never be enough to cover all of you So the rain wins And you give up burning When it finally lets up The dull ache of my raw skin sets in And I scoop up what’s left of your glowing embers To keep with me I’ll feed them woodchips To remind myself how warm you felt And when they burn through my pockets, I’ll buy new pants.
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“what would you call this?” - Caroline Waters will you tell me when? i know your glass is full but what if you spill it before you’re done drinking? shall i wait here holding the pitcher until my wrist gives out? just in case? it’s no big deal i like standing next to you. are you mad? i know i slept in and you left before i could slip in through your eye socket and massage your hypothalamus can i make up to you? it’s no big deal i like seeing your brain up close. have you had enough? tell me when or don’t worry, i won’t ask again. for now, i’ll crack myself onto you and wait patiently await your sneeze.
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We Are Open- John Hollihan Christopher Street still felt quiet and eerie. Flashing lights of blue and red could be seen in the distance. There was a collective feeling of impending doom and determination as the squad cars whirred down the road. As the police stepped out of their cars, the shoving, pushing, and pursuing commenced. The second night of riots had begun. Joe experienced a power that he had never felt before. The collective of the thousands on Christopher Street had created a feeling of solidarity and love with the group. He felt as though his body had transcended beyond the binaries and the boundaries. His body had achieved such a level of ecstasy that he believed he was flying. There was a freedom within him that erased the language of gender and sex, of performance and identity, of masculine and of feminine. A new language was created, not one of explanation, convincing, and freedom. It was ____. Joe was not quite sure that he understood this new language, but it wasn’t necessary. The language could not be conveyed to anyone but Joe because it was an experience like no other. Something that could not be conveyed to anyone unless they too had felt it. But could they feel it? It was such a subjective feeling for Joe that he secretly wished (and thought) that no one could feel the way he did. He was a part of a collective movement for a community for which he was a part. He felt the love. Once the police began their second assault, the environment quickly became intense. Amid the chaos, Joe saw Marsha climb up a lamppost with a large garbage bag in hand and watched her drop it onto a squad car when the officers weren’t looking. This scared Joe but excited the large crowd. He was confused as to why someone would do such a thing. Why was that necessary? He swung his head to the left and caught a glimpse of Zazu yelling “Yes, Miss Marsha!” He heard the group of people chanting “Marsha! Marsha! Marsha!” The yelling and screaming and pushing and shoving intensified. Suddenly, he was grounded. His ecstasy turned to fear, for he did not know what was going on. He lost control of his limbs and could not move. Paddy wagons began pulling up to the bar and police officers flew out. The officers began tackling and shoving the rioters. What confused (and possibly scared) Joe even more were the massive displays of affection amongst the rioters. Men kissing men, women kissing women. People who defied the roles of the masculine and the feminine. The people were out. The people were here. The people were open.
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$2.75 With Tax- Naomi Bastiampillai Your hands lie atop mine on the cold metal pole property of the Port Authority, the Megabus, the NYC metro, the Central Line, or perhaps if we close our eyes and pretend, the bullet train speeding towards the city of lovers to tuck into soft baguette and those crusty, pungent cheeses you wistfully stare at every time we end up in a supermarket instead of the day-old bagel sitting on your lap. Your corduroy coat blankets my weary shoulders as you gently ask me “How long until we get off?” knowing that I told you three times before we left and three times five minutes ago (but I get it, I’m like this too) and before you close your eyes to doze off like you always do on gently rocking windows amidst the blur of streets and cars, let me just remind you yes, I remembered hand sanitizer.
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by Megan Ackley
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Nomad- Ella Grant Uprooted, ever yet, you and me, And these plans I made For me and you. Mountaintop, I will pack my boots, and you in your bright red hat, And race me down! Our wooden skis rattling like chestnut skeletons. One day, All else will fade, and we- you, me- will be bare as bones, And from your hands, covered in earth, and dirt, and hurt, Grows a home An always-moving sliver of sleep, A crescent moon hung high on the back porch from which we hang upside-down like monkeys, And I twist to look at you, because in a world of topsy-turvy, Like the house turned on its head, you are upright and beautiful as ever! And gravity is a chain that pulls at my hair, and blood collects in my eye sockets. When we are ready We will retreat downward Into the grasp of the desert’s sweaty claw. Dear, I’d trade it all, the film of memory Wound tight as yo-yo unreleased, Trade our wings, our wagons, erase any migratory trace of the Old Life, And into sand we could sink, and our bones would become sand too, You, and me, and perhaps this is fate, Me, and you, deeper now, and I would grab your hand, And your effervescent, butterflying, unceasing smile, Stretched East to West, Still luminous on a face undead.
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by Trisha Shah
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In My Spaceship- Madelynn Lederer This box is my spaceship, in here I can fly. Blast off from the ground, and into the sky. UP UP UP Racing higher and higher through the fiery atmosphere. Breaking into still silence full abandonment of fear. In space I find peace, leaving traffic below. Stars of sparkling ash, put on a glittery show. But I can’t dream to be still. There’s much more to explore! It’s time to fly to the moon, if my ship can endure. I can’t visit a store, but I’m here on the moon! Just a leap from our bench, the landing is smooth. The moon’s surface is warm, basking in the suns glow, and I’d stay here much longer, but there’s dust on my toe. My shoes have a hole. Momma says she’ll fix them soon. The holes in the sole. No one minds on the moon. 17
by Des Greene
But Momma minds on Earth, when there’s dust in my shoe. So, my spaceship blasts off, onto something new. Aliens in space drive ships that might fly. I always notice a sad glance as they pass by. The thing about aliens, is they stare at Momma and me, and in fear, or pride, Momma makes no plea. She makes a plea now, calling out to my ship. It’s time to come down, my hand caught in her grip
DOWN
DOWN DOWN Away from the stars, and their glittery show. I’ll see them much later, looking up from below. Maybe that’s the silver lining, in this box spaceship. When I lay my head to sleep, the stars are uneclipsed This box is our home, and at night Momma cries. But this box is my spaceship, and in my mind, I can fly.
DOWN
DOWN DOWN Earth is small. How do Earth’s problems matter at all? Because Earth is so small. DOWN
DOWN DOWN Space is wide. When I told Momma my dreams she sighed. Because space is so wide.
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Untitled- Ilhaam Husain I am recovering. I pick up my past brick by brick with each new day. My body hurts. My feet drag. Dry and dusty, my fingertips split. My ankles shake with every step. I feel blood drip down between my legs and they stare with hungry smiles. Licking their lips at the sight of vulnerability. I see their eyes popping out of their skulls as I slowly struggle to move an inch. Hush. We are coming closer. Don’t look, don’t speak, don’t breathe. I can watch them growing taller from my peripheral vision. Their teeth elongate into sharp icicles and shoulders widen. Echos of deep murmurs, moans, and chuckles bounce off of one another to a deafening degree. As I pass, I feel a long bony finger graze my spine and my body tenses when I hear the sizzle of my skin burning from its touch. Bricks upon bricks upon stones upon sticks mount onto my back. My wrists shackled with an unbearable weight with no ability to sleep, despite how heavy my eyelids become. Time waits for no woman. I am my own mother. My own sister. My own protector. I pull myself out of my nightmares. I hold my own face when I cry in the rain. I tightly grasp the hands of a child in red lipstick. I stroke her shiny black hair and tell her beauty means nothing, yet her existence is beautiful. She stares at her feet with shame and bites her tongue til her mouth is filled with blood. Now it hurts to eat so she doesn’t. I can’t give her back her innocence. No one can. What is taken from me now is artificial. Lab made, synthetic gems glistening in the light, waiting to be stolen once more. Take take take. Aren’t you getting greedy?
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by Mica Siegler
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Prayer For The Sick- Naomi Bastiampillai Many days and years of life I remember your phone number A treasure of yours that still adorns my bones; fond recollections split from what I now know is you. Do you remember our language, how your wisdom was held in my right hand, exchanged for my fidelity and my understanding trust in your left? Words crushed so easily under the ridges of your thumbs. For your fingers are bound to misshapen memories; remnants of the ideal girl you tried to mold me into. Do not rely on your intelligence founded by my knowledge Do not think my hands hold no calluses, cracks, claws sunk into flesh to remove your branding. Do not dare pray to these false idols you call Me. Now there was no tree first, no fruit borne for years; I don’t want to let my peace slip now into your sight. May the Lord love you, for I am desperate to forget.
by Ksyn Taylor 21
last person- Eva Cat I am the last person alive on Earth. As I walk down the dark streets, I grip my house key between my fingers every time I pass a man. I am the last person alive on Earth. I skate in the empty parking lot after my faceless friend goes home, listening to Pile and trying not to fall. I am the last person alive on Earth. I say “goodnight” to my mother before shutting myself in my room and waiting for tears that won’t ever come. I am the last person alive on Earth. I restlessly pace my house, hoping for someone to call me, or at least text. I am the last person alive on Earth. I long for something, anything, that will fill this pit in my chest and wake me from this half-sleep. I am the last person alive on Earth, or, at least, that’s how I feel, because no one can reach me here. No one can reach me here.
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by Matthew Nzasi 23
Afrofuturism1 Cento2 - Alex Jaden Pierce The oldest among us will recognize that glow Eons from even our own moon. A cosmic mother watching through a spray of stars across a chalk outlined sky but consider where I’m coming from: No hot water, no toilets, no lights / A world away… i am my own earth, how monstrous my pulchritude. I came to measure each day by dreams One by one they come / & the Blood Moon weeps One of the four Royal Stars is watching over me insisting the sky isn’t falling. You could tell they were surprised— all mud-colored and oblivious. Ignorance is so often lobbed at my dark skin. What good is a button if it never gets pushed? The dead whisper daily / prophecies, nudge me Tell me that wasn’t enough to call us future.
1 With language found in the Afrofuturist anthology The Future of Black: Afrofuturism, Black Comics, and Superhero Poetry compiled by editors Len Lawson, Cynthia Manick, and Gary Jackson
2 Sources: Tracy K. Smith, Ashley Harris, Keith S. Wilson, Gil Scott-Herron, upfromsumdirt, Rashida
James-Saadiya, Yvonne McBride, Yona Harvey, Frank X Walker, Tim Seibles, Bianca X, Teri Ellen Cross Davis, Quincy Scott Jones, Tara Betts
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Roadtrip- Katelyn White I want to go on a roadtrip with you You and me in your Subaru Your music playing through the speakers Curated playlists that I’ll think about too much And you’ll sit there, driving, worried I hate what’s on them But I won’t. Because I love your music like I love you. It would probably scare me that you like to drive with your shoes off Not that that even makes sense in my brain because I’m sure your reaction time Is just the same But by the time we get to wherever we’re going, I won’t be thinking About how unsafe cars are; or about the big trucks that ride too close to us I’ll be watching you fall in love with the land we end up on Or the way the moon looks above us Or how the stars are infinite, and our problems feel so miniscule Compared to the size of the planet we’re on When we finally find a place to slow down To get out of the car and stretch our limbs I’d bring out some kind of surprise, Because if you’re doing all the driving (which you would) I’d have to do something And it would probably be something dumb, like a pressed flower, Or I’d show you the notebook I’d brought along The pages worn on their sides, an ink smeared entrance into my brain All the words inside the covers messy and raw And maybe I’ll read them to you aloud — which I’ve never done with anyone before Because speaking them is a lot different than writing them down.
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I want to go on a roadtrip with you To watch you find yourself again Not that you’re missing, but To help you heal from whatever is is you’ve been running from To listen when you need me to, to speak when you want me to; To tell you it’s going to be okay, Because it will be. Maybe not now, but one day We can go somewhere new, and make the space our own Captivate and control the memories - write them in stone Or we can go somewhere you know, and make the memories anew I’d love to see the places that call to you I want to go on a roadtrip with you to watch you grow To blossom like the flowers I burn into your skin When we’re lying together in a one bedroom hotel room, queen sized bed By the end of the trip, my job won’t be done But maybe I’d convince you to sleep for a little And I’d feel like the tension in your shoulders come a bit undone.
by Pablo Peltier 26
Think of it as a Rubber Band- Theo Segura An inadequate metaphor to be sure but it was all that I was told, and so, I push and pull ferociously against the thinning strand, placing my faith in the E l a s ti c i t y that would surely bring us crashing back into each other with nervous smiles and bleeding heads suspended in a silent terror that fashions a lash from the tension and drives me further still until I finally notice the jagged ends of the band dragging along the ground like hands in prayer or those of the dead. And where are you? Off in the distance impossibly far away laughing at the inadequate metaphor, as if something so flimsy could bind us (or anyone) together.
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by Khanh Tran 28
by Ryan Bonomolo 29
i Was born On rolling Hills- Caroline Waters standing at the top reminds me of how small everything is how small i am and how heavy my lungs all that dried up in the thirsty summer releases in september rain and saturates the air which chokes me on its fragile tranquility until i fall down into her tender brown patches they throb against my fallen body and drink me down to the place where she can blow dew on my burning eyes, and sing me sweet birdsong, and lull me to sleep with her steady heartbeat, and let me dream of moving somewhere flat, saving up for new shoes. but when i awake i’m still at the bottom of the hill pulling at the sweetgrass ground wet, mouth dry.
by Des Greene 30
To Ren- Theo Segura The weak, feeble light shambled down from the clear winter sky to fall clumsily upon the dirty surface of your little blue coat as we shuffled lazily on down the narrow, snaking path toward the slumbering park. You had asked me if I still remembered how to get there after having been gone for so long, and I couldn’t help but let out a laugh that echoed in the liquid depths of your innocent, brown eyes, and rang in the sterile chill of the afternoon. I miss the small weight of your hand in mine as we traversed the dull expanses of suburbia, and it is only now, sitting alone on the barren bed in the heavy silence and thick shadows that cling to the empty walls of this prison cell of a room, suspended in the hazy past, that I realize the lure of the park wasn’t the real reason you left your toys behind in careless disarray to venture out with me into the clutches of the bitter cold, because if it was, you wouldn’t have been so ready to go home as soon as I complained that my hands had begun to grow numb.
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Kintsugi- Jacob Williams I know little about physical art That will always be your strength I wish I could put back together All your little broken pieces Sadly, I cannot do that. I am not capable. I wish you could put back together All of my little broken pieces. Sadly, you cannot do that You are not capable. If we could put our own pieces back together Then we would ourselves up, more beautiful than before. Please don’t try to fix me. I won’t try to fix you.
by Chelsea Pappa
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Late Bloomer. - Annabelle Cotton i never learned how to french braid. i cut all of my hair off at twelve so i missed out on the years you learn to tuck and weave. i’m always a bit behind, i’m always trying to catch up. i hooked up with boys during the years i thought i was supposed to seeking clarity, repair, self-maintenance, an orgasm. i faked it. all of them. all of me. i wanted to believe a mid-twenties second puberty could be on the horizon one that contained the ability to do pretty braids, the ability to fuck men and like it. and a manufactured golden girl would hold my place until the day to be normal came along. but then, there was you. you braided the pieces of me i couldn’t construe, you held me up to the mirror of what you saw. i wasn’t a late bloomer, i just had to be watered by someone else. i was beautiful, with you i was okay, with you i was on time, with you. i was a hobby, for you i filled the savior complex, for you i let you destroy me so i could be rescued, by you. and now my sudden ability to see you outside the world we had leaves me unsure of what was. i know i should hate you, but my biggest discovery includes your exploration. how do i forget you when the only time i understood myself was on your lips? finally understanding that no amount of time will turn me into the girl who fucks boys. and regardless of how badly i need to, i’m afraid to lose the only person that loved the late parts of me.
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I feel like I’ve missed out on toxic and confusing love in the teen years. Because now, it feels like everyone demands the healthy kind of love, and i’m 14 again, obsessed with pretty mean girls. -4/16/21
by Jaz Potts
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Self-Portrait as the Crane Wife- Alex Jaden Pierce For numberless turns of the moon, I had sat in the softness of bluegrass, plucking myself of feathers as my capillaries had burst like applause along mottled expanses of gooseflesh, my loom spinning out your silk fortune until you came upon my prayer on this night of power. For twelve unfruiting years, I had performed this courtship dance unknown to you, even as it had been killing me. I want to say look around at what my secret sacrifice has brought us, but already your face is shuttered, your body taut like a bowstring and, there is irony in that—how your once perfect earth seems to be growing smaller and larger all at once. Acts I thought benevolent, you think betrayal. I feel it now—the weariness of competing with a world that will not end. The maiming arrow tipped with hemlock you knock back in half loving hope, half blind horror tears a hole in time, in the lashing rain that stretches like a newborn galaxy between us yet we both know that hope is the thing with feathers. As I plunge
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out of this life as your wife into the warm canvas of pink dawn, my first ratting bugle calls in more than a decade come out like a string of pearls as I look back and see myself in the gold shards of your eyes. Who is remembering whom?
by Jaz Potts
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To my Saturday Friend- Julia Kebuladze It snowed today and the air still has remnants of its inaugural fall. It smells cold, not the bitter biting freeze, but the cold that tickles the insides of your nostrils and coats your throat with frost with every breath. The scent of alcohol mixes with the chilled air as it wafts from the inside of several homes. Doors swing open and close after the shuffle of herds of loosely dressed students clambering inside. They must be so cold. A few hearty hellos and squeals are exchanged as greetings, the voices muffled as they disappear into the flashing iridescent colorful lights that light the old brick homes. You can so clearly see which houses students live in; every single room on the dimly lit street is marked by a different bright color, some purple, some green, an artist’s palette in a grim world. Finding my keys was easy, the metal was cold against my fingertips. Et j’ai crié, crié “Aline!” Pour qu’elle revienne. They were the only words I could hear in my head as my Saturday friend recounted her stellar parallel parking job. Aline had been living in my mind since I had seen Wes Anderson’s “The French Dispatch the first time, and since having seen it again tonight, November 13th at 9:15 p.m. at the Manor Theater in the town of Squirrel Hill in Pittsburgh, it has infected every fiber of my being. It’s a desperate cry for Aline, an undisclosed requisite felt in my chest, my legs, in my eyes as they shut trying to find her in the quiet of the dark. Or, in the case of the French Dispatch, the protest for the freedom for teenagers to live in their illusions, the freedom to dream free of restricted adulthood, the freedom to build a utopia. Their rebellion ends as most artistic teenage endeavors do, in love, sex, the stars, and death. And I screamed, cried “Aline!” For her to come back. I went upstairs and mechanically walked to the kitchen. The top shelf concealed my raspberry filled jelly donuts. I took one to eat, and sat on the floor to enjoy the sweet flavors on my tongue. It would be remiss to live in a house that did not have sweets to enjoy at least once a day. After all, what sort of life would we lead without the sole comfort of food? 37
Food can disappoint in taste but never in presence, whether a stale slice of pizza or a lavish three course meal, it’ll be there when necessitated. You find yourself wandering a strange city you cannot call home, sharing the triumphs and derelictions of your day with nothing other than your own company and a meal. I used the restroom with much urgency. I have this terrible habit of waiting until I am absolutely bursting to go rather than pause the flow of my day for a bodily function. What a waste of time using the bathroom is, other than the sanctuary it can provide to a teenage girl crying in the ominous Cathedral of Learning, and escape from the towering gothic pillars that seem to grow closer with each rapid beat of my heart. I licked the glaze off my fingers. Unhygienic perhaps, but I didn’t care so much. I doubt there’d be any venereal diseases found in my home, or at least, I hope not. And I find myself here, writing, simply because I can, simply because I desire to. I cannot vacate Aline from my mind, the anguished distress call for her felt in what I would assume philosophers call the soul. I’m going mad with desire, I don’t know what I can do to console her other than write, so I will simply do that until she is content. Et j’ai crié, crié “Aline!” pour qu’elle revienne Et j’ai pleuré, pleuré, pleuré Oh j’avais trop de peine Et j’ai crié “Aline! Aline! Aline! Aline! Aline! Aline!” And I cried, cried, cried Oh I was in too much pain And I shouted “Aline! Aline! Aline!” Aline! Aline! Aline!
by Nina Stepniczka 38
Unbidden- Liam Weixel Do you think— do you think it was that the hill was too steep or the stone too unwieldy for Sisyphus to crest, undress, and rest peacefully?
hold on lemme clear my throat…
I contend it was destiny, Yes, I see, a full-throated Cheer for destiny. He said To me, you know he said-He opened his mouth and he said “We are legion” and thousands of people poured forth from new regions. Respected and next to your bed, In the closet, the well-prepared Devil makes off with the prophet. And profit makes perfect, Or so I’ve been coddled You’ll be lucky to make it With wallet unfondled. I need more words than this With which to build more worlds than this.
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In a beeline for freedom I Mix rum with Darjeeling and vomit shut up tip the portents of my mind out of teacup-skull onto paper. And in this way I leave myself notes for later. I wish I could write one million Words and make them all feel Filling, like a chronically depressed Bob Dylan. Basically, I would like to be Bob Dylan. You baroque your ribs On backhanded compliments And meant to say more about Your development since. I baroco my poems and feel Like a goose, nevertheless I believe That I leave enough clues. I take cues from the Shaman of Kesswill, shadowboxing Olympian. By the time I’m thirty-one I think I’ll reach one million. I need more words than this, With which to build more worlds than this.
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What I Want to Remember- Alex Jaden Pierce Near fragrant pimento and spotted orchids, the tufas of Dunn’s River Falls cascade,
guileless,
like steps magicked by a bygone race of Titans, numinous lagoons punctuate vertical divisions as waterfalls lapse into robin blue sea bleached by light. Where do animals die
fringed by sands here? After reason’s light had
darkened me, I came to this paradise, my father hauling me onto his shoulders as we walked to Dunn’s River. A memory surfaces of laboring to encircle his blackened torso as he slipped on
from our resort my little arms
my watershoes for our walk through the waterfalls with a blue shirted guide, whose voice mimicked water kissing stone. This spotty recollection is one I have been returning to as of late given that the Golden State is burning itself to a righteous death. sun-cured to brittle straw
Green blades parch themselves
to lit matches that kindle fields of Greek fire, stinging gales, and a throatful of smoke. I remember
scraping
virgin knees on the waterfalls’ slick rocks when I was five or so, the rough
cotton
of dad’s shirt caught
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with burning tears.
Blanket- Doron Loewenberg By: Xerxes If I were a miniscule man but seven inches tall I would have to find a place to shelter. A place to keep warm while the cold winds of an uncaring universe buffer me from side to side. Where would I fall, but between the pages of a novel, Flying Colours. The bland but invigorating words of C.S Forester providing shelter. The tale of a naval captain’s journey home bringing me there as well. The steady drum beat of a naval ship would smother me As I lay under the front cover But above the back. The dry ink and smooth parchment providing an ample bed for me to rest upon. I would remain stuffed there In the middle of the binding From the story’s tragic beginning to its triumphant end. Until there are no more pages left And I am left out in the cold again, waiting for another book to hold me in its warm embrace.
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Blinding Sun- Darian Justine My story begins with The Sun. The Sun, for humans, is necessary. He provides the light which allows you to see, keeps you warm, and feeds your plants. Certainly, this earns him respect, admiration even. But centuries of being worshiped as a god by you humans has made him vain and left us lesser stars at his mercy. This is not a story of his mercy. Rather, it is an account of his cruelty. To contradict The Sun is to beg for exile from the Heavens. Thus, a Fallen Star is born. Growing up, us Stars are told stories about Falling to keep us in line: Listen to The Sun, for he is wise and powerful. Listen to The Sun, for he commands life. The Stars’ value lies elsewhere in navigation and beauty as a small spark of light in the shadows. My problem was not being satisfied with the smallness of my importance. I wanted to be big, powerful, blinding. “You’ll learn to be content with your destiny,” the elders would say, “we all have.” But I could see their sadness, their longing to be grand. For a while, I followed their lead.
by Julia Kebuladze
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My ability to feign content with being just another Star in the night sky ran out when humanity no longer needed us. You were always growing and creating new ways of life. We became an ornament, only truly appreciated by astronomers. Eventually, your lights became brighter than ours in those things you call cities. I couldn’t even find use in sparking anymore. I guess in some way, my downfall was simply my desire for humanity. When The Sun heard of my insolence, my wish to be close to you came true. And I was Fallen. But, oh! As I fell, oh yes as I experienced the dreaded, horrible nightmares of the Stars, I found myself lifted as never before. Really the Falling was the best part. As I fell, I heard you. Your wishes. Thousands of them at once. Humans never wish on the Stars which sit neatly in the sky night after night. When you wish upon the Fallen, do you know the hope you’ve given to the disgraced? I was needed again, perhaps more so than before, and it was like magic. When I landed, I was disoriented. I’d seen the human form, your lives and deaths, all from Above. Here I was on the ground looking up for a change. The breeze on my skin. My skin! I have skin! The smell of the earth and the dew of the grass flicking on my legs as I wander are so new. I always thought humans to be beautiful. I only wished to be nearer, and now, I’m as close as I may get. The night is meant to end soon, and I will face the dreaded Sun as he looks down on me in a whole new way, and my friends the Stars fade from view. I can see him rising now, just barely. A bit of ambient light at the edges of the sky. From here I understand why you humans find him beautiful. He is. Terrible too. Funny, I always thought those were an impossible pair. I prepare myself for The Sun’s inescapable blaze, to feel his judgment from afar, his gloating over my punishment. Then—a storm rolls in. I grin for he cannot see me now. His power has been so easily thwarted. After so long staring into the sun, the cold rain on my skin was more divine than anything I’d ever known. The rain pours, and I turn up to the sky, laughing. His punishment has become my blessing. 44
by Ella Grant
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by Hannah Kaplan
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