CORRIDORS v.6 2020
3
Editor in Chief Fiction & Poetry
Miranda Nolan
Editors: John Gillespie
Angela Miceli Keelin Ferdinandsen Drew Sly Jocelyn Early-Hubelbank Jackson Barzun Katie Giron Chelsea Little Ryan Flood Sophia Spedden
Editor:
Art & Design
Cassie Mihalczo Kelly Lyons Jenna Granato Samantha Dickson Kathleen Brooks Nick Bosi Lizzie Delfeld
Editors: Catherine Tsilionis
Victoria Bartolomeo Chelsea Little Lizzie Delfeld
Publicity
Katherine Barry
Faculty Advisors
Teresa Ryan
Corridors 2020
4
Corridors Literary Journal Loyola University Maryland. Volume 6/2020 Corridors does not claim publishing rights of any kind for the materials within its pages: all rights remain those of the author or artist. We invite artwork, and photography to next year’s issue. All submissions remain loyola.edu.
6310 Blair Hill Lane Baltimore, MD 21209 Inserts: "Royal Blue" by Meghan Daly
Corridors 2020
5
Editor’s Note The book you’re holding in your hands right now did not come to fruition under average circumstances. This year, due to the global pandemic, Corridors was put together by our team remotely. Our editors traded in three-hour catered classroom meetings for email threads and Zoom calls. We were forced to adapt and rethink our normal publication process. As we pivoted, we were reminded of a tenet that stands at the center of our mission: no matter the disruption and chaos, the artist’s unique voice always prevails. Of all the things we can close and restrict, creativity is not one of them. And in such uncertain times, people turn to the arts for solace. We received more submissions this year than we ever have before, and the result is an incredibly strong body of creative work. This issue of Corridors or a line of prose. A special thank you to our imaginative contributors and dedicated editors for bringing this project to life. You remind us why the arts are so vital to the human experience. Miranda Nolan Editor in Chief
Corridors 2020
6
T A B L E
Fiction Blight Emma Wydeven..............................................32 Feeling Good Caitlin Dwinnell................................33 Homecoming Emily Engelhaupt.............................36 Marlon Brando in a Minivan Emma Wydeven...39
O F
Mr. Bickel’s Candy and Cakes Caitlin Dwinnell .....................................................................................48 Not a Meet-Cute Katie Elizabeth Shiber.................51
C O N T E N T S Corridors 2020
7
Poetry A Couple of Things Mary Sutton............................72 White Hot Fire Angie Kanavy.................................74 An Apple A Day Steven Greenberg..........................76
T A B L E
Quahogs Warm Mouth. Georgia Hamann.............................80 Don’t Touch Her Black Locks Brett-Ashley Hooper.........................................................................81 Tugging on My Shoulders Sean McMenamin......82 Grace Alyea............................................................................84 Colors Katerina Solonos............................................86 The Ducks Matty Brown...........................................87 The Secret of Vows Keelin Marie Ferdinandsen...88 Madison Ross.............................................90 Should Victoria Bartolomeo......................................91 Heilige Nacht (O Holy Night) Angie Kanavy.......92
O F C O N T E N T S
Corridors 2020
8
T A B L E O F C O N T E N T S
Poetry Egg Custard Georgia Hamann.................................94 Power Amber Davis...................................................95 the mathematics of self Keelin Marie Ferdinandsen..............................................................96 Skin Emma Hagedoorn............................................100 Naranjas Jill Fury...................................................101 Alexandra Lijewski...................................102 In West Baltimore Kelly Williamson...................104 Last Poem for You Katerina Solonos...................105 alternative names for black girls Niara Johnson.....................................................................106 Philia Victoria Bartolomeo......................................107 My room 19 Hodavia Kalombo..............................108 tawny Niara Johnson...............................................109
Corridors 2020
9
ÂżQue tu no sabes quĂŠ son amarillos? Casillas......................................................................128 A Black Hole Keelin Marie Ferdinandsen..............131 Adult Menus Madison Ross...................................136 Nowhere Important David and the Lobster Niara Johnson................143 Memento Mori Chelsea Little...............................148 Sometime Between Breakfast and Lunch Erica Mones.........................................................................154 Pennies Maggie Murphy.........................................158 Questions I want to ask the mother of the son who raped me 1 out of 5 women............................161
T A B L E O F C O N T E N T S
Corridors 2020
10
T A B L E
Art & Photography Bed Journal Already Gone Eciaus Booth.....................................16 Descending Eciaus Booth.........................................17 Sparks Fly Emma Hagedoorn..................................18
O F
Experience of Color Valerie Smart........................19 Black Sand Beach Jordan McLeod........................20 Ophelia Kayla Cristofoletti........................................21
C O N T E N T S
The Art of Emotion Alexa Vincento.......................22 Bridget Emma Schmall.............................................23 Jelly Emma Schmall..................................................24 Plastic Straw Kayla Cristofoletti..............................25 Flora Kayla Cristofoletti............................................26 Twister Alexa Vincento.............................................27 Self Portrait Leah Dillingham.................................28 The Local Lauren Fallon...........................................55
Corridors 2020
11
Art & Photography Glory: Rome, Italy Jack Finnegan..........................56 Park Bench Panorama Jordan McLeod................57 Couple in Copenhagen Alexandria Vigliotti.........58
T A B L E
The Faces We Wear
O F
The Faces We Wear The Faces We Wear A Silhouette of Nature Amaris Greene.................62 Lady Zenyatta Tennessee Kayla Cristofoletti...................................64 Double Doors Jordan McLeod................................65 The Moon Victoria Martini.......................................66 Makeshift Manikins Lauren Fallon.......................67 Desired Aesthetic Sienna Whalen..........................68 Bari, Italy Jordan McLeod.......................................111 Montauk on 35mm Alexandria Vigliotti...............112
C O N T E N T S
Corridors 2020
12
T A B L E
Art & Photography Piha Beach, NZ Emma Hagedoorn........................113 Emma Schmall..................114 Love Birds Emma Schmall......................................115 Midsummer, Nashville Lauren Fallon................116
O F
Catch the Light Lauren Fallon...............................117 El Dorado Leah Dillingham....................................118 Their Eyes Jennifer Miegs......................................119
C O N T E N T S
Maniae Kayla Cristofoletti.......................................120 Pink Galaxy Jordan McLeod...................................121 Insomnia I Jennifer Miegs.....................................122 Bipolar I Jennifer Miegs.........................................123 Brianna Bailey...................................124 Beck Clark Dalton.....................................................125 Headspace Alexa Vincento.....................................164 New York State of Mind Alexa Vincento.............165
Corridors 2020
13
Art & Photography Between These Walls: Chicago, Illinois Jack Finnegan...................................................................166 Down the Alley: Florence, Italy Jack Finnegan....................................................................167
T A B L E
Raised by Shame Courtney Kenny.......................168 Presence of Another Kayla Cristofoletti..............169 Frottage with Charcoal and Oil Pastel Sienna Whalen......................................................................170 Seated Nude Leah Dillingham................................171 Blossom Brianna Bailey..........................................172 Tricks Valerie Smart................................................173
O F C O N T E N T S
Corridors 2020
“You can't use up creativity. The more you use, the more you have.” Maya Angelou
Bed Journal
a
Already Gone Eciaus Booth
Descending Eciaus Booth
Sparks Fly Emma Hagedoorn
Experience of Color Valerie Smart
Black Sand Beach Jordan McLeod
Ophelia Kayla Cristofoletti
The Art of Emotion Alexa Vincento
Bridget Emma Schmall
Jelly Emma Schmall
Plastic Straw Kayla Cristofoletti
Flora Kayla Cristofoletti
Twisted Alexa Vincento
Self Portrait Leah Dillingham
G.K. Chesterton
FICTION
32
Blight Emma Wydeven mother’s garden. The hydrangeas were always my favorite. I would make a messy bouquet or place them all in my pail with warm water and some dirt. My own witch’s brew. Every day she would tell me to stop, but I couldn’t. I wanted to feel their beauty, her beauty, and make it my own. As I’d sit there tugging at the fragile green stems, I would look up at the sky wondering how something could just keep going, and if it looked the same where my grandma lived in Florida. I’d spy on the bunnies and squirrels, and ask myself if they ever felt happy, or sad, or scared. The way I did. I would take my plastic shovel and dig deep down inside the center of the Earth. When it was warm outside, I would climb frogs way up in the branches. Everything was so alive then. Nothing was certain. them. Her green thumbs needed to rest. Now all that’s left of her garden used to keep me up past my bedtime. But, every year, as I watch my own, perfect, hydrangea bloom, I carefully cut it, place it in my mother’s crystal vase, and try to remember when my life always felt like spring.
Corridors 2020
33
Feeling Good Caitlin Dwinnell She used green tea body butter infused with hemp oil. Fuzzy socks and cotton t-shirts. Organic deodorant that her mom bought from some farmer’s market in Ohio. She used Victoria Secret body spray to cover the plant-paste smell. She used peppermint chapstick to drive her through the day. It was a ritual she started in middle school. She carried a stick around in her backpack and her coat pocket and her purse. She applied the salve in steady dabs, lightly coating her lips to force imminent reapplication. She let the peppermint air hit her eyes, and it stung but she got used to it. She took hot showers and lukewarm baths in the middle of the day. When she got to college, she switched to two-in-one shampoo and it made her hair dry, so she stole subtle dollops of her roommate’s conditioner. She loved the homemade soap that her dad sent her a couple months into school as his third attempt at an empty nester hobby. It made washing her hands feel like she was going home and starting fresh simultaneously. When school got crazy or her friends were mean, she used deep She used TEDx Talks, romantic comedies, and porn. She got frustrated with the idealism of it all, so she switched to documentaries. There were a lot of girls at school with a skin-centric fashion sense. She used a yoga mat to get comfortable with her body, but after a couple of weeks of savasana, she still felt lanky and wrong. Now, she uses it to She used thick-rimmed sunglasses and pastel-colored tights. Color-coded tab folders with markers that matched so she could anchor her daily planner. She went through three phone cases in the last year and didn’t like any of them. Each thing felt like a toothpick that gently poked into her skin to create a delicate structure that held everything up. It was with these things
fiction
34 that she could look in the mirror and breathe and think, “Ok, good.” She had always been like this. With things, with people. In eighth grade, she used Alan Stewart because he said she was “pretty and fun.” She liked being pretty and fun, so they started dating. She used his car to get to school and his arm for homecoming pictures. She made out with him in a McDonald’s parking lot after the snowball dance. She told him, “You’re a good kisser,” in a sly voice that didn’t sound like her own. She didn’t really feel good about the night. She did like how happy they looked in the pictures. She used Alan Stewart, but freshman year of high school she moved, and she didn’t want to be someone else’s for a while. In the at a camp with her one summer. She didn’t know his last name, but she knew he went to school in Vermont, and that she liked the smell of pine when they were kissing. A year into college, she yearned for a meet-cute. She encountered Terry at a bingo night that the Environmental Action Club was running. He complimented her pink high-top Converse, which she had just recently purchased. He asked her to see a movie, he held her hand when they were buying popcorn and kissed her with tongue in the back row. They didn’t hook up until the third date. They saw each other for a couple more weeks, and then Terry stopped replying to her texts. It was gradual. A party two weeks later, tongue down another girl’s throat in a disco-lit corner. It didn’t feel good being used by a guy who composts. She bought tinsel-threaded sweaters from online boutiques to spite him. She ordered fast fashion bodysuits that hugged her curves and made her likable. She bought Starbucks every day, used plastic straws, and didn’t recycle. She got tired of the secret vengeance parade and bought an aluminum water bottle. One day, when her roommate was out, she looked in the mirror and saw hairs out of place. She saw the toothpicks poking and thought, peppermint chapstick at the outside corners of her lashes and watched them tear. There was a subtle sparkle when the light hit her watering eyes. She decided to go on a spring break camping retreat to get away
Corridors 2020
35 only pack one bag and closed-toe shoes. She was invigorated by the limitation. She sat alone on the bus in gray sweatpants, listened to music, and thought about how the lyrics played with her mind. When they arrived at the campground, the sun was setting. The group took part in a brief get-to-know-you activity with the rather ominous mantra: walls will come down. After the passing of the beach ball and the fun facts, cabin assignments were distributed. She was placed with three girls who seemed to have no toothpicks at all. They each had a backpack, an extra blanket, and a book. As the rest of her cabin was reading, she went outside. She ran her hands along the humps of each log as she walked around the wooden house. Behind the pack of warm glow, cabins were thick rows of trees it stung. Her cold hands realized that she had forgotten her gloves. She closed her eyes and smiled, wind mingling with her hair. She felt completely untethered, and she loved the smell of pine.
fiction
36
Homecoming Emily Engelhaupt Wind whispered through Alice’s hair, wound its way around her A shiver rampaged her body in response to the wind’s intrusion. She pulled the coat tighter around her small frame, a futile attempt to keep the cold at bay. The sand at her feet turned golden in the fading light of the sun; it kissed the ocean’s darkening waters before submerging beneath the gentle lapping of the waves. Brilliant warmth colored the sky. Still, Alice did not dare head back inside her home. She wasn’t going to miss her girlfriend's arrival for anything. Earlier, she had busied herself with cleaning every inch of their home. It had been so long since she had last seen Selene, a month to be exact. Alice wanted everything to be perfect. She spent way too long something against her and pulled up from the opposite corner every single time. She vacuumed under and behind the furniture. A bouquet of lilies from the grocery store rested in a crystal vase. Even though Alice despised making food, a plate of chocolate chip cookies sat on the dining room table and lasagna rested in the oven to keep warm. Alice even cleaned up shelves around the house with little sticky notes on the ones she thought Selene should read. With everything clean and tidy, all Alice could do was wait as the night grew long. She staggered against the wall as sleep pulled at her eyelids, begging them to close for just a moment. She shook her head and took a few steps away from her home. She had to stay awake. There was nothing to focus her attention on; the entire world seemed to be asleep. No crickets chirped. The wind had settled long ago. Even the waves had twinkled brightly. There was this faint, rushing sound that grew louder and louder. A faint ripple on the horizon became a wave approaching faster than Alice’s eyes could follow. It became a thunderous roar; Alice
Corridors 2020
37 ducked her head and covered her ears. Then, silence. She was here. In a dazzling, gossamer gown that shimmered with each breath stood a woman. Her skin was pale as snow and her eyes dark. She stared at Alice with soft features. Noticeably, a new mark marred the soft skin on her cheek. She raised a hand and caressed Alice’s face. Instead of warmth, her hand radiated cold. Bearing her touch was nearly impossible, requiring every ounce of Alice’s resolution. She lingered only a moment entirely. The skin burned and blued in response. Alice caught her hand, wincing at the sharp pain that quickly turned to numbness. Her eyes widened at Alice’s boldness. Alice smirked and drew her into a tight hug. Where their skin met, Alice’s froze, but Selene grasped Alice’s shoulder and eased her away, careful to touch only would warm over time. Once she was seated comfortably at the dinner table, Alice brought over the lasagna and some cold cooked green beans and carrots from the fridge. They spent hours talking about everything that had happened over the past month: Jimmy and Jess’s engagement during their yearHendrick’s newest book—which Alice recommended highly and Selene promised to take with her when she left again. On and on they went. No subject was barred except for one. Alice knew better than to ask her girlfriend to stay—the answer was always the same: her job was too important. The tides would cease to exist, and the aquatic species that relied on them would go extinct. The night drew to a close and Alice yawned. They went to bed, both wearing clothes to cover every inch of their skin so Alice would not be burned in their sleep. Alice curled into her girlfriend, happy she was home. They both slept soundly, and Alice awoke in the same position she had fallen asleep in. After a few moments in the embrace, she extracted herself and set about making eggs and pancakes, despite the sun nearing its peak in the sky. Selene awoke with a yawn and a long stretch. She smiled at the sight of Alice cooking in the kitchen. Alice asked if she wanted swiss cheese on her eggs or if that would be cannibalism. Selene’s
fiction
38
each other’s company for a moment. They took a long walk out on the beach, then through the town. Everyone waved and smiled at the couple. Jess waddled up with a hand on her protruding belly and asked if they wanted to feel the baby. It was the lit up when the baby kicked. When she left, Jess said the baby would be here the next time they saw each other, and she’d have gloves ready so she could hold it. Alice stared at the ground. This was the one other topic she knew not to discuss; kids were never in their future. Although her girlfriend said time and time again not to let her work stop Alice’s desires, Alice couldn’t bear the thought of their kids only seeing their other mother once a month. Alice put on a happy face and waved the thought from her head. She could think about it when Selene left again in an hour or so to join the stars in the sky once more. They spent the rest of their time together in their home, keeping on Alice’s back through her shirt and hummed softly. As their time ended and the sun began to sink below the horizon, Alice took her girlfriend’s hand in both of hers, ignoring the shooting pain. She kissed her own hand on top of Selene’s to avoid freezing her lips. Selene tucked a note into Alice’s pants pocket with her free hand, tugging at the material as she slipped her hand out. Then, they both took a step back. Alice closed her eyes and covered her ears. The rushing was back. But it grew distant this time. Opening her eyes, Alice saw the smallest sliver of the moon in the sky. She reached into her pocket and read the note. She held it to her chest and stared up at the night sky, whispering yes over and over again. The moon seemed to glow brighter, wanting to return to her lover, and again.
Corridors 2020
39
Marlon Brando in a Minivan Emma Wydeven When I was sixteen years old, my mother made me spend my Aunt Katie. Mom said she had grown sick and tired of me coming back past curfew and she despised my new habit of not tucking in my shirt and combing my hair before I went out with my friends. She said I was in need of an attitude adjustment before I could “receive the joy of Christ on Christmas." And I knew as a soon as she brought up Christmas, that I would have to tread pretty lightly. If keeping the “Christ” in my mother’s Christmas and all the gifts in mine, meant complimenting her on the waking up at the ungodly hour of 7:30 a.m. to meet up with Aunt Katie, I All my mother had told me the night before was that I would be spending the morning and most of the afternoon helping my aunt people’s wills, but I didn’t see where I would come in. My mother told me not to worry about it and promised to explain more in the morning. She came to my room at 7:15, carefully tapped on the door, and said, “Time to get up Miles, Katie will be here soon.” Usually I would ignore her and keep sleeping until I heard doors slamming and screaming about how “You’re gonna make everyone late today Miles!” Today I decided I would follow orders. I turned the shower on and brushed my teeth as I waited for the water to get warm. I heard her shout out, “Miles, I left something appropriate to wear on your bed,” and I braced myself before I inspected what kind of Sunday School ensemble she had decided on. Thinning blue corduroy pants, a red gingham shirt which had always been a little too big, a brown moth hole-ridden cashmere sweater, and my boat shoes that still wreaked from spilled beer and the stolen rum. By the time I
fiction
40 was ready I looked like a forty-year old man who never bothered to do anything with his life but lead a Christian youth group and sell knives. As I came down the stairs, I heard my mother cry out, “Ohh you look like Marlon Brando when you comb your hair honey, so handsome” “Thank you, mom but it's 2003, you should really stop making such outdated references.” Then she gave me one of those signature mom-looks. You know, the kind they give when they’re annoyed with you, but at the same time they can’t help but smirk. It was one of those looks, and it was not the me a big bowl of Raisin Bran, and then went on about the importance of on the greasy, microwaved bacon she made. I quickly drank two cups of Katie’s husband Trent would say. I was never too fond of Trent and all the stupid things he seemed to constantly say, but my mom always said that Katie showed up 15 minutes earlier than she said she would and laid on the car horn until my mother and I came outside. My mother was always going on about how beautiful Katie was in high school but then in college she ‘took it way too far with the makeup.’ I didn’t know much about blush or eyeshadow, but I thought the point of it was to look real. And Katie’s periwinkle eyelids and coral cheeks certainly didn’t scream authenticity to me. Tapping her long French manicured nails up and down on the steering wheel, Aunt Katie hollered at me, “Ready to have some fun?” Which I knew coming from someone over forty meant doing in the passenger’s seat. After talking about Christmas dinner and what Katie should get as a gift for Trent, my mother waved goodbye and Katie turn to a wince as she nervously watched us leave. Katie’s driving record was less than desirable, and her front bumper hadn’t hung right since she hit a buck last February. It must have been a combination of sleep deprivation, a massive hangover, and a stomach full of animal fat and bran, but I still hadn’t bothered to ask what we were doing, at 7:30 in the morning, three days before Christmas. So, after letting Katie blather on about my cousin
Corridors 2020
41 Tucker’s model volcano for the fourth-grade science fair, I asked her, “Where are we going?” “Oh, your mom didn’t tell you?” she replied. “Um no, not exactly.” “Well as you know, I work with people who need my services. And my services happen to apply mostly to people who are dying, about to die, or in some cases, are already dead. And today, we’ll be dealing with the last possible scenario,” she said. “You mean a dead person? What the hell are we going to do with a “Calm down Miles, we’re not going to see a dead person. We’re just going to their house,” she said in a very matter of fact and unsettling tone. “Well who died? How did they die? And why are we going to their house?” I said. nine years old with two daughters. One named Emily, who is a twentyseven-year-old nurse, and another named Olivia who is twenty-four and addict, part-time truck driver, and life-long deadbeat. Rosemary had anxiety, depression, and bipolar disorder and threatened suicide almost every year of her adult life. She came to see me often and at the end of each visit, she would assure me that it would be the last time I ever saw her, because of her plans to kill herself before the new year.” “She started to become the boy who cried wolf, until one day last week, I got a phone call from her daughter Emily that her mother was dead and actually made good on her promise. Emily had been working a night shift at the hospital when she was rushed to help a woman who she realized was her own mother. She felt her world crashing down, yet she couldn’t tell herself she was surprised. Emily, myself, and everyone that knew Rosemary felt like they had been mourning her life for years, so when the story broke that she was really gone, everyone had to grapple with the hard fact that this death was expected. And we also had to acknowledge that no one’s help would have been able to stop Rosemary. She had wanted to die as long as she had been alive.” I tried to stop myself but couldn’t help but let the word slip out,
fiction
42 “Damn.” “Yeah, damn is right,” Katie replied. The rest of the drive was pretty quiet. I looked out the frosty window and tried to count the trees speeding past. Katie played the Christmas music station, and eventually just put on her Irish Tenors Holiday CD and quietly sang along. I felt like she had just dropped an emotional A-bomb on me and I wasn’t quite sure how to handle it. Everything she had told me about Rosemary reminded me of the day my mother told me my father was dead. I was in the fourth grade at Webster Elementary School. It was a Friday in early May. I was supposed to go home with my best friend Cheryl Thomas, and spend the afternoon taunting her brothers and eating my mother I knew something important had happened. My mom told me to sit down. And I’ll never forget that chair. It was covered in a scratchy light green fabric and tall enough that my feet couldn’t touch the ground. I remember feeling like a grown-up in that chair. My mother just came out and said, “It’s about your Dad. He’s gone.” And as she said it, I looked out the window and saw a red cardinal staring at us through the glass. I always thought it was him. His way of following me and making sure I didn’t give Mom too much shit. montage of people asking me if I was okay or if I was still sad. And the thing was, I didn’t know. I missed him more than anything, but every time I would see a single red cardinal in the backyard or from a car window, I thought it was him, and I thought one day he would come back for me. This delusion went on until the seventh grade, when I was told how my Dad “left.” to know the whole truth. She told me how my father had gotten very ill mental and physical issues. He had everything from anxiety to arthritis, and his pill boxes looked like pocket-sized pharmacies. The mix of all the prescriptions led him into an even more anxious and depressed state, and one day he woke up and decided he didn’t want to live anymore. From that point on, it was just me and mom. Katie snapped me out of daydreaming and told me we were almost at Rosemary’s house.
Corridors 2020
43 “It’s gonna be up on the left, a white colonial with a red mailbox,” Katie mumbled with half her bagel shoved in her mouth. Katie spotted it and nearly took out the ajar red mailbox with her Taurus. After she hoovered the rest of her bagel and cream cheese, she explained what we would be doing. “Okay, so the reason I needed your help today was to go with me to try and sell Rosemary’s car,” Katie explained. “Alright, sounds easy enough,” I replied. “Yeah, so you’ll just drive her car and follow me in mine, to two we’ll leave it with,” Katie said. “Sounds good,” I said to her. I was a pretty new driver, but I had a lot of practice driving with Katie’s husband Trent on the turnpike, so I was up for it. “There’s just one more thing I need to tell you before we go inside and get the ball rolling,” Katie said. “What is it?” I asked her. “Well, as I mentioned, Rosemary killed herself, and she did it in cautiously said. Then the two of us took part in what felt like an hour-long moment love with the idea of sitting in the driver’s seat where a woman had taken her last breaths just days before, but after the seventh grade, I no longer feared death, just for the people that got left behind. “Okay, that’s kind of crazy but I’ll do it,” I told her. “Thank you, Miles. You always were so brave,” Katie said with the sort of real sincerity I forgot she possessed. Katie grabbed the keys Rosemary’s daughter had hid under the since Rosemary’s death. As we opened the door, I could smell the stale odor of kitty litter and cinnamon potpourri. The hallway and the rest oriental rugs placed sporadically throughout the messy home. In the living
fiction
44 old grand piano. Katie led me into the kitchen. The fridge was full of Rosemary’s favorite foods, fruit cocktails, old bread pudding, turkey from Thanksgiving, and two half empty handles of Tito’s Vodka, both with straws in them. We opted to not go upstairs. We thought that the girls should be upstairs had everything left that remained of their late mother. Then we opened the door to the garage and I let out a deep breath. She had apparently woken up the morning of her last day on Earth, drank about two thirds of her Tito’s, locked her two aging cats, Lily and Sophie, in the master bedroom, and got into her Sienna. She closed all the doors in the garage, got in the driver’s seat, reclined the chair all the way back, and let the car run until the carbon monoxide leaked enough to stop her heart. When we looked through the car, we saw the items she had to look at as she laid dying. There were two senior class portraits, one of Emily and one of Olivia, a photo of the cats when they were just kittens, a shattered frame with a picture of Hank and Rosemary on their wedding day, and a note that simply read, ‘I’m sorry, I just couldn’t do it anymore.’ Katie could tell just how intense this moment was, but I knew that she took me for a reason. She knew I could handle it. And in some strange and sort of messed up way, I felt happy that my mother’s sister thought We quickly and silently cleared out all the picture frames and shattered glass from the car. I pushed the driver seat back up and placed the note on the kitchen table for Rosemary’s daughters to see when they were ready. “Ok, ready to do this?” Katie asked me. “Yeah, I think so,” I replied. money for Emily and Olivia. I’m gonna start going through the furniture and everything in the house that can be sold tomorrow, so for today we’ll just focus on getting rid of the car, because the girls have both agreed to get rid of it as soon as possible so they don’t have to see it,” Katie said. I thought about how the girls must have felt and remembered what it was like to live with people constantly asking you if you’re okay or if you’re ready to talk about it.
Corridors 2020
45 Katie handed me Rosemary’s keychain, full of store membership cards, and old school photos of Emily and Olivia. She seemed to be the most typical mom, but I guess her love for the girls wasn’t enough. Katie pulled out in front of the house and waited for me to get the car on and follow her. I inserted and turned the keys and felt the engine start. Immediately the speakers started blaring, the soundtrack to Rosemary’s death, “We’ve Only Just Begun” by the Carpenters. I felt a single tear well up in the corner of my eye and stream down my face. I quickly wiped it The car was almost brand new and drove smoothly across the pavement. I followed Katie all the way to Car City. We parked next to each other and before we went in. She told me the “most important thing” I had to remember. “When we go in there and talk to these guys about why we’re selling the car, we’re not going to lie,” she said. “Okay,” I responded. “But we’re not gonna tell them the whole truth either,” she whispered to me. “What do you mean?” I asked her. “Well, I’m going to explain that I was Rosemary’s lawyer and I am the one in charge of her estate..,” “Yeah..?” “Yeah. So, I’m going to explain how she had been ill for a while, and recently just dropped dead one day, again not a lie, but not really the truth,” Katie explained. “Katie, couldn’t we get in trouble for that if they found out what happened,” I asked. “No, because we’re not going to say anything that isn’t true, we’re just going to leave out some details,” she said. “Okay, I guess that makes sense,” I added. “Why of course it does, who is going to buy a car that a woman croaked in about a week ago?” Katie uttered. I smiled and started to realize the sort of funny but fucked up nature of it all. The thought of me and Katie bullshitting some sleazy used car salesmen into buying our mobile crime scene was the kind of thing that just has to make you laugh a little. So, we walked into the dealership, and met the lead buyer, Frank
fiction
46 looked like they were about to explode and take out a customer’s eye. He asked us if we wanted something to drink, Katie had water, and I had a took Frank out to inspect the car with us and see how much he would give us. “Looks like it’s in pretty good shape,” he said. “Oh yeah, it's barely been driven,” Katie said as I quietly stood behind her. “Rosemary mostly just used it to drive to the market, or bingo,” she added. “Has it ever been in any accidents?” Frank asked. my face. I knew of one pretty major “accident” the car had been part of. “Nope, never in any accidents,” Katie replied. said. He went back inside the dealership and came back out with an hesitation. “Sold!” She said. “Great! Let me go print out the contract and write your check,” he replied. Katie and I let out a deep breath as Frank walked inside. We got rid of the car and got some money for Rosemary’s girls. Frank came back out, Katie signed the contract, and he gave her the check. Frank shook both of our hands and wished us a Merry Christmas, and with that, we got back in Katie’s car and headed back home. By now it was almost noon, so Katie suggested we stop somewhere on the turnpike and get lunch. We drove for about six miles and then pulled over at a Friendly’s. “Get whatever you want, on me, Miles,” Katie said with a smile. “Thanks, Aunt Katie,” I said as I reached for the sticky menu. I ordered a chocolate shake and fries. Katie got a salad but eyed up my food until I realized she regretted her order and wanted some of the junk. We shared the fries and I poured some of the shake into a water
Corridors 2020
47 glass for her. We ate in silence, but the sort of silence that is comforting and sweet, not awkward. Katie got a call from another client midway through our lunch, and she ran outside to take it. I sat there and tried to remember the last time I had been to Christmas show. My father took me. I wondered if Rosemary ever took Emily and Olivia to Friendly’s or at least a place like it. I imagined she did. And as I sat there drinking the last of my chocolate shake and eating the remnants of my fries, I gazed out the foggy window. I saw a perfect knowing that no one is ever really gone.
fiction
48
Mr. Bickel’s Candy and Cakes Caitlin Dwinnell Mr. Bickel lives in a three-story rowhome at 72 Cyclone Street. The house is in poor condition, for it has been around longer than anybody can remember. Friendly neighbors breathe in air that tastes of sugar and
thick icy glass, a wilting rose in a vase so shadowed that it speaks of an urn, a dark wood nightstand where the rose vase sits, and a king-sized bed with pillow sheets. This is where Mr. Bickel pretends to sleep. A spider used to live there who called herself Ryoko. For years she spun her web, unhurried, in the chilly quiet. reads, “Mr. Bickel’s Candy & Cakes” in a gothic font with a smaller sign below that says, “Please Come In ovens. It was Mr. Bickel’s mother who taught him about cakes. Though, it was Ryoko who taught him about candy. Through their time together, she taught him that you need to understand the art of spinning web to become an expert at spinning sugar. Lollipops of every swirl, chocolate bars with adores all the candy on his shelves. Yet, his favorite candy sits in a leather worn box on a glass shelf behind the store’s front counter. The leather box They’re his favorite to eat though he eats them sparingly. He promised
Corridors 2020
49 On this rainy day, children pop in frequently to ogle the rainbow array of gummies and cotton candy mountain clouds that Mr. Bickel spins for his collection. “Choose one thing,” someone’s mother says, adjusting her feathered hat. “Are you sure it’s not too sour,” asks an older gentleman in a polo shirt. Mr. Bickel helps them all. He guides their candy selection, ices preordered tiered masterpieces, and makes the little ones ache for the next time they can wander into Mr. Bickel’s Candy & Cakes. Yet, as the day goes on, Mr. Bickel feels sicker and sicker. “This one please,” says a little boy at the counter. Mr. Bickel turns, across the surface. hands, he lurches across the counter and rakes the candy away from the little boy. How did he get this? Bickel’s mind hollers in panic. can’t have this.” “This is the one I wanted though,” says the child. child approach the glass case behind the counter or understand how he even managed to reach the leather worn box on the top shelf. Any which way, it was time for Mr. Bickel to be more careful. Mr. Bickel escorted the boy from the store, giving him a lollipop for his troubles. The day continues. Mr. Bickel boxes a cake for a baby shower, a graduation, a sweatshirt and prepares a sack of chocolate-covered cashews for a rickety nun from the local chapel. Mr. Bickel feels a sharp pain shoot through his arm, he heaves forward, a cold sweat forming at the base of his neck. the highest shelf of his special glass case and moves the box to a hidden corner of the front counter. As he takes the box down, he curses the things knocked out of place by the boy’s midday climb.
fiction
50 Mr. Bickel removes the lid of his leather box and lays it delicately to know that the contents are accounted for. What if some are missing? Such worries storm through Bickel’s mind. With Ryoko’s spun sugar, as strong as it is, Bickel knows that consuming Mr. Bickel’s counting is interrupted by a woman. She apologizes for entering the store near closing time. Mr. Bickel is not quite ready to respond. There is an acute ringing, bouncing from ear to ear that forces Bickel to stagger a bit. He catches himself against the counter. The woman is alarmed by Bickel’s physical state but attempts to mask her concern under a polite smile. She describes the cake that she’s and hands it to the woman. Bickel stands at the front of his store, locking the door to 72 Cyclone Street behind the woman as she leaves. With ears still ringing and pains panging throughout his body, he looks down to see that he has attached to the rest of his arm. Bickel looks back at his leather worn box twist and a snap, the rest of his arm falls to the ground, then his right leg, his good arm forward to slap the counter. He fumbles around until he Bickel pants in relief. He closes his eyes and swallows as his body begins to crawl back together.
Corridors 2020
51
Not a Meet-Cute Katie Elizabeth Shiber I’d like to imagine that the woman behind the counter woke up today at 5:00 a.m. and thought about how musical the rain sounded against her rooftop. That she picked out her favorite black t-shirt from text from a friend who was thinking of her and that her cat hopped up on the sink and nuzzled against her chest as she brushed her teeth. I’d like to think she looked at herself in the mirror, smiled, and said, 'It’s going to be a good freaking day,' as if to cue the introductory credits to a low-stakes romantic comedy. at 1:00 p.m., I walked up to the counter, looking up at the chalkboard menu suspended above her head and squinted because my glasses were sitting at home on my bedside table. I looked down at her, making eye you do when you think the barista is judging you even though it is literally blue ceramic mug. She handed it to me, warning me to be careful, it’s hot, and I smiled in the place of a thank you. I moved to the condiment bar, careful not to spill, and added some half and half and a packet of sugar. Then I sat down at a table near the window and tried to get some work done, but found myself distracted, thinking about how I might look from her point of view. Worried she might be watching me, I found myself taking my hair down from its tightly wound bun and smoothing the ends, making sure there was no stray eyeliner in the creases beneath my eyes. I opened my laptop and took out a book to try and look busy, sipping after me. I watched as she smiled warmly at each of them and told them about today’s specials: pineapple upside-down pancakes and black bean
fiction
52 I thought about how maybe she strolled into work right on time this morning and said good morning to the boss and the line cooks before taking the chairs down from the tabletops. She probably spent the morning taking orders and making drinks and counting change so that no matter how many times she washed them. I hoped her tip jar was almost full by the end of the morning rush, and that the creepy guy who’s probably asked for her number more than once decided not to come in today. I watched the blinking cursor of my blank word document until 1:12 p.m., imagining her morning. I knew it was 1:12 p.m. because it was charging toward the woman. Her eyes were big and shocked, and I hoped I was right about her morning. I was sure she didn’t deserve to have seen this coming. The man, dressed in khaki slacks and a blue t-shirt, wore no mask. mask wouldn’t help much anyway, but he didn’t appear to care much if he was caught. He held the gun at an odd angle, like the only other man he’d seen hold a gun was a teenage shooter on CSI: Miami. His body was tense and sweaty, and he shifted his weight from one foot to the other. New to this, I thought. “What are you doing, Jim?” she asked, her voice level and calm as her eyes watched the gun. Not only was it a man she knew, but she spoke as if she could’ve expected this, and his name was Jim. Couldn’t write something scarier if I tried. I’d like to imagine that it was at this moment that I launched myself out of my seat, disarmed Jim, the stock footage gunman, and became the lesbian superhero the world deserved. That I pinned him to triumphant citizen’s arrest. And as the police took my statement, the woman behind the counter and I locked eyes and shared an unspoken, powerful moment where our love story would begin. But of course, that’s not what happened because Jim was an unimpressive, sorry excuse for a villain, and I was too much of a coward to move. And as soon as the cops arrived, not 20 minutes past one o’clock, he lowered his gun and submitted to arrest because, in the end, Jim was just a weak man who felt powerful behind his gun. And I was a fearful woman who felt powerful
Corridors 2020
53 behind her story. And the woman behind the counter was an ordinary person just trying to do her goddamn job.
fiction
Thomas Merton
The Local Lauren Fallon
Glory Rome, Italy Jack Finnegan
Park Bench Panorama Jordan McLeod
Couple in Copenhagen Alexandria Vigliotti
The Faces We Wear
The Faces We Wear
The Faces We Wear
A Silhouette of Nature Amaris Greene
Lady Zenyatta
Tennessee Kayla Cristofoletti
Double Doors Jordan McLeod
The Moon Victoria Martini
Makeshift Manikins Lauren Fallon
Desired Aesthetic Sienna Whalen
“Poetry is the rhythmical creation of beauty in words.” Edgar Allan Poe
Poetry
72
A Couple of Things Mary Sutton sometimes it’s pretty words on pieces of paper, shared between two girls whose smiles never fade, like their outlooks on the world after a cold day of running and laughing, counting heartbeats instead of minutes; hands ‘round mugs like feelings wrapped around moments in time like sparklers in the rain like York in the spring like combos on a shelf sometimes it’s time passing with Dorothy Day sunrises and neon moons, sung quietly on bus seats and later sung together with hairbrushes as microphones and arms out wide swaying to the words of a broken heart sometimes it’s you on the couch, remembering,
Corridors 2020
73 replaying the events of our upbringing, running over leaves in the fall, spending time with our moms, growing with the sun as she keeps us warm sometimes it’s spilled chili sometimes it’s Our Father sometimes it’s not seeing you enough today and sometimes it’s a combination of all these things, good in every way, that bring two girls together yes, sometimes it’s a combination.
poetry
74
White Hot Fire Angie Kanavy lily white skin and bright, sunny beach days are star-crossed. it’s a shame, for i do love to sun myself, to curl up on a beach chair like a snake, cold blooded, warming my bones after a chilly dip in the muddy brown ocean. i like watching the ways my freckles darken, the way new ones form tiny constellations on my skin. tracing triangles and Ursa Major is a favorite pastime. my brother wants the chair. i don’t want to move, but my mother gives me a look. and migrate to the towel in the sand that rests underneath the evergreen umbrella. i lie down, book in my hands, my elbows prop me up, my legs jut out behind me, out of reach of the sacred shade. eating up words like my grandmother eats her chocolate licorice. i can feel the tell-tale heat on the back of my legs, it’s a pleasant, dangerous warmth, i want to see how far i can go.
Corridors 2020
75 here is what comes to follow: the worst burn of my life, of myself), sticky aloe-vera that tints my skin mint green, aggravation. a four hour car ride home, legs slathered in orange-scented, too-greasy lotion and propped up so i don’t ruin the black leather seats of my mother’s Subaru. rage: anger so potent i’m drunk on it only after a few sips. an outpouring of self-defense against the slander and ill-treatment from my brother (for a minute, i forget what it feels like to hurt; my burns are a distant memory. i feel like an exploding star— it’s beautiful). immobility, ice-cold showers, ibuprofen, and a vow that this won’t happen again until next summer.
poetry
76
An Apple A Day Steven Greenberg Sweet little Sasha sat carelessly at the edge of her chair, waiting for the doctor to call them into the exam room. Sasha held Mommy’s hand “Alrighty Sasha, stand against the wall. Straight up, like a soldier. Fifty-four inches. Now, up onto the scale. A tad on the upside, dear. an apple a day keeps the doctor away.” Sasha stared up at the doctor with the same teary-eyed pouty-face she’d make if Mommy forgot to tuck her in at night and whimpered, “But, I love my lollipops.” “I know, Sweetie, but we want you to be skinny and healthy.” So, skinny means healthy? Monday at school, Sasha opened her lunch box. A lollipop and a green apple Sasha ate the sandwich and the lollipop, and then she took a bite of the green apple.
Corridors 2020
77
grade. Summer break arrived and then left as quickly as it came, along with her love for Savory lemonade on a hot June afternoon—calories Snowcones from the ice cream man—sugar Hot dogs on the Fourth of July—fat and carbs September rolled around and Sasha was ready to start the sixth grade.
A lollipop and a green apple were tucked between her turkey and cheese. Sasha ate half of the sandwich and the lollipop, and then she took two bites of the green apple. If I do this all year, I bet I’ll be skinnier. Repeating her routine all through winter break, Sasha was excited to see the doctor for her check-up. “Alrighty Sasha, up against the wall. Fifty-seven inches. Now, up onto the scale. Eighty pounds. A nice little growth spurt, dear. an apple a day keeps the doctor away.” Sasha’s mouth dropped and her pupils shot wide open.
poetry
78 I’m… heavier? A lollipop and a green apple were sitting beside her roast beef on rye. Sasha took one bite of the sandwich and one lick of the lollipop, and then she ate the entire green apple. A lollipop and a green apple were placed next to her pepperoni with provolone. Sasha dropped the sandwich and the lollipop into the trash can. But, she still ate the entire green apple. When Sasha came home from school Mommy asked, “What would you like for dinner, Sweetie?” “Just another green apple.” “You have to eat more than that.” “No Mommy, I won’t do it.” “But why, Sweetie? Don’t you want to grow?” “No, I want to be skinny. Just like the doctor said.” An apple a day keeps the doctor away.
Corridors 2020
79
Quahogs Her favorite days Were the few spent with her father. Ocean air peppered with salt, Wistful thinking. In Galilee, throwing out tight-knit nets to catch clams, She always thought it was strangely biblical For a man who never believed in Jesus.
poetry
80
Warm Mouth. Georgia Hamann My sister had this grand plan. She was always clever, always thirsting for the dark. We talked of diving down and washing through and through miles or minutes of underground water, while we drove an hour to the starting point. ‘Cold dark deep’ and utterless-ly sweet, the crisp and muted air… ‘Back, behind us’ the slate-gray yawn of Lost Johns’ Cave gaped. Golden gloom, encroached by a swarming indigo, our torches guide the way, passing stones dripping in black cave blood, following the cold humidity into the depths of the cavernous maw. I have felt its embrace many a time, many, tight squeezes and passages twined labyrinthine. Then, a dark basin of glass to press into. If you go up too soon, you’ll hit your helmet on the roof, and the jolt will make your lungs clench, your body begins to think that the dark has taken you back, as if swallowed into Cave-Mother’s womb that slicks and pushes and presses water around you in an alchemy stone that reminds you: you have always been looking for home. happy to swim into the throat of a beast.
Corridors 2020
81
Don’t Touch Her Black Locks Baby girl, with long dark luxurious curly hair, always causing people to be curious and stare. Her skin glowing and vibrant from care. But, of course, white people must want to fuck it all up without permission and grip her hair. It’s entertaining how white people are amused with a black girl’s hair, but do not take the time to understand why it’s so unfair (to be prejudiced), to even remotely touch her hair. Long dark luxurious curly hair always has to get compared to the other white girl’s hair. No one addresses the usually puts it in a bun and the magic is just there. Thick hair, thick hair...always causes white people to point, judge, and stare...with the curls popping and standing high in the air, you must think we may not care about our hair. Our buns are our crowns standing high in the sky. So stop asking things about our hair like “how?” and “why?”
poetry
82
Tugging on My Shoulders Sean McMenamin As a species, we continuously claw at concepts we cannot handle. We cannot understand the units of measure that tick reality, so we invent the word time to venture a guess. We cannot understand a world before or after us, possible explanation. Every motivator of faith invites a counter of visual truths. I am unsure if these thoughts are trailblazers for discovering or following the trail, while chained to the demon on my shoulder. and monsters, trying to uncover the many mysteries of our existence, Iliad? Yet, when I rest on the kneeler, and hang on the pew, the presence is there. The spirit on the other shoulder tugs on my heart like harp strings, trying to play a song. Some days it is melodic. Some days it is discord. The struggle to trust exists even with the higher power. Quivering without a weapon in hand, I stand unarmed to handle my Goliath.
Corridors 2020
83 While the future king was armed with faith and sling, my questions are stones tied to my wrists and ankles, drowning me in a sea of temptation. yet when evil strikes the modern world, Why wait for the torrents when you know they will never appear? Are the teachings of the wise just padding that comforts our minds from what we cannot conceive? Or has the Tree of Knowledge rotted my ability to believe?
poetry
84
Great Views at 180 South Jefferson Grace Alyea I looked out over the night city and I watched it all bloom before me. The window became my eyes and vines curled over my hands. Flowers sprouted from the desk and trees grew from within the buildings. I watched metal crumble and boulders move, I saw seasons pass and wheat sprout during fall. storms whipped through and leaves were ripped from their branches. When it snowed, it was quieter than it had ever been when I was alone. Then winter melted and spring rushed in like rivers. Shadows moved between trees, words were spoken by moving mouths and suddenly children were building with rocks. like water bubbling up to the brim. It spilled over the edges, the ground snapped and fell away piece by piece until I was eyes in an eternal blue. No ups, no downs. Nothing to distinguish me from endlessness.
Corridors 2020
85 I forced feeling, and poked holes in the blue and behind it was black. I tore at the tissue and found I had legs to push through the hole. I pulled it all down and watched as it melted. Old newspaper in new rainwater. I reached out with arms discovering the heat of stars. I kicked a planet just to watch it soar. A wind sent it all spinning and I spun, spun, spun until all the astral bits and bobs became faint pinpricks of light on my ceiling. I rolled onto my side to gaze between the legs of my desk chair and at the cars which ran at imperceptible speeds.
poetry
86
Colors Katerina Solonos The sky cries, its screams, drowned by a piercing sound, resonating from bombs hitting the ground where gunshots brought my grandmother to her knees, her soul bleeding out into the road that carried me to school, two days before. Dirt turns to mud beneath my feet, from the tears of loved ones desperately grabbing for arms, trying to save mothers fathers children lovers. Soon, only recognizable from faded photographs, smuggled under ripped clothing over foreign lines. From a mountaintop, my sisters watch our village, the only home we had ever and the bones of our neighbors.
from my beaten, calloused hands, clutching the colors of my once beloved land. One last glance, I leave behind the life I will never get back.
Corridors 2020
87
The Ducks The ducks that swam in the Brandywine creek are still waddling, wondering when we’ll return. Late winter walks we took alongside the fallen branches and translucent water, killing time before time would kill you. While eulogies praised how much you accomplished in eighteen years, the ducks that skimmed across the pond—unblinkingly shimmying from one chore to another—remind me of all the Returning to the creek by my lonesome, as the stale winter air grew into the vibrant fragrance of spring, I sat by the ducks that returned my glance as does a smiling newborn unaware of Thanksgiving family drama, assigning your name to the only mallard unfazed by my presence.
poetry
88
The Secret of Vows Keelin Marie Ferdinandsen We had to swallow our pride when we took our vows; it shouldn't have been that way, but I loved that part of your mind that was swimming, always making colors out of gray areas, like when you told me that even the Empire State Building gets struck by lightning twenty-four times per year, but still stands tall. I could never explain how you were pure even though you were decaying. But at the same time, I feared you'd combust before me and I'd witness your descent into depths I could not reach. I married you anyway. As long as there was some semblance of hope, I could carry on. As long as you didn't grow your hair out long only to chop it all to evenings that thundered with silence. As long as you didn't go weeks without showering and I didn't have to remind you, sometimes washing your hair for you. You did all of these things. I loved you all the same. And even through all that, when I saw you with blood on your even through the bad words we used to describe one another, even through the waning feelings you bore me and the tired expressions on your face when we made love—your forgetful manner, like when that you’d write up and never bring. You forgot about our love the same way. The grocery list on the counter was us: eggs that our son would use to pelt the kid next door who called you insane because somehow everyone found out about your fractured state, and you got sad because you thought the neighbors were talking, whole
Corridors 2020
89 on those good days when work wasn't on your mind and neither was the pain, cereal to occupy bowls that would inevitably stack up What's to be said when you're gone and your carnage still lingers? I did not expect that I'd come to love all of your mind, gummy and merciful. You were artistic and thoughtful even though I know this might have been the universe asking too much of your cracking, stained-glass soul. To be blessed with the eyes of a poet is a death you for disturbing my universe. I always thought that this was what they meant when they had us agree to love each other “for better or for worse.” I didn’t know that it could get so bad. But I suppose I might have fallen in love with trying to save you. I wanted so badly to be your hero. But I could never be anything more than what I was. And I’m sorry, I’m sorry that I was not your cure…but at least least a single transparent moment, emancipated from time and reality, existing completely in its own dimension and that much is boundless.
poetry
90
Madison Ross Or, so I was told as little legs made their presence known within my hands sealed tight. Scraped knees carry me through the high grass that tickles my ankles and the not-too-dark that comes before night. My hands glow like burning embers— a pulsing light leaks out from the spaces Little legs walk through the wrinkles of my palms. from one spot to the next. The screen door slaps— my attention shifts. I’m alone and suddenly the dark is much darker. Once again, the screen door slaps but it’s my heels it narrowly misses. My dad is the last to say goodnight with a kiss on the cheek. as I wait for morning when single cent coins will sit in their place. Or, so I was told.
Corridors 2020
91
Should each year I shed my skin in search of a part of me I lost, a part of me that doesn’t know what it is, what it wants to be, what it should be. should: the worst word in the English language.
poetry
92
Heilige Nacht (O Holy Night) Angie Kanavy she’s dancing in the Englischer Garten to a song of her own design, a little bit drunk on Hofbräu and the mere joy of being there, a stolen glass Stein hidden under a black-and-white bomber jacket and copious amounts of laughter. she can’t remember the last time she’s been this happy (she won’t remember how just how happy until later, when Babs reminds her). the bus ride to the hotel is full of ridiculous songs and she sings all the words like they’re sacred, brought down from the mount by Moses. she sits on the windowsill, looking down into the street glazed with the dark red-orange hues of dusk, full of the low murmurs of German conversation. she aches in want something more. she takes it. her German is abysmal, but she’s learning— the pride she feels when ordering a drink auf Deutsch time blows Ulysses out of the water.
Corridors 2020
93 dancing and singing with friends and strangers turned friends in the dark is new to her, she feels like a new-born babe— staring at the ceiling and reaching for the light, like it's tangible. maybe it is. Ich liebe Deutschland!
poetry
94
Egg Custard Georgia Hamann Across the road from a small, mossy graveyard squats a chipped-white snowball stand with gravel parking spaces and weathered picnic benches in thick-bladed grass. spring. I’d stand beside her on the gravel, tilting this and that way on a rock beneath my shoe-soles, and hold onto the spoons she’d hand me. Then, we’d sit at a table and share a Styrofoam cup full of glistening orange slush. Egg custard—my mother’s favorite—and My nose would wrinkle and eyes squint, cold ice pinching the front of my brain. Later, when the slush was gone, we would go across the street and walk through the emerald shade, refreshed, reading names and epitaphs and trying, in our little game, to It’s strange to be eight and hold your mother’s hand and learn that people lived and died before you, and that the trees overhead were saplings when girls your age were buried here in the clay-thick soil by families just like yours.
Corridors 2020
95
Power Amber Davis When others tell you to sit down It’s spreading your truth When it’s an uncommon opinion Through generations of trials It’s remembering those before us Although they’re not in the history books It’s not suppressing our greatness Or projecting your fear It’s not being willfully ignorant Or refusing to admit you’re wrong But refuse to let you be right It’s taking control of your life Instead of allowing someone else to lead it When others fear it It’s knowing you’re beautiful Though some say otherwise It’s not bullying those who want change Or who dare to stand against you It’s not telling people, “Go back to where you came from” Or putting them in cages because they sought refuge
Some of us use it While others abuse it
poetry
96
the mathematics of self Keelin Marie Ferdinandsen i. ask me about liquor. ask me about how much we love the things that burn us. ask me about the things that leave scars and how we wear our skin when skin is all we have, when the nurses have taken our belongings and bagged them up, when all we have is skin and bones and blood and guts. ask me questions no one has any answers to, questions that have been agonized over for centuries. i want to feel philosophical. i want to feel profound, like i am seeing something that everyone else is not. compassion is a needle in your arm. comfort is misery. coping is a bottle of kentucky gentleman. ii. can we do as god did in his creation stories and restart? pluck out the good ones and put them on a ship so they are the only ones left when everything else ceases. you and i wouldn’t want to be on that ship and maybe that is why we do our best to distance ourselves from the earthly angels. we oppose the actions of the clean.
Corridors 2020
97 the beer bottles stacking up in the corners of the apartment and the laundry left undone. week. we need to know that they still work. we need weapons to feel any sort of control at all in these times. i would pray if our hawken could no longer send pigeons crashing to earth and maybe begin to believe that a god somewhere really does want iii. i cared not for faces until i saw yours. i heard nothing until you spoke. you are like a piece of blacklisted art. they all told you that you are dangerous. dear one, if you are dangerous, then let me be put at risk. if you are dangerous, then so am i. i realize that personhood feels like a distant memory between those walls. the winds are low and meditative would feel like life had given you its reparations right now. iv. i am trying to get in touch with one of your patients. he’s with the psychiatrist right now, but i can tell him to call you back.
poetry
98 i am trying to get in touch with one of your patients. ma’am, the patients have all gone to bed for the night. you can call again in the morning. you are not dead. you did not overpower yourself as you had intended to. so then why don’t i feel you in my bed? why don’t i smell you on my pillow? v. there’s something to be said for the mess that i become when i am somewhere north of lonely, somewhere i cannot comprehend connection anymore, where i am cold no matter where i am, you to eat. there is something to be said for the face in the mirror that you do not recognize, from the tilt of your head to the wrinkle in your brow, the mathematics of the self, the very fundamentals of being human in an inhuman, hungry world. these equations were lost on me, somewhere amidst the uneaten boxes of chinese food and the pictures that never made it on the wall. vi. you say,
Corridors 2020
99 humanity annihilated? sounds pretty fucking lonely, if you ask me. i nod my head in agreement as purple rain pulls me back into a place where i can retreat, where i can turn my head to the left and see you, and we are driving as we have so many times before, completing a landscape that someone out there must be painting, and it is right here that i do not have to call a hospital to reach you, and right here that i would freeze everything and warn myself not to move forward into another day, somewhere you are tangible once more, where i can envision love and feel its warmth whenever you turn to your right and see me.
poetry
100
Skin .
Emma Hagedoorn
As I lay in the tub, I dragged my nails on my skin. Down my arms, across my shoulders, up my legs, around my stomach, all over my chest. You could say I was exfoliating, ridding my body of the dead skin. But as I scratched and scratched at my body, made soft by the water, I had one intention. I wanted this layer of skin to go down the drain along with my thoughts of us. I wanted my skin to be new. I wanted a new layer to hold me tight, which you don’t do anymore. I wanted, No... I needed skin that had not been touched or seen by you.
Corridors 2020
101
Naranjas Jill Fury When I think of Spain, I think of oranges— Not the fruits hanging from the trees of Córdoba, Sevilla, but the naranjas I ate, sliced and sprinkled with sugar in a tiny kitchen in Alcalá. I think of the hand that fed me, the body, heart, smile, soul I think of the love that sat— nestled— in that palm, outstretched towards my lips—drink. I think of the faith that those hands held, no rosary long enough for the prayer that lived within her. Rezos y amor y naranjas con azucar. She told me she was not permitted to hate anyone, and she didn’t. She didn’t cling to God or seek him, either; She knew he sat in her kitchen beside her, beside me. I know that, if she could, she would slice up an orange sprinkle it with sugar and place it in front of Him. Even the strong, the immortal, the holy need something sweet.
poetry
102
Alexandra Lijewski The brick house trembling. We hide beneath the staircase, as harsh words clash through the thick, smoky air. as the heat rushes from their mouths. Hidden in the small, black square, the world shrinks—heated plastic. The wooden stairs disintegrate. The volume in the kitchen, spitting at its max. Throbbing words piercing through earplugs, this is what she hears, all she knows. Mother and father, lost in the smoke of a thousand words. We retreat, pounding and pushing on the rickety wooden planks, escaping the spitting embers, the rising fog. Green paint, wet, now seeping the walls of her room
The headphones, securely tucked around her head, the volume at its max. God’s hands covering her ears. Deafening silence as she falls asleep.
Corridors 2020
103
smoke, She breathes clearly.
poetry
104
In West Baltimore Kelly Williamson cushioned by the expected. An anxious age arrives wide awake, jolting. I see them run for the streets. Averting their tragedy, only to create another. The sun shines silently. They lurk on the sidelines. to see what the world will take away from them. I hope they are soon understood. That our breaths become mingled. That the blue skies don’t frighten me. The sun will shine loudly, screaming, forcing the most guarded to listen.
Corridors 2020
105
Last Poem for You Katerina Solonos In the darkness, I trace the hills and valleys that make up your silhouette, letting my lips prance across the skin that the Sun has spent her day kissing, leaving her shadow for weeks to come. I yearn to take her place, knowing that after the moon sets tonight, so will our time; in the morning she will rise again and you will follow her light while I will fade like the scar which runs like a river from the basin of your collarbone to the mountaintop of your shoulder. I pray that the memories of nights we spent tangled in moonlit sheets of your mind, so that when you gaze at the landscape of your body, you feel my hands roaming and wonder if in another life, we could have lasted.
poetry
106
alternative names for black girls Niara Johnson 1. if all african sunsets were lilac skies 2. the ripe of sublime 3. the timidity of curves in abstract objects 4. inaudible words in between vernacular 5. the hunger of snaps 7. taming a mane hungry for the coils of radical 10. the nuance of a muse 12. bare breasts browned by rays 13. say any name 14. when cities sleep at night 16. colors that look damn good on you 17. the sway, the swaying, the swang of hips 18. brown eyes under canary lights
Corridors 2020
107
Philia inseparable, knotted by fate’s hands. what a shame! your words carve valleys on your tongue and you cower. you’re still alive, yet every morning I swallow a capsule of grief the gouge in my back as chasmic as we were. in return, you painted me bronze. ~ these ellipses, a myriad. this existence, a mere second amidst Helios’ chariot rides. so quickly dissolved; returned to the earth, welcomed home. but the goddess still wept.
poetry
108
My room 19 After Dorris Lessing’s "To Room Nineteen"
Hodavia Kalombo My room 19 It belongs to me! Not even you deserve to see it I do not need to show it I have nothing to prove My room 19 The darkness of my heart My red-light district, Friday the 13, and green Envy, I am so envious My room 19 I want everyone to like me I want you to adore me My room 19 Stinks The voluntary stench of fear Voluntary slavery My room 19 There is a kid under the bed She has been there for a while she never grows up My room 19 Me I only know this room All the other rooms are common rooms
Corridors 2020
109
tawny Niara Johnson tawny is ancestral plains of diaspora, not yet eroded by the aegean rains of colonialism it is the leather your parents wore as they swayed to jazz consuming their condition, or slate window lineless spaces where the Black condition exists without nooses turned heads, reminding us that we exist because of chaos tawny is the beauty of monotonous brown, why we still fall into adulation with people with umber eyes, boring and bewitching
poetry
“A picture is a poem without words.” Horace
Bari, Italy Jordan McLeod
Montauk on 35 mm Alexandria Vigliotti
Piha Beach, NZ Emma Hagedoorn
Emma Schmall
Love Birds Emma Schmall
Midsummer, Nashville Lauren Fallon
Catch the Light Lauren Fallon
El Dorado Leah Dillingham
Their Eyes Jennifer Miegs
Maniae Kayla Cristofoletti
Pink Galaxy Jordan McLeod
Insomnia I Jennifer Miegs
Bipolar I Jennifer Miegs
Brianna Bailey
Beck Clark Dalton
Non FIcTION
128
¿Que tu no sabes qué son amarillos? P. Angelica Casillas Growing up in a Hispanic house meant that there was no room to be lazy. Every time I came back from school my mom would prepare dinner. I would come up behind her, leaning over her shoulder asking, “¿Cuándo va a estar lista?”1 She would give me the snarkiest look saying, “Ya vas a empezar?”2 You see, my mother is what I call a “kitchen freak,” she despises when I get in the way of her cooking. Nevertheless, food was always served every afternoon. I would always know when the food was whole apartment. The smell of cubitos de pollo3 would mix with the arróz con gandules,4 summoning me to the dinner table. You see, when I think of home, I immediately relate it to food. I think of my abuelas5 and how they’re going to start cooking up a storm when I come back. But home is so far away now, and I’ve had to accept that gringo rice isn’t the same as my arróz Goya no matter how many times I order it, or how may times I close my eyes and pretend it is. My diet has gone from being colorful and nutritious to fried and bland. I American, and Mexican food. has a very diverse gastronomy. Arróz con habichuelas y bistec, pastelón
1
When will it be ready?
2
Are you going to start with me again?
3 4
Rice with pigeon peas.
5
Grandmothers.
Corridors 2020
129 de papa, pasteles and my personal favorite, mofongo.6 Mofongos aren’t authentic taste we are used to. A mix of fried plantains, garlic, oil, salt, pepper, and butter is required. Herbs like oregano, basil, or cilantro aren’t required to make the mofongo taste good, but it’s probably the secret ingredient my grandma refuses to disclose. After everything is
I had to ask what a lot of foods were. I had no problem pronouncing them, but wrapping my mouth around them did come with practice. For starters, tater tots. What a weird concept. Americans have found a new way to make fried potatoes—what a revelation. It’s like they can’t have the same damn thing. Back at home we make baked potatoes and call it a day. I remember talking to my friend Natalie on the phone and telling her about the new “species of fried potato” I had encountered. “¿Tatel tots? ¿Qué carajo es eso?”7 it. How do you tell a person that’s used to eating rich foods, that you’ve been eating fried potatoes...that aren’t French fries? I remember walking through the university’s cafeteria a couple of months ago and smelling what I thought was something familiar. The caramel smell invaded my senses and carried me towards it. “Amarillitos!”8 I yelled. My roommate looked at me as if I was crazy. “What are those?” she asked. “¿Que tu no sabes qué son amarillos?”9 I answered back.
6
Rice with beans and steak, potato pie, a type of tamale made with pork in Adobo sauce
encased in green banana masa, wrapped in banana leaves; and fried plantains mashed into a ball. 7
known for substituting r’s for l’s. 8
Caramelized plantains.
9
"You're telling me you don't know what amarillos are?"
nonfiction
130 Given that my roommate is half Colombian, I’d think that she’d know what amarillitos are. But alas, she didn’t, and as I reached the front of the line I asked the lady, “Can I just have a plate of those?” She saw my Cheshire cat smile and didn’t hesitate to give me what I asked for. Walking back towards the table, I realized that I wasn’t home, so the amarillos were probably not going to taste so good. But as I sat there, fork in hand and eyes wide, I realized, that this was the closest to home I had felt since I’d gotten here. So even if the amarillitos weren’t that good, I me telling everyone what I was eating. So I closed my eyes, I raised my
Corridors 2020
131
A Black Hole Keelin Marie Ferdinandsen Do not be mistaken. This is not a story centered around a budding romance. Julia Stiles will not play me in a movie. This is simply a story about brotherhood and how important that word is to me. I never brought my friends home to meet my family when I was allowed me to attend school in Manhattan. I could not let them know that I had taken this freedom to befriend alcoholics and atheists. We chose to could not see us smoke our cigarettes. Being raised in the suburbs of New York forces you to appreciate the thrill of stepping over train tracks seconds before a Grand Centralbound train jets past, carrying every type of person—from baseball fans to hostile commuters to wannabe Samantha Jones types with little dogs in their laps. It makes you appreciate the local restaurants with Guatemalan chefs who call you Preciosa and teach you how to make cappuccinos. It makes you feel something whenever you picture those late-night diner runs where you sit and laugh until your head is spinning and the waiter time I was seventeen, I had experienced both the urban and suburban Sitting through Sunday Mass, next to faces that had become all too recognizable, allotted me plenty of time to fantasize about the comforting lure of the degenerates I’d chosen to call my friends. I can recall sitting on the Manhattan sidewalk, littered with syringes and plastic THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU shopping bags, accompanied by Cygnus Fierro, an old friend of my ex-boyfriend. plagued by rumors that followed him around like a shy friend at a party.
nonfiction
132 at the dim stars above. To my disappointment, light pollution had made the sky devoid of anything beautiful and shimmering. falls. Any sensible New Yorker would likely tell you the same thing. Most of the bars and restaurants didn’t seem all too inviting anymore; they were too dark to look in through the window. Homeless men cackled and cussed and asked us for cigarettes. “Don’t give them any,” warned Cygnus. “They’ll swarm like geese.” The occasional crowd of drunk NYU students passed by the window with its display of secondhand crap and a neon sign that read WE BUY GOLD. The city used to be a place of refuge, where my family and I would escape to at Christmastime to see the train show at the Botanical Gardens, and where I would whisper “I love you” to a boy I once knew amidst the chaos of Grand Central. But now, here I was with Cygnus, who was only 17 years old and suddenly homeless— cast out by his own mother the day she discovered him in her bed with a prostitute. I was in no rush to get home, so I was keeping him company. The rest of our friends were all too preoccupied to attend to this new mess Cyg had made for himself, but now he was keeping warm alongside the homeless, who he so often berated. “I’m real sorry my parents said no,” I felt somewhat guilty that he could not spend the night at my house. He laughed all at once. “Can you blame them?” “It’s just that it’s going to get so cold tonight.” “Don’t worry about it. It’s just for tonight. I’ll be at my dad’s tomorrow.” There was nothing innately broken about the way he said this, but I had always known that breaking is a process. Cygnus had only spoken highly of his time spent with close friends. Friends, who were moving in the same direction, for the most part, which meant that he was now somewhere on the outside of all of that. We would all be acts of mischief, and he was not coming with us. There were some broken things that could not be repaired by cinnamon whiskey, and he was facing an emanate future that was daunting and maybe that scared him to death. Cygnus Fierro was always eager to be on the move. Whenever he returned to the Bronx after spending time upstate with his
Corridors 2020
133 father, we would always greet him at the train station and surround him with excitement. I could see in his eyes that he felt unworthy whenever we did this. I cannot say that this surprised me at all. What do you do with a life when there is nothing you want to accomplish? “This is what I needed,” he said, placing a fresh cigarette in between his teeth. “Now I know it’s time for me to leave the city. I’ve been searching for a good enough reason for a while now.” Somehow, in recent years, I have found myself treading water in the same way that Cygnus always had. Now that I have looked despair in something of a mosquito bite, a mild inconvenience that did not require much attention. He lay his wartorn body down in the arms of Hell’s Kitchen that night and thought nothing of it the following morning. When he arrived at his father’s home upstate, ash and piss caked into his palms, he was greeted by his father with some vague apathy. “How long will you be sticking around this time?” that his father may start to think himself a charitable man for taking in his own deadbeat son. “Since Mom doesn’t want me around anymore…” Mr. Fierro disapproved, but his disapproval was marked by heavy heartedness rather than outrage, which was perhaps everything the parent of a black hole should be. “Don’t you dare make any moves for my liquor cabinet this time.” “Cygnus X-1 was born from the collapse of a great star,” Cyg had told me one summer as we sat together in Sergio Marchesi’s backyard, is stellar-mass black hole. I wish I knew more about space…maybe I’d have a better understanding of who I am.” With that, we laughed and I started to think that maybe all of us are mistaking something beautiful for something terrifying. Sergio’s backyard was a safe haven where we belittled him for his family’s suspected mob ties, which everyone believed because of the leopard skin rugs in the living room and the money counter in his father’s Game of Thrones and the others tried to feign interest even though they had never seen the
nonfiction
134 show. Jar from his house. Orion hopped a fence just to catch one. Cygnus stood up on the picnic table, a beer in his right hand and a cigarette in between his lips, and plucked a few from the air, as if he was snatching stars from the night sky. I had been standing in the kitchen, waiting for my ride to appear when I saw him standing out there—the light of the citronella candle dimming. He had been clutching the little jar, massacred with minute the lid, and waited for the insects to crawl out. When they did not seem to realize that he was going to let them escape, he grew frustrated. His frustration burst through with a smash as he cast the jar to the ground. The glass shattered in the same way that waves do when they night. Cygnus X-1 is about 6,070 light years from Earth, according to NASA. Sometimes this is how far my dear friend of the same name felt from me. It was as if he did not want anyone to see his mind for the vortex it was. Maybe I should not have wanted to know more, but he pulled me in like black holes do. This was not supposed to be his ending. When I started writing his story, I had an ending in mind. I would have said that I have not heard from him in years. The last I heard, he was living in Bethlehem and managing a McDonald's. This would not have been an ideal ending, but there could have been some hope buried deep inside of it. Somehow being in a place called Bethlehem could have meant that he would end up a for tradition, or religion for that matter. This will not be his ending now. It breaks my heart to end this story as I will. He does not deserve this. In my memory, he is standing the funeral home where the wake for our friend Jovian’s mother is, and he is wearing a green sweater and dusty jeans since he does not own a suit. He is embracing Jovian, his friend since childhood, and somehow Cyg’s compassion means more than any amount of relatives dressed in black. My memories of him provide me with the ending he is entitled to. If I am to tell the truth in every aspect, I must leave nothing out. Would he have it
Corridors 2020
135 any other way? A 2009 study found that one in every ten male high school dropouts end up in prison. Cygnus was no exception. After moving to Bethlehem, he ran into trouble with the law—regularly engaging in public drunkenness and other such behaviors. Last winter, he stole a car while he was intoxicated. He became a statistic, which was his destiny. Dropouts commit roughly 75% of crimes in the United States. The last time I saw Cygnus, we were separated by a wall of glass, and were speaking through telephones even though we were looking at each other face-to-face. I asked him the only thing anybody ever asks people in jail: “How are you doing?” It was as if I had asked him some great, overwhelming question that had been agonized over for centuries by philosophers and scientists— something no one had ever discovered the answer to. Finally, he threw his head back and muttered, “No one’s ever asked me that before.” Works Cited Space, 11 July 2019, https://www.space.com/15421-black-holesfacts-formation-discovery-sdcmp.html. Dunbar, Brian. “Cygnus X-1: A Stellar Mass Black Hole.” NASA, NASA, https://www.nasa.gov/mission_pages/chandra/multimedia/ cygnusx1.html. Dillon, Sam. “Study Finds High Rate of Imprisonment Among Dropouts.” The New York Times, 8 Oct. 2009, https:// www.nytimes.com/2009/10/09/education/09dropout.html. “11 Facts About High School Dropout Rates.” DoSomething.org, https:// www.dosomething.org/us/facts/11-facts-about-highschool-dropout-rates.
nonfiction
136
Adult Menus Madison Ross My mind is plagued with the memory of a time when I was forced to grow up in a matter of minutes. My family and I had just arrived at the country club to which we had long been devoted. Upon being shown to our seats, I was handed something I was ill-prepared for: an adult menu. Assuming that the fault fell not on my shoulders, I kindly requested a more suitable menu. I was told that those menus were for children who hadn’t reached graduated from the kids’ menu. My heart had long been set on a bowl of buttered noodles. This has been and always will be my go-to meal. There’s something about the simplicity of just two key ingredients (three if I’m feeling playful without fail. Each forkful of pasta internally warms me up like the embrace of a loved one. The pasta—boiled to perfection—is tossed into the bowl starts to form a puddle at the bottom of the bowl. The salty butter seeps its way into the crevices and sneaks into each mouthful. In a more formal atmosphere, tiny green specks of parsley are sprinkled throughout like stars in the sky on a cloudless night. The taste is not overly ornate, but simple and comforting. To me, this is home in a bowl. However, as I sat with a menu that lacked a pack of complimentary crayons, I knew my desire would be left unappeased. I no longer had the luxury of staying within my own culinary comfort zone. I was suddenly too old for plain pasta, yet still too picky to choose between Orecchiette alla Bolognese and Bouillabaisse. While faced with a culinary crisis, I couldn’t help but notice that I was surrounded by examples of what society deemed an adult meal. Soggy mushrooms left to drown in mysterious sauces, far too many
Corridors 2020
137 My juvenility was quaking. I wanted nothing to do with any of it. It saddens me to say that you reach a point in your life when you can no longer order buttered noodles in a restaurant. When society sees Training wheels not included. This is not to say that you will be denied upon request, rather to say that at a certain age buttered noodles are not initially presented as an option. In general, it seems as though adult menus lack simple dishes. the ability to appreciate the simplicity of plain pasta and other dishes alike (this came as a surprise to me when I was not gifted a new palate upon turning ten). Is it more likely that adults simply choose more sophisticated meals to avoid appearing juvenile in front of their peers as people tend to look down upon adults who fall victim to their childish cravings. I believe that it is this societal pressure and fear of appearing immature that takes away a person’s knack for simple foods, not age. For this reason, it becomes obvious that putting an age limit on simple meals can be considered ludicrous. You can imagine my shock when—at the age of ten—I was denied a kid’s menu for this exact reason. What caused this childish stigma that now surrounds meals made with fewer ingredients? Moreover, is culinary simplicity really directly related to immaturity? In today’s society I believe that the adult menu makes this assumption. This societal pressure is not the only aspect of the adult menu’s complexity that irks me to no end. Every time I am publicly handed one of these cursed caloric catalogs, I am reminded of my perpetually prepubescent palate. The adult menus of today’s culinary world leave little adult—I am a picky eater. My passion for buttered noodles should have am and I have grown to appreciate it rather than hide it behind a plate of food I don't intend on eating. It has come to my attention that if I haven’t outgrown it yet, I’m most likely not going to. Thus, my only option is to embrace it. I am an adult and I will eat—or not eat—whatever I please. made me queasy. I tremble at the sight of purple lettuce. I can’t bear to
nonfiction
138 watch grown men and women shove slimy sea animals into their mouths. The smell is torture enough. Don’t even get me started on tomato sauce with chunks of tomato. I am forced to order meals followed by the all too familiar, “but lack of accommodations provided to those who live life with simple taste. in a similar situation are far more skilled in masking their disapproval. Nonetheless, I am picky and I demand a menu that accommodates this without the word “kids” in bold letters at the top. I understand the allure of a more complex dish. I really do. Although picky, I am not oblivious. I can see why so many adults deprive belt of choices, I fully understand that complex meals bring something to the table that a simple meal cannot (pun intended). However, there is something to be appreciated in a meal that requires less ingredients. Simple dishes like buttered noodles not only allow myself and much deeper meaning. Food can mean so much more than just something for chefs to put a garnish on. To me, meals can hold a deep sentimental meaning. Each time I put a forkful of buttered noodles in my mouth I am reminded of my youth. A time when my bowl was accompanied by a sippy cup. A time when my mother would save me plain pasta while the rest of my family ate it with chunky red tomato sauce. A time when I would unscrew my thermos in the cafeteria at school to reveal glistening noodles. A time when buttered noodles were my saving grace on every family vacation seafood outing. Through each bite, I’m overwhelmed by the love that so pleasantly surrounded me in my youth. While I am not saying that my current adult life lacks love, I’m merely saying that it lacks a certain type of love. The type of love that swaddles you in the warm embrace of your parents. The type of love that ceases to exist once you graduate from the kid’s menu. Every time I devour a bowl of buttered noodles, I can’t help but to feel this love once again. Simple meals like buttered noodles became such
Corridors 2020
139 a staple part of my youth, that each time I am gifted the opportunity to eat them, I am bombarded by the memories and feelings of that time of my life. I had a particularly pleasant childhood. I am lucky enough to have a large family that has cared for me every day of my life. I am also lucky enough to have a brain full of memories that—without fail—bring a smile to my face each time I think of them. I often seek refuge in things that remind me of the simpler time that was my youth. A simpler time when I was under the constant protection of my parents and siblings. A time when less responsibilities sat like weights on my shoulders. By bringing forth these memories and representing my youth, buttered noodles carry with them a sense of safety and comfort. Why then, are adults denying themselves the ability to indulge in foods that will comfort them and remind them of their youth? For now, as I ponder the nightmare that is an adult menu, I’ll just have to consume my buttered noodles in the comfort of my own home.
nonfiction
140
Nowhere Important An old stop sign guards a haphazard intersection on a narrow dirt ‘O’ by some teenager with a shotgun, it leans out over the gravel, somehow still standing despite years of neglect. It needs replacing—anywhere else it it’s a local landmark; nobody stops, but it serves a higher purpose. Three roads converge here; one leads to the closest town, another to the interstate. The last goes “nowhere important.” That’s what everyone says, sticks—the place I call home. Made of coarse gravel slowly sinking into red dirt, this tiny track tunnels through a valley of dense forest before bursting out into vibrant Tiny family-run dairy farms dot the landscape on either side, alternating masking the hundreds of cows and pigs that live here. The valley’s inhabitants are a rare breed. The kind of “country” that you’ll hear George Straight and Merle Haggard sing about. Not hicks or rednecks—they work too hard and have too little time. Just good people. Our valley is beautiful and newly valuable. It wasn’t worth anything to anyone but its inhabitants until the natural gas industry and expensive to belong to any of the neighbors. I remember one night looking out at a beautiful red-purple haze on the horizon and rushing into the kitchen yelling excitedly about the northern lights. “No kiddo,” my dad many people realize how ill-equipped we are to handle this resource we cannot wait to suck from the ground. The vaporous gas that accompanies crude oil in its journey to the surface via hydraulic fracturing ("fracking")
Corridors 2020
141 capture it—or its too much of a hassle. Currently, about 1/3 of the energy in every natural gas deposit is torched, entering our atmosphere as CO2 and joining the trillions of tons already sequestered there. The night after my sighting of the toxic Aurora Borealis, my dad drove us up the road in his old red pickup to a knoll where my brother
shooting up into the night. It was beautiful and terrible and utterly captivating. John and I stood spellbound by the blaze, not thinking of much else. Eventually, Dad shepherded us back to the pickup. I didn’t catch the strain in my dad’s smile that night, but as the years passed my own grew to mirror it. My family is one of the few imports into the valley. Thirty years ago my parents moved from the Midwest looking for some peace and open at the local hospital. I’ve lived here my whole life, attended every cookout and birthday party. Yet, I’m no farmer’s daughter; I don’t know what it is to rely on a piece of land, a harvest, or the fragile dairy industry for my future. So, when the white trucks came there was nothing for it. Some of us “knew better”—knew all the facts and clearly saw what would come— mine. You simply don’t judge a man for feeding his family in the best way he can. In proud regions like this, you take care of your own and for many, selling oil rights was a godsend. With fracking came money, jobs, and bigger houses. It also brought dirty tanker trucks, polluted streams, and a landscape scarred by pipelines and well pads, adding to over 7,000 fracking sites across
were beaten into pipe-line. We all watched…and said nothing. Natural gas changed our lives, even those of us who didn’t welcome it, who never got a check. I changed my running route to
nonfiction
142 avoid the exhaust from the machinery, and mom took a new route to relied on bagging two or three deer a season to provide meat for their families reported that generational hot spots had begun to move. lucky: there was no huge spill, there were no legal battles over rights, and the companies didn’t linger long. Our community remains intact. The In some ways nothing has changed at all; we still go to neighborhood-wide cookouts and get stuck behind tractors heading to town. But a sense of protected by the anonymity of living “nowhere important.” Now our roads have guardrails, and our homes have cable and reliable Wi-Fi. There’s a sense that we can’t go back. However small the map, we’re now on it—and someday they’ll come replace our old rusted stop sign with a shiny new one that stands up straight.
Corridors 2020
143
David and the Lobster Niara Johnson In a polaroid picture circa the late '90s or early '00s sits my father, quintessentially “the man.” But still to this day I could so iconic. Was it seeing my father sit unabashedly gallant, yet urbane, existing before toward seafood and soul food, so it was almost natural that with a lobster so scarlet and gargantuan, juxtaposing the muted colors of the background, even my father’s deep hue that he had to memorialize that moment for eternity. The food my father ate and thus surrounded me with growing up was food meant to nurture reminding us that we belonged to something much more elemental and distant, rather than crowded cities that didn’t sleep at night. Two decades from that photo, I sit in Baltimore—“Crab City.” A city that is shades of red, from sangria to crimson, like my father, awestruck at seafood and soul food so piquant, looking at every dish wondering if he felt like this. For a split moment, I dare to ask, knowing that he is no longer here to give a response. of backgrounds and foods. But it has always been distinct to me, not just in its culture, its neighborhoods or how much it really is the city of brotherly love, but more importantly, because it is the we happened to live in one of the epicenters of sea and soul food, as there are historic Black communities lining every neighborhood in the city. I grew up in a city of corner stores, where there was always an international restaurant or food truck. Food was just as integral
nonfiction
144
directly tying us to our roots, which were countries and cultures and dialects so deeply intrinsic to our existence. The meals I grew up with weren’t just meals merely to be savored—crispy, baked lemon chicken bubbling in hearth of broth, saccharine sweet potatoes, sun—but devoured. I grew up around people who were always cooking; my mother, my brother, my aunt, my grandparents. As long as I was within close proximity to the kitchen, or a corner, the smell of food always coexisted with me. Therefore, like my father, I always devoured my plate, which was always accompanied by my father’s incessant remark, “You eat like a man.” But not just any man—him, in particular—which came as no surprise since my mother was always comparing me to my father. She always noted that my best qualities are those that I inherited from him. and I had planned a surprise, which I suppose after sixteen years of my being alive became a bit routine and, frankly, predictable: some sort of birthday card and father-esque gift. Since I was my father’s only child, I often felt as though I had to overcompensate, especially when it came to his birthday. Without siblings, there was never anything for me to compare my gift to, therefore I was, every year, in a competition with myself. This birthday, though, I was sure I had found the formula best for my father, the gift of all gifts, adulated barbecue. After all, it is a cornerstone of soul food. Barbecue played an intimate role throughout my childhood, connecting initially to the family cookouts my father and I used to attend. To set the scene for them, they were something like this: oldies (usually old-school rap, with the occasional Motown), adults much beer, aunties in a corner gossiping about someone in the neighborhood (or someone within the family), children who have siloed into other places of the yard, the sky the quietest shade of
Corridors 2020
145 lilac as the sun set and the atmosphere above us all swelling with laughter, memories and the smoke of cheap meats on the grill. This recreate this experience for him in one meal. religiously got our barbecue from: Dwight’s. This place, while nothing short of an unimpressive, archetypal Black-owned barbecue the mecca for soul food in this neighborhood, which was where my mother grew up. So, naturally, it was where my father’s birthday gift had to come from. This meal ended up consisting of cedar-colored pork ribs with meat so succulent that it dissolved onto the tongue. It was covered with tangy sauce with spices Columbus himself might’ve colonized, its shades of amber feeling like embers against the tongue. The macaroni and cheese (very central to any soul food) was sweltering butterscotch-colored cheese and greens like juniper and pine, just the right amount of that salty aftertaste. You’d think the meal was straight out of Alabama (like grandmother), but no, container, yet never to be opened. My father passed away on that birthday. because of its absence of my father or because of the way the city moving here was going to emulate that spatial, metaphorical, metaphysical closeness between him and I; since I didn’t get accepted into any colleges in New York, Baltimore was my next qualities my father so dearly connected with, with a little more of that closeness due to its smaller size. It wasn’t necessarily that I moved to Baltimore for school to be further or closer to my father, thought that if there were anywhere else I could have gone, this had to be the place. My father could have only dreamed of attending
nonfiction
146 my college visits and tours with me. I can only imagine the wonder in Baltimore, unsurprisingly, I was wrong. In the area where we likely would have bonded most—the culture, the food, the people—I often feel furthest from home. I am unsure where the lobster in the polaroid with my father originated from, but the way I stare at seafood at college, almost with desolation, feels as though it isn’t from here. Since my father passed, I’ve felt as though I’ve tried to emulate him, as if bearing his name, his resemblance, his smile, his eyes, his big umber eyes, weren’t enough. It doesn’t help that my family members, every chance they see me, are comparing me to him. “You are just like your father,” they always say. I often wonder what, too, could make me so iconic, but always end up coming to the conclusion that perhaps I have been asking a rhetorical question. He’s like the food we eat; each meal is distinctive and unique, serving a particular purpose, for a particular moment in time, whether it is the electricity it produces against the tongue or pinpoint the exact ingredients that would solace the erupted waves within myself after the loss of my father. He was a meal made food, are so simplistic, so easily reduced, so easy to write down and replicate like ingredients. But if he is like soul food, we all know that there are no ingredient lists that exist; its tradition, an aspect of culture that one either knows inherently or spends their entire lives searching for. Thinking that somehow, I too, had to be the man rather than being the man’s daughter. I felt as though in order to bring myself closer to my father, I had to become him, as if I could somehow keep him alive through myself. That as long as I became him, or even someone close, he would never stop existing. Eating like him, devouring like him, hungry for a world as bewitching and currant as a lobster. Yes, a lobster.
Corridors 2020
147 What made my father’s photo so iconic is not how “unabashedly gallant” he was or the way how urbane he was quintessentially him. The way it was so quintessentially me. The way he viewed that lobster that day in the manner he soon would view me. My mother told me not too long ago that when I was born, my father looked at me with such an intense love, that it was that moment when he realized that he didn’t want another child because he could never have loved them as much as he loved me. There is no way to emulate my father because everything that I needed from him, I inherited when I came into this world and in the sixteen years we got to spend together. There is no recipe to the destiny food, he had one for things that made him whole and reminded him that he was something much larger than himself. In that picture, he was never quintessentially “the man,” but quintessentially my father: David. He wasn’t smooth or cool, but rather lost in the bliss of existence, yet eternally hungry for more.
nonfiction
148
Memento Mori Chelsea Little There was a large estate garden by my family home. Once owned years, acres upon acres of this estate have been maintained for public enjoyment. In the middle of the garden rested an old plantation home. Outside, it has been painted and sustained as meticulously as the bushes and trees that surrounded it for miles. Inside, it was a pristine exhibit of the past; a dead beetle hung inside a glass box with a nail. As the woman who gave me a tour in middle school liked to boast, “the house is exactly as it was when the owner died.” It was funny to me that she would have that as a fact of pride. Would the dead want their rooms to be identical, preserved exactly at their time of passing? It all felt like a science The house was an independent variable, but there was nothing to study; nothing to change. What purpose did it serve? The entire thing felt like a collector’s item: a thousand beetles strung up for display inside their glass
Science Isn’t Real be created nor destroyed; it can only be displaced. If so, then humanity too can only be displaced. I can’t imagine that death is scatters after. If energy cannot be created nor destroyed, and we are, in ourselves, just a mess of energy and water, we cannot be created nor destroyed either. Wisps of Fabric When I was 8, I saw a stranger walking through my great grandfather’s house. My brother and I were watching cartoons
Corridors 2020
149 when I saw something shift out of the corner of my eye. I turned and watched a woman walk in the front door. She was opaque in in wisps of smoke where her feet should have been. I saw her glide through my great grandpa’s house and into the hall, and I said nothing as she went out of view. I sat there and looked away as she faded into the dark hallway and spent the rest of the day pretending story, I felt my desperation grow for someone to believe me. All I to keep my mouth shut. Touring Cemeteries We wandered through the old plantation house for a while, and I giggled at the ropes that blocked us from the dust-ridden objects obscuring the shelves and the ornate rugs that hadn’t served preserving the moment of death for the owner of the house, the house itself had become a ghost too. Where was the spirit of these objects? Their purpose seemed not to matter anymore. They were all trophies now beckoning to a past victory in the sport of living; useless trophies only existing now to bicker about what once was and collect dust. They were here for show. The house was here for show. The owner, rest his soul, his life was here—laid out in faded photographs and unused bedsheets, for show. Almighty We are supposed to believe in Jesus, a man who had the spirit of God. Is that not the idea of ghosts? Is that not a grouping of human energy manifest in some area other than Earth? If God can manifest in a human form, and if humans are imago Dei (image of God), then why, at death, would we not manifest in the form of God himself? God was made man in Jesus, and then made God again.
nonfiction
150
Two-Way Mirror When my grandfather died, my mom became obsessed with psychics. She just wanted an answer, to know her father was okay. She never found that answer. Instead, she jumped from celebrity psychic tour to celebrity psychic tour, praying that these strangers would call on her to tell her what she wanted to know. They never did. Instead, they sat her and my father into a theater with thousands of others and handpicked around 20 people to “read.” These psychics would mention an object or an event, make a generalized statement, and then move on, only roused by the thunderous applause of their adoring audience. My mom was always nice about these experiences. “They needed it more than I did,” she would say. I never agreed. I think she had been searching for so long that she forgot how much she needed her answer. Tour after tour. It became date night for my parents. A margarita with a rim of lost souls. Plasma Can Only Be Cleaned with Cornstarch We reached the main stairs of the old plantation home after some time. I had felt eyes on me the entire tour, but now they felt stronger. Someone was burning holes into my back and my warm through my shoes. I stopped on the stairs as our tour guide yammered on about the broken soul of this building, smiling like a rabid dog and chirping through a well-maintained hollow voice. by a measly yellow chain. Somehow, gravity felt heavier above me. “Someone died up there,” I whispered to my friend behind me. She rolled her eyes, but I could feel it. It too was preserved with the rest of the mausoleum. It was like an overturned mop bucket suspended feet. I could feel the plasma slithering down my neck, and I knew the source. Yet, no one could see the growing puddle of despair but
Corridors 2020
151 me. That feeling wasn’t something I could explain to anyone. So instead, when the woman quieted her voice for questions, I raised my hand and asked, “Where did the owner die?” Ignorance Truly is Bliss I was getting a tour of my new workplace a few months back when my boss told me that all the therapists believed that the old house they practiced in was haunted, and it made me chuckle. I knew the old yellow house wasn’t haunted; I could feel it in my bones, but I couldn’t tell her that. I couldn’t tell her that her superstitions were false. That the old house, built decades ago, was currently trying to use infrasound as a mass weapon, or that our body responds with strange symptoms due to its association in nature with predators. I most certainly couldn’t tell her that her air conditioning and heater were causing this infrasound in her building simply because the house was so old and was not built to keep these soundwaves at bay. I couldn’t tell her because this was her place of practice. This building was meant to keep people calm and to allow a relaxed atmosphere. It was supposed to be safe. I found it better to blame ghosts than to tell her she had made a poor decision in the placement of her business. So instead I chuckled and moved on with the tour. Ghosts and Puppets My mom used to watch ghost hunting shows when I was my head tucked under the covers as I tried to block out the sounds of ghosts. I don’t completely understand why she stopped watching these shows. Maybe it all became too serious after the funeral. Or maybe, just maybe, watching men parade around in a somber environment, mocking the dead, began to look very disrespectful after we had experienced death ourselves. Maybe she was disgusted in the way they would scream into empty rooms about how these
nonfiction
152 humans had died, as if it was a joke. Maybe it made her sad to think of someone entering her childhood house and cackling about my to blow a breath of air onto their methodically shaved neck hairs. Whatever caused it, I haven’t seen her watch those shows since. A Wolf in Middle School Clothes The tour guide seemed startled by my question. I would a pink shirt that was a bit too tight and jean shorts that ended at just the knee, was asking her about the mortality of the place; a fact she had been so careful to skirt by. A stutter was in her voice as she explained, “I believe it was on the stairs above us.” She moved on, her voice chirping its little script, but I didn’t. A smug smile coated my face as I turned to see my friend, coated in white. I wonder if she could feel it then too, because she didn’t protest or apologize. She simply slid past me and moved on, making it very clear she didn’t want to speak to me again until we were back outside. I looked up relieved that I wasn’t famous and that I didn’t own a large estate. I didn’t want to spend the time I had left as a puddle in my own gawk at. The rest of the garden was beautiful. I haven’t been back, hoping that they tore down the house, though I know in my soul that they never will.
Corridors 2020
153 Works Cited Browne, Walter R., translator. The Mechanical Theory of Heat. By R. Clausius, Macmillan and Co., 1879. https:// www3.nd.edu/~powers/ame.20231/clausius1879.pdf. Fitzner, Zach. “Many Animals Use Infrasound to Communicate Over Vast Distances.” Earth.com, 31 May 2019, https:// www.earth.com/news/animals-use-infrasoundcommunicate/. “Infrasound.” East Coast Research and Investigation of The weather-and-the-paranormal/2017/1/22/infrasound. Tandy, Vic, and Lawrence, Tony. "The Ghost in the Machine." Journal of the Society for Psychical Research, April 1998. http://www.richardwiseman.com/resources/ghostin-machine.pdf. The Holy Bible triggs. djvu.org/djvu-editions.com/BIBLES/DRV/Download. pdf.
nonfiction
154
Sometime Between Breakfast and Lunch Erica Mones My friends were irritated before we even entered Red Emma’s. They were shocked that the only viable entrance for us was through the side door (which was lined with bars). They continued to discuss this when we were seated. They were shocked about accessibility or lack thereof in their beloved city, as if it was outside the realm of possibility for disabled people to face segregation in 2019. Thinking of what I would eventually have to order, I was time, I would hope she noticed my anxiousness. I read and reread— practically memorized the menu last night, but I still had no clue of what I should eat. But today, she was too busy talking about she talked about curating a Gender and Sexuality studies program at the American university over there. Amanda would be working for AmeriCorps here in Baltimore, which would make her a professional social justice warrior, my ultimate dream. In between the small big-world talk, our food and drinks arrived, my vegan breakfast burrito capturing everyone’s attention for a few seconds. Rodlyn had ordered a burrito bowl and a lemonblueberry pancake. However, the waitress only placed the lone pancake in front of her. When we inquired about the whereabouts of the burrito bowl (and each of us did at least once), the waitress growled, “You said you wanted a single pancake,” and with that, she
Corridors 2020
155 headache. “I was thinking about picking some of those donuts up on the way out,” Rodlyn assured us. I couldn’t imagine doing such a thing, let alone talking about it, but that was Rodlyn for ya. Ellie would be going to grad school in New England, continuing her study of speech pathology and possibly rooting for the Red Sox. Hannah would be moving to Colorado, having some job related to environmentalism. Angela would have been a journalist surely. Sometimes I wished senior year, or as I liked to call it, senior year part one was all just some bad dream that could be attributed to eating too much ice cream before bed. Angela would still have rosy cheeks like she did last year, and maybe her hair would even be growing back. But then again, I probably wouldn’t be sitting at that table with those people I suddenly called my friends. Amanda interrupted my thoughts. “You know,” she lifted an eyebrow, “Natalie told me Erica’s interning at CCSJ next year.” At once, all the sipping and chewing stopped. “Why didn’t you tell us?” Rodlyn asked. I shrugged, “Everyone interns there at some point.” “No, Erica, that’s really cool.” “You guys are all moving on.” As I shoveled a bite of burrito into my mouth, I thought for a brief moment, if at eighteen I had just chugged beers and dropped a couple hundred bucks on a fake ID like most freshmen instead of meticulously lining my protein bars in neat rows of three, their labels all facing the same way, I could be going somewhere too. Instead of hoarding take-away containers full of vomit in my dorm room, instead of dodging my mother’s intrusive, yet wellmeaning concerns, I too could be traversing the Earth in pursuit of knowledge or working as a lackey at some corporation that spans the globe, chipping away every inch of nature in its path. Maybe I’d
nonfiction
156 or maybe I’d be working with AmeriCorps, living in an apartment somewhere in Baltimore like grown humans do. After cleaning my plate (I even ate the leafy green garnish that complemented the burrito like a cherry atop a forbidden fudge sundae), I felt uncomfortably full. I wasn’t used to eating that much, or digesting it for that matter. Rodlyn and Amanda wanted to scope out the bookstore downstairs. They said it was a social justice bookstore that even had an extensive poetry section. We searched for an elevator or ramp. What we found was some sort of hybrid between an elevator and a lift with glass walls that was reminiscent of Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. My stomach lurched as it dawned on me that this New World-esque contraption would be carrying Hannah and between the ground level and the basement. Once we had made it, I was enamored by the array of social justice issues. I found a modest shelf dedicated to disability justice after Rodlyn pointed it out to me. I was amazed to see two dozen or so books written by people like me, for people like me, about people like me. The language made me feel as if I was returning home from a foreign country as I read the words “ableism,” “infantilization,” “paternalism,” “inclusion,” and “accessibility.” Those were words I seldom encountered outside of the modest blog I’d kept for the past three years. Amid the many books that focused on topics like the passage of the ADA, the disability rights movement, the movement throughout history, I stumbled upon a book called Loneliness and its Opposite about disability and access to sexuality in the Netherlands and how attitudes towards sex and disability are often indicative towards how a society treats its disabled members in a broader sense. After purchasing the book, Rodlyn and I boarded the elevator-lift, me holding my new book to my chest, Rodlyn holding her box of donuts. She held down the button which was supposed
Corridors 2020
157 to make the lift go up, and it did for about two feet before stalling. girls were still on the lower level and they enlisted the help of the managers. After twenty or so minutes, dozens of phone calls to the keeper of the elevator key, Snapchats and Instagram stories that read “SOS: we’re stuck in an elevator” or something of that sort, Rodlyn’s jokes about us being saved from starvation because of her donut purchase, and overall twenty-something-year-old foolishness, we reached land again. Of course, one of the managers scolded us before we left, saying that we should’ve made sure the lift was all the way on the ground before we tried to get on it, as if we’d known anything about this foreign contraption. The bookstore manager was nicer, apologizing profusely and inviting us to upcoming book signings and poetry slams. We promised we’d be back before the playlist and complaining about the roads littered with potholes. Nothing really changed that day. I didn’t have a near-death think extraordinary circumstances could’ve brought me back into fucked up relationship with food. Rodlyn was still moving across the world for thirteen months. Her friends still didn’t feel like my before they could graduate and before I could go back home for the summer. With this story I don’t intend to incite pity or seem bitter about living in a world that is largely still inaccessible to me. I am writing this because it is the only reality I know—a mundane, familiar reality to me that is weirdly foreign to most people I know. But somehow during that brief span of time—sometime between breakfast and lunch, I felt at peace with the awkward phase that was the middle. Once we were back on campus, we all went our separate ways to our apartments with the promise to do this again someday.
nonfiction
158
Pennies Maggie Murphy to do with an elephant sitting on a peanut butter sandwich (I googled it—it was called Peanut Butter Rhino). I sat on the edge of my parents’ bed with the book on my lap, my mom sitting next to me helping me sound out the words, intricately piecing together the consonants and vowels to formulate meaning. I read about how a rhino and elephant went on a picnic and the elephant sat on the rhino’s sandwich. dyslexic. All I know is that it was my mom that read books to me— If You Give a Mouse a Cookie Dog. Dad and I wouldn’t read together, but we would play catch; my dad, older brother, and I tossed the baseball around in the didn’t read together, he taught me many things—how to make the best cheesy scrambled eggs and how to hold my own in a political debate. Around the time my mom began reading the Harry Potter series aloud to me before bed, my dad and I would listen to Bruce Springsteen or The Who on car rides, and I would play the air guitar. Somewhere in between reading Junie B. Jones and The Diary of a Wimpy Kid, I found out my dad had something called dyslexia. Dyslexia is pretty common; in fact some estimates indicate that 15% of the population may have some degree of dyslexia. It was in the seventh grade when I was reading The Hunger Games, the truly understood my own father’s dyslexia. I had just turned thirteen. I had recently experienced my Even though I had this classic pubescent look, it is critical for
Corridors 2020
159 Aeropostale (impeccable style for the time). At Aldrich Junior High School, I was in Honors classes, sang in the choir, and served on the Student Council. I was a nerdy kid that loved being involved at school. That semester we were participating in a fundraiser— pennies in these massive buckets. By the end of the week, each bucket was brimming with the little copper coins. I always searched my couch cushions, feeling my hand around for the smooth round pieces in the midst of a warzone of crumbs and lint. I had also just thirteen year-old brain’s thoughts. “I love pennies!” I wrote out and At the end of the week, the student council was in charge of counting the pennies. I, of course, was on the student council. We sat at the old wooden desks, piles of pennies in front of us. The other council members and I chit-chatted about the goings on—the seventh grade gossip. While I was in the middle of counting my pail of pennies, I received a call. I glimpsed at my LG slide-up phone from 2008 and saw that it was my dad. The conversation went something like this: “Hello?” I answered. “You need to take that Facebook post down now,” he said sternly. I was confused. My stomach turned and my face went red. I knew I didn’t do anything wrong, but I still had that feeling a child gets when their parents are angry with them—you know the one. “Your post was inappropriate and you need to delete it,” he scolded. I was so confused. this week!” I reminded him. “Oh my god. I thought it said something else,” he laughed at himself. As he laughed, I realized what he thought it said—“I love penis.”
nonfiction
160 red. We didn’t need to actually say that word aloud. I had barely ever verbalized the word “penis” in my life. I was an awkward pubescent kid who just wanted to read the Percy Jackson series alone in her room. three dyslexic moments of all time."
Corridors 2020
161
Questions I want to ask the mother of the son who raped me 1 out of 5 women I cannot imagine what is going through your head right now. Does any mother? college degree and going out into adulthood. He is spreading his wings. And he also raped me. You do not know me. I am 1 out of 5; a statistic that has perpetually repeated itself since the beginning of mankind. You and I are padlocked in a statistic that has embedded itself in our patriarchal society; 1 out of 5 women are raped in their lifetime. You probably do not believe me. I don’t expect you to when my own brain’s way of coping with the thought of your son taking advantage of my body is to block it out of my memory. I can doubt myself. That’s trauma’s job. Should you doubt me? Why do I break down in tears of the fuzzy memory of us having sex? Why did I have a panic attack when I asked one of my guy friends for a glass of water, expecting him to do the same thing your son did: ignore me? Why can’t I process my thoughts from that night? I am traumatized. Your son is the reason I break down in tears, cannot muster enough energy to go to class, lose my appetite, dissociate, hate myself, invalidate my own experience, tell myself I am crazy. I want to ask your son, “When I was coerced into having sex with you, did you know I was too inebriated? If I wasn’t in the
nonfiction
162
He continued to try and have sex with me. When I voiced to him I was too intoxicated, he made me get into bed with him. Shouldn’t he have stopped? I was inebriated. The rest of the night is indistinct and blurry to me. The shame and guilt have already started to fester inside me. I hope you believe the fact that rape survivors do not lie about experiences as debilitating as this. I almost vomited when a male student told me, “Yeah, sexual assault is bad, but there are small percentage of lies undermine my experience? Do those lies college. No one should have to go to the health center to get a pregnancy test and an STD test because they can’t place the shock together to remember whether he used a condom or not. No one should have to go through the pain of feeling like they are crazy because they don’t remember everything that happened and now and then they even blame themselves a little. I am my own enemy. will I become an enemy of yours too? Will you tell him I am lying? Invalidate me? Of course, in the grand scheme of things, you do not matter. Your beloved son does not matter. What matters is that the people that I surround myself with, who love and respect me, believe me. What matters most is that I can look at myself in the mirror and know my pain is valid. What matters most is that I believe in myself, and I continue to give myself an endless amount of love and respect. I deserve it.
Corridors 2020
Phyllis Rose
Headspace Alexa Vincento
New York State of Mind Alexa Vincento
Between These Walls Chicago, Illinois Jack Finnegan
Down the Alley Florence, Italy Jack Finnegan
Raised By Shame Courtney Kenny
Presence of Another Kayla Cristofoletti
Frottage with Charcoal and Oil Pastel Sienna Whalen
Seated Nude Leah Dillingham
Blossom Brianna Bailey
Tricks Valerie Smart
“Art is something that makes you of happiness.� Anni Albers
Contributors
175
Grace Alyea, 2022, from Boston, MA Communication major Brianna Bailey, 2020, from Long Valley, NJ Thank you to my family and friends who have always encouraged me to keep on creating! Interdisciplinary Writing and Communication major with a specialization in Journalism Thank you to my family and the state of RI for continuously inspiring me!
Thank you to all of my muses. Eciaus Booth, 2023, from Stratford, CT Thank you Dan for teaching me how to make a box. Matty Brown, 2020, from Bear, DE Writing major and Journalism minor Thanks to Tyler Brown.
Relations and Theatre minor Special thanks to my family and friends, for always supporting me and my weird projects.
Special thanks to the Loyola photography department and my beautiful models/friends.
Corridors 2020
176
Contributors Clarke Dalton, 2021, from Chicago, IL Thanks to Ann Ernst, who encouraged and provided the space for this painting to be made. Meghan Daly, 2020, from Boston, MA Communication major with a specialization in Digital Media and Thank you to Professor Jon Malis for inspiring the photograph with a simple color swatch and for encouraging me to submit my work. Amber Davis, 2022, from Silver Spring, MD Interdisciplinary English and Communication major Le Dillingham, 2020, from Baltimore, MD Math major Marketing major Thanks to all those who listened to me talk about my thoughts until I was ready to write them down. Emily Engelhaupt, 2020, from Monkton, MD Writing major and Sociology minor Many thanks to my mom, who always believes in me. Lauren Fallon, 2023, from Sharon, MA Undeclared Thanks to Mrs. Piexoto and Ms. Schmidt. Keelin Marie Ferdinandsen, 2020, from Ossining, NY Interdisciplinary English and Writing major I would like to thank Dr. Teresa Ryan for encouraging me to continue creating. Jack F. Finnegan, 2020, from Titusville, NJ Thank you to my camera and to being at the right place at the right time.
Corridors 2020
Contributors
177
Thank you to strong women, especially Conchi. Communication major with a specialization in Digital Media Thanks to Professor Jon Malis for helping to facilitate and inspire these works. Steve Greenberg, 2021, from Montville, NJ Writing major and Business minor Global Studies major Thanks to Prof. Mary Skeen, who encouraged my growth. Interdisciplinary Communication and Visual Arts major with Thanks to the men who have treated me like trash for inspiring me to put heartbreak into poetry and other creative outlets. Georgia Hamann, 2021, from Bel Air, MD English major Thank you to my friends and family who always support my writing goals no matter what, even when I feel like it's garbage. Brett-Ashley Hooper, 2022, from Baltimore, MD Studio Arts major and Communication minor I'd like to thank and give appreciation to every beautiful woman that inspired me to push further.
To the radical duality of being both Black and woman.
Corridors 2020
178
Contributors Hodavia Kalombo, 2020, from Kinshasa, DRC and Baltimore, MD Global Studies major and French minor I would like to thank my roommates Eniola, Mariana, and Mhret for always inspiring me.
Courtney Kenny, 2021, from Baltimore, MD Interdisciplinary Studio Art and Communication major with a specialization in Digital Media Allie Lijewski, 2022, from Baltimore, MD Communication major with specializations in Journalism and Digital Media Thank you to every person that I’ve met who has impacted me in their own way. Chelsea Little, 2021, from Fallston, MD Here’s to Min, another lost soul to walk by my side at night. Rest in Peace. Victoria Martini, 2020, from NJ Interdisciplinary Communication and Studio Arts major Jordan McLeod, 2020, from Denver, CO So many to thank but a special thanks to Mary Skeen for encouraging my dreams. Sean McMenamin, 2023, from Milltown, NJ Jennifer Meigs, 2020, from Baltimore, MD Thanks to Billy Friebele for the help and support during the art making process.
Corridors 2020
Contributors
179
History major and Environmental and Sustainability Studies and Spanish double minor Thanks to Kelly! Erica Mones, 2020 Classical Civilizations and Writing double major
minor Thank you to the class of 2020 and Loyola University for a wonderful four years despite the abrupt ending. Communication major with a specialization in Digital Media Thank you to my abuelo Josè who taught me to view life through the many lenses. Marketing and Informational Systems major and Studio Arts minor Thank you to my parents, for pushing me to continue my art. Writing and Spanish double major Emma Schmall, 2020, from Basking Ridge, NJ
Writing major and English minor a writer. Eliza Snyder, 2023, from Wilton, CT Communication major and Sociology minor Thank you for the best friends I have made here, who believed and validated my experience.
Corridors 2020
180
Contributors Thanks to everyone who supported me and participated in my projects. Katerina Solonos, 2020, from Demarest, NJ Interdisciplinary Communication and Writing major with a specialization in Journalism Thankful for strong winds, combos, and Kelbel. Alexandria Vigliotti, 2021, from Massapequa, NY Alexa Vincento, 2023, from Hopewell Junction, NY Biology major Check out more of my work at lexivincento.myportfolio.com. Sienna Whalen, 2022, from Charleston, SC Thank you to the Loyola Studio Arts department for helping me create these works. Speech-Language-Hearing Sciences major and Writing minor Many thanks to my supportive family, friends, and professors. Emma Wydeven, 2020 Speech Hearing Sciences major and Writing minor
Corridors 2020