combustion.lit May 2015 || No. 2
All rights reserved. Copyright goes to the respective authors and artists. Cover photo credit: Anonymous Logo design credit: Alice Liu Website credit: Zachary Taqi
The combustion.lit Team: Talia Flores ………………. Co-founder, Editor Miranda de la Rea ……… Co-founder, Editor
A Letter to the Reader: Fire holds a great potential for destruction, yet we cling to it when the sun sets and the night falls. Darkness has always been our greatest fear, the most formidable unknown; eventually, though, fire burns out, and darkness is all that is left. The first moments of inky, smoky black that pass when a flame dies are the most frightening: we panic when we cannot see, and we despair when we must face the darkness alone. If fire brings about life, then darkness must surely mean death — and darkness, like death, is cold, and unknown, and unforgiving. But darkness does not always mean death, and it does not always mean the end; because even if darkness existed before light, the nights end and new days begin. Sometimes we need darkness, because while it asks us to be strong, it also allows us to be vulnerable: there is no better time to watch the stars nor exchange words with a friend at our most defenseless, with the starry nightfall as our blanket. This issue is about the calm after the storm, the smoke after the fire. We can be beautiful in motion, in changing, but a crucial part of that beauty is the resulting stillness. Thank you, readers, for sticking with us to see the production of our second issue. After the chaos of creating this journal, we hope you enjoy the more tranquil, second issue of Combustion.Lit!
— Miranda de la Rea and Talia Flores, Editors-in-Chief
Table of Contents Poetry Mafaaz Tanzeem (collection) …………………………. page 8 Bloody Sun Black Box Non-Existent Reality Dominique Vu Possible Damage …………………………………. page 9 Shelby Riney ……………….……………………………….. page 10 Untitled Collection Chandler Lohner Eyelashes ……………………………………………. page 18 Gabi Smith A Letter to Inspire My Plant to Live …….. pages 25-27 Won Gyeong Seong (collection) Instructions On Changing a Face …………. page 28 ? ………………………………………………………… page 29
Short stories Miranda de la Rea I Believe You ………………………………………. pages 11-14 Talia Flores Rejected …………………………………………….. pages 15-17 Alice Liu One More Time ………………………………….. pages 20-24
Art Kristen Vu (collection) Suspicious Eyes ………………………………….. page 10 Angry Eyes ………………………………………… page 10 Emily Olkkola Untitled …………….………………………………. page 17 Untitled …………..………………………………… page 22 Kiana Fernandez (collection) Glamorization of Depression ………………. page 19 Ciara Smith Taste Color ………………………………………… page 27 Michael Schippmann Untitled ………..……………………………………. page 28 Christie Ballew Untitled ……………………………………………… page 30
combustion.lit
Mafaaz Tanzeem
Bloody Sun
Black Box
Seas flowing above the crowds, eyes squinting at bloody sun, freedom fluttering against the clouds I am not the only one.
Black everywhere conceals all fate, my sight limited to the darkened life of me, whether holes exist in continuous bait, come and go, but they’ll never see
Eyes squinting at bloody sun, troubles reaping at my grave, I am not the only one, who suffers being a slave.
My sight limited to the darkened life of me, portraying a non-existent reality, come and go, but they’ll never see, perception is the only sanctity
Troubles reaping at my grave, freedom fluttering against the clouds, who suffers being a slave, seas flowing above the crowds.
Portraying a non-existent reality, whether holes exist in continuous bait, perception is the only sanctity black everywhere conceals all fate.
Non-Existent Reality The unlimited sight of nothing to see, blank canvases untouched by brush, clarity is the key to reality, fruits everywhere are lush. Blank canvases untouched by brush, chains constrained from all possibility, fruits everywhere are lush, free from hostility. Chains constrained from all possibility, clarity is the key to reality, free from hostility, the unlimited sight of nothing to see. 8
Possible Damage Dominique Vu
Cold cement floor, metallic taste, bright lights It’s such a waste of time to lie here paralyzed I was a bug: an overlooked pest that can be rid of easily I was playing dead so I could survive A victim of force, of momentum, of gravity Force equals mass times acceleration Clang, crash, slam. Crack? I’m damned. A small chubby girl whom I call sister hangs on the back of the shopping cart Tipping it, lifting it up off its front wheels Wavering, teetering, tottering Like an unbalanced seesaw, she was on one end and I was on another I was a scrawny child, all bones, no meat I was the ticking time bomb; I was the little girl sitting in a metal death trap Watching the shelves move past me while I was pushed down the aisles, I was waiting for my descent I had a splitting headache, but did I have a splitting head? A beached whale at shore, I was stuck Do I risk moving despite spinal damage or do I stay still while time ticks on? Tick tock, tick tock, it mocks me I was floating in a state of unconscious awareness The cold air comforts my blood-filled brain My breathing shallow, my face distorted It’s like I’ve run a mile but all I’ve been doing is lying on the ground From that event, my sister learned an important parable: To move forward, someone must suffer An unstable stability, an imbalanced balance, an unequal equilibrium Shit happens; it’s just a way of life “Get off the floor. It’s dirty,” Father says. Like a rag doll, I was picked up, dusted off, and was back to being “brand new” I was all well and fine after some time Life evens out eventually
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Untitled Collection Shelby Riney
Lies, lies, little lies Kinder than the truth Put together, tip the scale Cold distrust the proof
Greed is the world To many and few When all is nothing A perilous view
The past is a vice Carved deep in stone Molded by others But suffered alone
The mass worships loud Their praise like no other But when their god falls They soon raise another Blind in your values Like Jericho fall Crumbling ideals Why have them at all “Suspicious Eyes” and “Angry Eyes” by Kristen Vu
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I Believe You Miranda de la Rea
"Don't you love me?" He decided to tell her the truth. It would have been easy to lie and tell her “I love you,” because she wanted to believe it. Early on, it had been difficult to ignore the way she watched him, with her tender glances and gentle smiles. Sometimes, when he wasn't careful, he would look at her lain out below him like she was the most important thing in the world, and he would think that he could protect her, and he would think that he could love her. Yet, he always ended up banishing those thoughts from his mind and returning to where started. He would not love anyone (I will not love her, he told himself) and would rely only upon himself (I only need myself, he said, again and again), because he had learned long ago that any other line of thinking would get him screwed over. "I don't." He watched her put on her jacket, watched her shoulders tremble slightly, despite the hard expression she kept on her face. She was halfway out the door, already out of his life and just beyond his reach, when she paused suddenly. "I loved you, though. You are a sick, terrible person, and I know that now. But I was in love with all of you."
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Warm sunlight had been filtering through the window, yet the moment the door slammed shut, clouds filled the sky, cutting o the sunlight and leaving him in darkness.
... His existence had often been lonely, never reaching out to anyone. He stayed trapped within himself and pretended that he had freedom, sitting on a throne in his mind and playing make-believe, except it wasn’t a game anymore. He knew how the world worked. He knew which words to slip here and there, which expressions would make people believe him, what to do and how to do it right. He knew how to play people, and it was all he had needed. Still, there would be times when he wondered if he was even remotely close to a decent person. There would be times when he broke o a connection, but didn't enjoy the injured hearts that fell around him. There would be times when he was drunk and alone in his house, sitting in a vacant corner, playing with a loaded gun and gambling with a life that felt worthless to him. And then he would laugh, because even if he died right then, there would be no one to come running to his house in the middle of the night. No one would be at his funeral. There would be nothing funnier than the tremendous irony of it all, to die at his own malicious hands, when all he wanted was to feel vitally close to someone, to listen to a steady heartbeat that he could memorize and be able to find anywhere in the world. He wanted someone who would need him as much as he needed them. But, he figured, he was drowning, and anyone holding onto him would surely drown with him.
... At first it was amusing, observing her feelings towards him progress and evolve. She was naive, projecting dreams and fantasizing about love, but he didn't mind. He enjoyed watching her stumble over her words, her eyes looking straight ahead at nothing, her cheeks blazing red with nerves; it was fun, he thought, a game. Then it became less funny, when one day he greeted her with a smirk and the whole world shifted when she smiled back. And suddenly he looked at her for the first time, drinking in her golden skin and the way her hair looked like fire when the sun was setting. 12
And suddenly everything else seemed dull and muted in comparison. And suddenly he realized he was screwed. On days he felt particularly like torturing himself, he thought about her. He especially liked to remember the day she stood next to him outside their office building, her eyes watching him intently as he took a drag off of his cigarette. It had been uncharacteristically cold, and she shivered as the wind bit at her bare arms. He raised an eyebrow, amused. "Why don't you go back inside?" His voice was like the smoke that he exhaled – thin and raspy, dissipating as soon as it hit the air, and he liked to imagine that, like smoke, it stuck to her clothes so she was forced to wear its essence until she went home. She blushed — he smirked — and tilted her face away until it was slightly obscured by her curtain of hair. "I thought I'd stay out here with you," she said. She flinched when the wind howled at them, blowing her hair out of the way so he could glimpse the blue lines of her mouth. He shrugged out of his jacket and placed it over her shoulders, secretly relishing the way her muscles tensed under his touch, but he didn't look at her. He didn't look at her as he crushed the remains of his cigarette into the pavement and walked back inside. It would have been unbearable to see the tiny spark of admiration he knew was in her eyes, because he felt like a forest fire. He repeated a mantra over and over in his head that day, reminding himself that he wouldn't ever be weak like the rest of the world. But, almost without his knowledge, he fell and the fire spread, and unfortunately, hardly anyone ever escapes a fire unharmed. She laughed when he told her that he was no good. "How can you be no good?" she asked, her eyes shining. "You're the best thing that's ever happened to me." "No, I'm not," he argued back, "I am literally poison." But he kissed her anyway.
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Happiness was a strange thing for him. He kept careful walls up, separating his pleasure from his vulnerability; they were precise and exact, never deviating from the categories. She was dierent. He thought that he liked being with her for the anticipation of her inevitable heartbreak, and his sadistic delight built up gradually. But the lines became blurred and he started to become happy with each of her smiles, each flick of her hair, the way she talked, the way she fell asleep. He had spent a lot of time lying to himself. Truth became what he wanted and what she wanted became truth, and his universe began to fall apart and break at the seams. Now he was alone, the slam of the door still ringing in his ears. "Don't you love me?" He wanted to tell her the truth. But habit is a funny thing, and anyway, he was never supposed to let his guard down.  
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Rejected Talia Flores
I was a fairy in a land of giants, behemoths lumbering to and fro, gargantuan insects swarming. Bright colors, strange odors, loud sounds, a battalion against my senses. There was too much of the unfamiliar, too much of the new, the strange, I was getting a little scared – “Come on, sweetie. It’s just after-school care. I’ll only be gone for a couple of hours.” My mother, my guardian, my bastion, gave me a small pat on my back before leaving. She meant to be reassuring, but I was humiliated more than strengthened. In this free-for-all known as “after-school care,” I would not stand a chance unless I acquired the same colossal confidence as my lumbering counterparts. Next to where kids infested a colorful playground structure – it was neon, yellow like the sun, green like a sickly poison – was a bobbing blanket of spheres. Ah, a ball pit; a respite. I began to crawl among the masses of ballooning circles, my plan to drown out the noise with a quiet nap. Before I could become that snoozing child in every ball pit, however, an oddly familiar sound reached my ear. “Bleep bloop bleep bleep bloop” Turning, I was both shocked and elated at the scene. A pack of boys, as giant and intimidating as the rest of the children, were crowded around a brightly-lit computer screen, whooping and cheering for two seated guys gripping video game controllers. A glance at the screen whizzed my mind back to hot summer days spent inside, living another world in an electric universe. It was a racing game – a glorious racing game. Crude blocks formed spacecraft that zoomed around an intergalactic scene. Like NASCAR drivers bracing against the impact of 15
a narrow turn, the boys playing the game moved in harmony with the virtual vehicles. Despite their rigid grip of the controllers and their expressions of crazed excitement as they jabbed the devices’ buttons, I shook my head pitifully, laughing a little at their poor technique. Even from the depths of the ball pit, I could see that the players were not able to get past the first level – a trivial challenge. I could show them how it’s really done, I thought, letting my imagination run a little wild. Actually, was it really that wild? I may have been a fairy among the giants, but I could just as easily transform into a warrior. Transform I did, emerging from the sunken ball pit like an ancient Earth colossus rising to do battle. My fear of the tall beasts departed, and I waltzed over to the computer screen, now an assured, confident commander – I was a goddess of the olden ages; I was my fearsome alter ego, the awesome personality of Athena the Strong. Elbowing my way to the front, I found myself next to one of the players, sweat beads forming over his brow as his ship once again collided with a passing meteor. “Aw, come on!” he yelled, throwing his hands up. “Let’s go, Hank,” he motioned to his friend. It’s impossible to win.” “Can I try?” My soft voice cut through the sea of cheering baritones, extinguishing their cries in a clean swoop. The boy looked at me, a caterpillar of a smirk creeping across his face. “Sure, why not,” he replied nonchalantly, tossing me the controller like he was throwing the remains of a meal in the garbage. When I caught the device, however, I held in my hand a golden sword, ready for a master to wield. “Don’t try anything fancy,” he said when he noticed my determined face. “This is a real game, not dress-up with your dolls.” I would have rolled my eyes, but Athena the Strong does not acknowledge petty comments from peasants. “Alright, little girl,” Hank, the friend, snickered as I sat down to begin. “You better hope you know how to play.” The cut scene faded to the beginning of the level, and I was Athena the Strong again, preparing to wage war against the enemy. Stabilizers? Check. Pulse cannon? Check. Photon torpedoes? Check. Seatbelt? Whoops. Athena the Strong wouldn’t want to forget that. 16
Weaving and spinning, corkscrewing and flipping, dodging and firing. This was a walk in the park; Athena the Strong laughed at the poor peasants who had failed this simple stroll. Miss a meteor here, destroy that enemy vehicle there, endpoint in sight. Are the other troops up to full health? Of course they are; with Athena the Strong as their commander, they couldn’t be anything less. Almost as soon as it had started, the end was in sight. Passing the final checkpoint, Athena the Strong released a triumphant battle cry. “Whoo! Yeah! That’s how it’s done!” Once the level had finished, I was a little girl in a bubble-gum pink dress again, yet I still felt the adrenaline rush surging through my veins. Looking behind me, I expected praises and yells of congratulations. Or maybe they were so astonished they would be frozen speechless. Or, maybe the boys would be on their knees, bowing and kowtowing, proclaiming me the racing queen, announcing the best space commander the Milky Way has ever seen, the great, the acclaimed, the fabled Athena the Strong– But none of these greeted me. Instead, I was faced with rejection; the boys had ditched me for the ball pit.
Image by Emily Olkkola
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Eyelashes Chandler Lohner
I never knew How close one could get to becoming nothing but skin and bones. A deflated pile of Wrinkled flesh and Loose eyelashes that I just wanted to yell at For not flying far enough Into the heavens. For leaving the puddle of tears that she cried For dancing back to mock me. And the many wishes I had made. Please. Please just hold out your hand And collect them in your palms, if you would. I blew them right to you, so why do you keep on returning them I don’t want them. I want her. And it’s okay if she doesn’t have any eyelashes left.
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19 “Glamorization of Depression� by Kiana Fernandez
One More Time Alice Liu
A chandelier hangs in the center of the room, mesmerizing any visitor lucky enough to see it. Its hundreds of floating crystals release the light emanating from its center in the form of sparkles. They flit about like fairies, beckoning entranced visitors to the rest of the magical room—lush carpets, a large, gold trimmed mirror, Victorian-era furniture, and linen Damask drapes that eliminate all traces of the outside world, letting only the slightest bit of light slip through. The yellow tinted lighting suggests a time late at night – one almost expects a party to start at any moment, with twirling and suits and beautiful gowns. The door bursts open and a pretty yet ordinary young woman rushes to the window, throwing aside the drapes and blanketing the room with bright afternoon sunlight. The pearly, late-night elegance of the room is lost to high contrasts and dark shadows as the light bursts in, especially when two sharp piercing wails, one after the other, emerge from previously unnoticed identical cribs. The woman hurries to the twins, picking each one up and humming a soothing tune.
... Two toddlers with beautiful brown eyes and perfect white skin sit in freshly pressed shirts at a long mahogany table, waiting primly for their dinner to be served. Their chairs are the only occupied ones at a table that could have seated twenty, and the sets of empty platters remind the boys that they are intruders in the midst of a phantom banquet unsuitable for the living. The maid comes rushing in, bringing the delicious smell of salmon and grilled asparagus. “Jude, stop kicking your feet.” Jude’s tiny, three-year-old feet only reach halfway to the floor. The twins tidily poke their forks into each piece of asparagus and eat with remarkable precision for their age. They had grown up in a house not meant for children, placed in a space that did not fit them and was much too hollow to fill. Their parents lived in a world of banquets and cocktails, of high-class associates and laughter escaping from covered mouths, too busy to dip into the realm of diapers and baby food and intimacy.
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Jude and Jared’s mother is a beautiful lady, always smelling nice and always having somewhere else to be. Their father is a handsome man, authoritative, powerful. They probably love their parents. But they definitely love their maid, Anna, the one who feeds them, who comforts them when they have nightmares, and this affection is evident in the way they light up when she walks into the room, the way stories of their latest adventures eagerly spill from their mouths.
... They are seven. The two boys sit in a study, surrounded by rows and rows of books. Early morning light, weak and gray, drifts in and settles on tired faces, exhausted hands weakly completing their latest assignment. A scholarly-looking man, presumably their tutor, watches, occasionally shaking his head and correcting mistakes. Suddenly, Jude throws his pencil down, pushing his chair back and running out of the room. The sound of his feet hitting the hardwood floor echoes, bouncing off high ceilings and bare walls and silence. Jared apologizes to the tutor with palms facing upward, explaining that their parents promised they would be home by last night. His palms are empty, pale, like white flags of surrender and resignation. The distant sound of Jude’s door slamming closed is heard throughout the house. Jared slowly opens the door to his brother’s room. It still feels strange that they no longer share a room, and Jared’s room seems much too empty now. Jude is sobbing on his bed as Anna tries to calm him, wrapping one arm around him and rubbing his shoulder. “They don’t love us,” Jude sobs. “Of course they do, honey,” Anna tells him gently. The second time she says it softer, with less certainty. “Of course they do.” Jared stands in the doorway, unsure whether to look at his brother or at his toes. He settles for the toes, uncomfortably squirming in the thick shag of the carpet. Jared speaks quietly. “Jude, please, that’s just how it is. You know they’re busy.” He suddenly steps backwards, closing the door just a little roughly, and sits down abruptly at the top of the stairs. A single salty drop squeezes through his tightly shut eyes. He hopes his brother doesn’t think his behavior was rude; he wishes his brother could understand that this was just the way things were. Useless tears would not fill their parents’ empty promises, and a shallow heart is easier to satisfy.
... The two boys, almost teenagers now, walk one after the other out of the house through the meticulously manicured lawn. They are dressed in what they consider casual clothes, but the mark of money is still evident: in the fine stitches, the embroidered brand name, and the silky fabric. Anna calls out from the doorway, telling them to have fun. Their chauffeur waits for them in the car at the end of the path. Inside the car, the windows are covered to shade the boys from the bright sunlight. “I don’t understand why you wanted to do this,” Jared says. “Wasn’t tennis good enough for you?” “Oh, come on!” Jude exclaims. “I wanna get out of the estate. And don’t you want to learn to fight?” He punches his brother playfully on the arm. Jared seems shocked by Jude’s breach of propriety, rubbing his arm and shaking his head noncommittally. “Besides, we’ll
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Image by Emily Olkkola
get to meet new people! Make some friends. Don’t you want to have friends? Wouldn’t that be fun?” Jude holds in his mind a shining image of what friendship would be like. He imagines he and his brother would be quite popular among the other kids. “Daddy said we wouldn’t get along with the kids here,” Jared replies. “He says they won’t understand us. Remember? He was mad the only karate place was in a crappy part of town.” Jude shrugs and turns the other way, annoyed. “We’ll see,” is his only answer. The noisy dojo is alight with movement and brightly colored belts and bare feet. The boys do not fit into this new environment. Their ancestry is displayed in their posture and hair, their affluence in their polished shoes. Their strangeness is exponentially increased by the fact that there are two of them, identical. The other children’s wary glances are only diminished slightly when the twins change into fresh new uniforms adorned with matching white belts. Sparring time. The instructors of the dojo lay out the rules to the children, taking care to remind them not to hit hard enough to cause bleeding or trauma. Jude is paired with a short, pudgy child who cannot stop snickering at Jude’s gelled hair and proper posture. With a ki-hap, the instructor yells to begin fighting. Silence. The mean kid is still making fun of Jude, but Jude can’t hear anything anymore. All of a sudden, Jude’s fist is headed for the kid’s face, and though his regret is evident in his wide, innocent eyes the moment before contact, Jude still relishes the satisfying thump. And suddenly sound rushes back into Jude’s ears, though the rest of the 22
room is quiet, and he can’t stop sobbing, and feels the instructor’s steady hand on his shoulders as he frantically tries to wipe away the tears pouring from his eyes. On his once white uniform, the tears mix with blood that is not his own. He had just wanted to make some friends. Back in the car, Jude stares at the fat drops of rain rolling down the side of the window. The scenery outside is stark, ugly: buildings, cars, and trees, all drowning in the same disgusting sludge. Though he had thrown the punch, the rosy tint with which he saw the world had been knocked out of him, replaced with black and white. Not a word passes between Jude and Jared, and the only sound is the steady patter of rain as the car pulls into the driveway.
... The boys are high school juniors. They wear identical uniforms, but Jared’s hair is cropped short, whereas Jude’s hangs right below his permanently furrowed eyebrows. They walk through the doors of the school together, but Jared is immediately swept into a crowd of friends. He grins, and spares his brother a casual goodbye. Jude forces a smile and waves, continuing to his first block class. He glances backwards once, and it is not a glance of jealousy, but of resentment. After school, the twins are summoned into their father’s office. It’s quiet, the lighting dim. The boys nervously stand in front of their father’s desk. “College is coming soon,” their father speaks. Your future is close. I’ve looked into which universities have the best business majors. I assume you’ll be taking over the family enterprise?” “Yes, of course,” Jared replies, while Jude simultaneously answers “Actually, no.” Their father looks at Jude questioningly. With a nervous breath, Jude blurts out: “I’ve decided that I want to be a writer.” If their father had been eating, he would have choked. “A writer? That’s ridiculous. No.” “Look, I don’t want to use up the family’s money with an expensive Ivy League,” Jude explains. “I’ll go to a local college, stay close to home. And I can get a job.” Their father raises an eyebrow skeptically, almost humorously. “Are you crazy? Where are you getting all these ideas from? Why would you not want to go to the best college you can?” “I just don’t think I would fit in well. I – I’ve been struggling in school. And a top tier college just isn’t necessary for me.” “I’m offering you tens of thousands of dollars a year in tuition, and you don’t want to take it? I want the best for you, okay? Please. I don’t know where you get these ideas.” Jude’s anger, accumulated from years and years of silent Friday nights and empty shells of parents, finally breaks the dam of propriety that had been holding it back. “You just want an heir for your company!” he screams. “You don’t care about me, and you don’t care about Jared. You and Mom have barely been in my life, and you expect me to listen to you? I don’t want your stupid money.” Jude storms out of the room. Jared apologizes, head lowered, and quickly follows Jude. He was always the one who apologized. His father stays behind, his head in his hands.
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Jared reaches Jude’s room. Clothes are strewn all over his bed, drawers hung open in his dresser. Anna sits quietly, shoulders slumped, on his bed. Steady tears drip down her face. When Jared comes in, she tells them softly that Jude is gone.
... A twenty-five-year-old man walks down a city street, a faint look of distaste tainting his otherwise handsome countenance. He stops in front of a brown brick apartment building, and, checking the address on his phone once more, hesitantly knocks on the door. He is greeted by another, more tired looking man, but it is unmistakable that they are twins. Over the years that they have been apart, both have lost a certain aspect of themselves, and as they stare into the eyes of what could have been, for a brief, glorious second, they find it again. There is uncomfortable tension, an acute awareness of how close they once were, and how far apart they had since grown. Yet, once they step inside, the easy sense of familiarity, of family, takes over, and they briefly embrace. “I came to tell you that, well, the business has gone bankrupt,” Jared says plainly. Jude sits on a worn couch, his elbows on his knees. He catches his brother looking at the stain on his t-shirt and self-consciously tries to cover it up. “Oh?” Jude replies. “‘Oh,’” Jared says bitterly. “Yeah. I know this is probably happy news for you.” “No, of course n – What… what happened?” Without pausing, Jared abruptly changes the subject. “So, how’s living in the city?” “It’s really nice,” Jude says nonsensically. He is mildly exasperated at Jared’s avoidance of his question, but, remembering their earlier times together, he expects it from him and doesn’t react. “It gives me the energy I need to keep me motivated. And as you can see, I have a wonderful view.” Jared shakes his head slightly at the joke. The windows were covered with heavy blinds, letting only a sliver of outside light through. Jude really hasn’t changed, he thought. “It’s filthy,” he finally says. “Anyway, we’re going to have to sell the old house. The servants have been dismissed already.” Jared catches his brother looking at his golden cuff links and silver watch. “Even Anna?” Jude asks. “Anna?” Jared acts as if she was nothing but a distant memory. “Oh, Anna. She left a while ago. She wasn’t necessary anymore.” Jude sighs. “Let me ask you something. Are you happy?” Suddenly, Jared is seven years old again, standing in the doorway, watching his brother sobbing over something he never had. An inevitable force, whether it be discomfort, shame, or regret, tugs his gaze down to his leather shoes. “Not everyone is as brave as you are, Jude,” he says softly. He pauses for a moment. “Are you? Happy, I mean.” “I will be,” he replies confidently, defiantly. Jared looks up at his brother and understands. Jude really hadn’t changed all these years. Somehow, he had retained his belief in perfection, despite all the times it had been shattered. He still had hope. Jared shakes his head. Well, as long as he thought he was happy.
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A Letter To Inspire My Plant To Live Gabi Smith
You sit and You live and You reach for a star all day. You are not old and You are not young and There comes a time when You are supposed to leave Because that is what You do and That is what You are. That star slips away to sleep over at a friend’s house every night. It is always leaving, But it is also always coming back. You wait patiently for its return, Knowing it will be home as soon as it can. You are now expected to turn away from it. You do not like the idea of abandoning Your only friends. They do not like it much either. After all those times of Your wilting and Then flourishing and Then wilting again and Then flourishing again, You are supposed to grow Weak, Dark, Frail, Let Your leaves fall, And die. Despite Your brilliant resilience, The little warrior that You are, 25
And Your blazing love for a star that adores You just as much in return, You still have to leave. You cannot speak. You know no words. You just live. Quietly and Charmingly, You just live. You cannot see. You feel all the things around you; Droop when your companion gets sad, Stretch when she is joyous. You never let her feel lonely, Breathing her air in and Gifting it back, clean and refreshed. You feel your favorite star keeping you warm. You say nothing. You always say nothing, But if You ever had something to say, You know she would listen. You, The little thing You are, Know she can feel you back, Because she whispers to you for hours, Cares for you like a mother. You wait for her everyday. She never leaves you for longer than a little while. You cannot speak. You do not need to say anything for her to know You will always be something to come home to. You feel everything there is to feel And You do not feel the need to question a thing Because there are just some things You have enough confidence in to always know them as true. 26
You breathe in. You breathe out. You put Your faith in a girl who cries over You to make you feel loved And You put Your faith in a star who is only there half the time, And You live.
“Taste Color” by Ciara Smith
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Instructions on Changing a Face Won Gyeong Seong
strip off your clothes let down your mask forget about your gender your race your faith leave the stove on shut up listen watch read wake up turn the stove off. or not who are you? put on your clothes talk
28 Image by Michael Schippmann
? Won Gyeong Seong
 
who are you? a child commanded requesting I define myself i said my name he shook his head who are you? he asked again i said my job he shook his head who are you? i asked myself and said the name of my mother and the name of my father he shook his head who are you? the question demanded i told it the name of my love he shook his head who are you? i do not know what a shame he shook his head few people do most people dont and their bodies are buried with someone elses name above their heads please learn and tell yourself who you are.
Who are you? I asked the stranger As I peered at a familiar face A heart that sounded familiar And a voice I did not know Who are you? I asked the stranger And held his face in my hands His eyes were almond windows An entrance barred Who are you? I asked the stranger Running my fingers through the charcoal forest of hair Eyes, nose, ears. Head, torso, limbs all here. I know you- and yet- I do not Who are you? I asked the stranger As I listened to his heart I looked through his thoughts and memories And realized who he was I know you. I told the stranger And turned away from the mirror You see me see you Dressed in unfamiliar clothes.
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Image by Christie Ballew
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“In the dark I rest, unready for the light which dawns day after day, eager to be shared. Black silk, shelter me. I need more of the night before I open eyes and heart to illumination. I must still grow in the dark like a root not ready, not ready at all.” —Denise Levertov
 
combustion.lit || May 2015 || No. 2