Emerson Eye Magazine by Emerson Eye

Emerson Eye 2014 Issue 1

Emerson Eye Issue One 2014

Letter from the Editor Coming into Emerson as as freshman I knew it had the reputation of being a very artsy school, evenâ&#x20AC;&#x201C;as many people call itâ&#x20AC;&#x201C; a hipster school, so it was very surprising for me to find out that it was completely devoid of any art magazines. Although Emerson is more centered around the artistic forms of film, literature and other types of communication than visual arts, the school contains many visually artistic people. Coming from a high school that had several visual arts magazines that I would frequently submit to, it was strange for me to no longer have a place to showcase my artwork. Emerson has an abundance of photograph, literary, culture, fashion and lifestyle magazines representing many different facets of creativity and student interests, yet this representation was lacking in a creative outlet for visual artists. Faced with this void in my life (and guessing other students were faced with it too), I decided to fill it by creating my own art and literature magazine, the Emerson Eye. The staff and I contemplated giving this issue a theme, but then we decided that would be too limiting for our schoolâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s artists and writers and would thus counter our main purpose which was simply to give people a place to showcase their art and writing. It was our goal to open a door of creativity that had previously been closed at Emerson and we are very excited to present our first issue, welcome in!

Christine Lavosky

Staff: Editor-In-Chief: Christine Lavosky Artistic Director: Sophie Calhoun Literary Editer: Lindsay Maher Design Editor: Claire Torres

Table of Contents

art by Hazel King

Wild Eyes Hazel King

Artist Interview With Jordan McNair

Innocence Jordan McNair

Hallucinations Christine Lavosky

mais Haley Brown

Stars Lindsay Maher

Rachel on Rachel Rachel Oâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;Brien

Something from the Seventies 24 Sam Lyons

City Twist Paul Grant

The Chief Cries Rina Deguichi

Playing the Cards Dealt Mairead Hadley

Death May Be Forever... Emily Emilay

Banana by Sea Sophie Calhoun

Twisted Kathleen Keefe

Pressure Jordan McNair

Red Contessa Hazel King

by Jordan McNair 4

mais by Haley Brown My brother chases pigeons, since he was three or four. He is seventeen now, with a long history of kindness for its own sake, except to pigeons, and me. I know it is wrong to hate anyone, especially a brother, so I try not to. But sometimes it is impossible, and always it is hard. I took a bath this morning in front of an open window, and toweled off saying “fuck you, David -you are my favorite of all the heroes I was taught to admire as I grew, but fuck you for ever thinking a girl’s body was your invitation. I am tired of that.” Probably Bathsheba was tired of it too. From where I stand the River Seine is wide and cold, and welcoming enough that were I to fall the water embracing my body would cry out a benediction -- like the priest who gave me eucharist and asked in French, “Catholic?” and I, replying, “Oui, monsieur,” and wondering now if saying such things makes them true, if maybe there is a code among priests where a word is your bond, and hatred is damnation, and nakedness is shame, and drowning 5 a blessing.

Rachel on Rachel by Rachel O’Brien

When Rachel O’Brien arrives three hours late to our interview in the DH, her restaurant of choice, (because “the food is gross and the portions are generous!”) all eyes are on her. Hipsters drop their tofu-laden forks. A girl by the “Grand Finale,” or whatever the fuck the dessert section is called, faints. Everyone can’t help but stare because she looks absolutely ravishing. She’s wearing a pair of sweatpants that say “SAINTS” up the leg and manage to show off both her panty line and camel toe, flip flops and socks, and a Hawaiian shirt covered in mysterious stains, backwards. Girls want to have sex with her, and boys want to be her. She joins me at a discreet table after filling four plates with oatmeal and DH oranges. “Sorry I’m early,” she purrs, while sniffing her pits. After she finishes her first plate, we discuss love, life, world peace, and dying alone. Read on for her most revealing, honest, disturbing, sexy interview yet. Rachel O’Brien: Rachel, 2013 was an amazing year for you. Do you think you’ll be able to achieve the same level of success in 2014? Rachel O’Brien: TBH, I don’t think anything can live up to 2013. I was called a boy pretty much everyday. I spent most of my time picking my nose. I was hit by a truck. I asked someone to prom twice, and was rejected. I made many enemies. I would love to have just as much fun and indigestion as I did in 2013, but I don’t think it’s possible. Just to have my kids be in the sun every day—picking avocados, going for a swim. Even for two years or something, and come back when they go to senior school. That’s all I really want to happen in 2014. 1 RO: If I may say so myself, you look absolutely radiant. What’s your secret? RO: (Leans in closely. I can smell Doritos and sadness on her breath.) Bread. That’s it. That’s all I eat (she rubs her protruding stomach, then sticks her finger into her bellybutton and yanks out a wad of lint, which she eats). It’s not an easy diet to adhere to, but if you want a body like mine, it’s the only way. I also 1 This is actually a quote from “The 20 Most Pretentious Things Gwyneth Paltrow Has Ever Said” on stylecaster.com 2 None of these are her actual words; they’re quotes from Eleanor Roosevelt, a John Green novel, The Cheetah Girls, etc.

avoid the stairs at all costs. RO: You’ve certainly got a glow about you, one that defies diet and exercise alone. Are you in love? And do you have any relationship advice for your fans? RO: If you want to be as lucky in love as I am, you have to love yourself before you can love anyone else. Shoot for the moon. If you fall, you’ll land upon a star. No one can make you feel inferior but yourself. I know the guac costs extra. If people were rain, I was drizzle and she was hurricane. RO: Rachel, while that is great advice, your fans want to know—are you seeing anyone? RO: The only person I’m seeing is my therapist. My fans shouldn’t be worrying about boys, they should be investing in a vibrator, or borrowing their sister’s electronic toothbrush. I’ve learned a lot of that from Jay—Shawn Carter—Z, because his approach to life is very internal.3 It’s a very good lesson to learn. But if they really want a boyfriend, do what I always do: suggest you measure each other’s leg hair. Or if you want to cut to the chase, ask him if he wants to check out your ingrown toenail. RO: Life for you hasn’t always been this easy and glamorous, though. You’ve dealt with bullying all your life. Has it made you stronger? RO: (Takes a few minutes to respond. Her body is wracked with sobs). I’ve been through so much. I mean, I was the bully, not the victim. I ruined a lot of people’s lives. And you know, I’m sick of being sorry. Everyone always sides with the victim. No one cares about how the bully feels. It’s not fair and it’s not right. I just want all the bullies out there to know: you’re not alone. I’ve been where you are and I know this sounds crazy, but it does get better. RO: Do you have any final words for your fans? Is there anything they need to know? RO: Yes. No one will hire me because I’m too good looking. It really is a problem. I have to be blunt.4 3 This too is actually a quote from “The 20 Most Pretentious Things Gwyneth Paltrow Has Ever Said” on stylecaster.com 4 This is actually a quote from an interview with Jessica Biel in Allure.

by Paul Grant

Playing the Cards Dealt by Mairead Hadley

It was probably the sound that was most disturbing. Some people describe it as the sounds two cats make when they begin to brawl. That wasn’t quite it though. It was closer to the sound a doomed rabbit emits when caught by a cat. That high-pitched, hysteric wail for help that silences and ceases all motion. Except you couldn’t run to the source of the screeches and have simply your sudden presence stop the commotion and pain. Instead I had to endure it. We all had to endure it. Marcus, the nurses, and I. There was so little we could do. We were helpless. But not nearly as helpless as she was. She just writhed and cried, without the ability to even release a small fragment of the fierce pain by complaining about it to any of us. All she had to attempt to escape and express the pain was her body. Her lungs vibrated vicious screams. Her limbs twitched violently. Her eyes rained endless rivers. We did what we could to comfort her, but it wasn’t much. After one of her fits, I would rub her body with a cold washcloth. It helped calm her down. And she always loved Marcus’ voice. He’d sing to her softly, so intimately. It provided me with solace as well. For the first few days, though, only the nurses could keep her from slipping back into those frightening frenzies. In they’d come, with their miniscule doses of methadone and administer it, delivering that euphoric release. We all felt the hit; the tension would stealthily slide away and we all loosened, temporarily relieved of all the strains. Whenever somebody asks me to tell Rose’s adoption story, I lie, because this isn’t what they want to hear. They don’t want to hear about the addict birth mother. They don’t want to hear the purposely concealed, medical term, Neonatal Abstinence Syndrome. They don’t want to hear about a newborn baby suffering through withdrawal. I always skip ahead to the first time Rose let me hold her without crying bloody murder and fighting back from my very touch. The first time she saw me not as a source of pain, but as a comfort. The first time she was not an addict baby. The first time I was a mother. ***

There weren’t all that many books on NAS kids, post-newborn, but we had every one of them. Sierra followed their instructions religiously. Because they’d warned these kids tend to be underweight, she’d forever been overcompensating for that little bit of weight Rose lost those first few weeks. And since learning disabilities were common, Sierra requested a personal tutor as soon as Rose began first grade. Luckily, Rose could manage her own food early on and actually excelled beyond everyone’s belief in school—even for a non-NAS kid. Perhaps it was because Rose defied all odds, or I didn’t like my way of parenting to be fed to me, or the fact that each book was written by some bored spinster who liked telling others what to do, but I always hated the books. Especially now. Now that it was time to have the talk with our kid. We had to tell Rose, our 13 year old daughter, she was born drug addicted and steer her away from ever trying a single drug because chances were she’d get hooked. That simply, we’d redefine her childhood and attempt to define her adolescence and adult life before it even began. It felt so unfair and so wrong of us to do. Yet, it had to be done. In order to protect our daughter, we had to do this. Best yet, according to Sierra, according to some book, according to some study, it was best coming from the father. Sierra said of course she would support me in the conversation if need be, but I had to take the reigns on this one. As we sat at the kitchen table after having delivered my anxiously rehearsed, delicately phrased speech and Rose numbly nodded in the critical moments of fatal silence, I was filled with terror and resentment. I was terrified our protection might actually act as a planted seed in her mind, a shiny, new, forbidden idea—the most tempting kind. I was terrified this reveal of years of withheld information coming from me would stain her unblemished view of me and obscure her ability to unwaveringly trust me. And I resented Sierra for putting me in this position. I resented those books for telling her it had to be me. I resented the woman who put us all in this situation, when she repeatedly jeopardized Rose’s life. But just like then, when she made it through nine months of abuse and fought the odds by entering and surviving in this world, she surprised us. Simply, matter-of-factly, Rose said one word and alleviated all of my worries. “Okay.” ***

Maybe if it hadn’t all happened on the same day. Maybe if that one application, which years of ambitiously complied, personal hopes and dreams, hadn’t come back with the generic opening letdown. The one that starts off, “We’re sorry to inform you…” and never gets read beyond that. Those five words cause every expectation of your future to crumble and crash down around you. And then, with bits of rubble and debris caught in your hair, face disguised in soot, and arms limp in defeat, you’re forced to share the rejection. You must tell the people whom you’ve built up this dream with and glorified every detail of your future to and disappoint them. It’s then that you realize they wanted it even more than you. As they comfort you, they’re reminded of their dreams denied and the hope they’d had to live through yours. After that, the disappointment gets covered up with pity. Whether or not you show your own disappointment, you become this pathetic creature, in need of superfluous attention and consolation prizes that only make you feel weaker and even more pathetic. The whole experience is soaked in disappointment and pity, despicable feelings when applied to oneself. So maybe if that had happened a day earlier or later. Maybe if Jenny hadn’t gotten accepted. Maybe if my rejection hadn’t had to stand next to my best friend’s glory. If it hadn’t been blatantly stated, “good enough” and “not good enough.” Naturally, Jenny reassured me it meant nothing, an extra point here or there on a standardized test. I got it though. “Don’t take it personally,” everyone said. Yet, how could I not when all of my personal efforts had been turned down? When my personal intelligence was subpar. Even my personality had been weighed on the scale of selectivity. None of it measured out as well as Jenny’s. I wasn’t as worthy. Knowing that certainly didn’t help. Nor did hearing my parents fight. It wasn’t unusual. They’d fought before; I’d overheard it before. This time, though, my dad let something slip, something he would never have dreamt of saying to me. The stress on their relationship always came back to me. Just like that, I became the fault for all of their problems. Just like that, I was no longer a product of love but a producer of hate. I, with my supposed extra needs and constant cause for concerns, was the source of their issues. It was what, when I sat down to a test at school or was offered anything at a party, I feared. Their looming presence in my life was the looming cause of tension in their relationship. It was only a matter of time before it no longer just loomed and when it all exploded I would be to blame.

I think I could’ve dealt with all of this. It wouldn’t have been easy, but manageable. I think it would’ve been manageable. What sent me over the long-feared edge was a hand. I don’t think he meant to do it, but he couldn’t take it back. Ezra and I met in the empty hallway during last period. Upset about and unable to concentrate because of the events of the day, I’d wanted to talk to him. I’d only wanted a bit of comfort, the feeling that someone was on my side of the fight that had become my life. For some reason he wasn’t his usual understanding and affectionate self. I didn’t realize he was getting aggravated with my complaints, which I’d found completely justifiable, until he raised his voice aggressively. “You didn’t get into one school, your parents are fighting, you know, there’re much worse things that could’ve happened to you. You’re always complaining and yet you’re problems are nothing.” Maybe I shouldn’t have reacted as I did. Maybe I should’ve responded more calmly or just walked away. I was upset though. I was upset and frustrated that he’d completely devalued my situation and feelings. So I raised my voice back. I accused him of not caring about me and not knowing what he was talking about and not having any real problems of his own. That’s when he raised his arm and his hand—his smooth palm and slightly calloused fingers— met my cheek. The utter shock stalled the sharp sting. Sliding down the metallic locker behind me, I tried to process. The source of the sting baffled me. How had it happened? Where had it come from? Ezra squatted down beside me, frantic, and saying something about his fault and his father’s drinking and a fight they’d had this morning. As he reached out to touch my face, I snapped back and the sequence aligned in my mind. Without a word, I walked away and out the door. And as I sat in my car, feeling unable to live with the unfair cards fate had dealt I knew how to treat the pain. I knew how to regain control. The process was all too easy. In only the matter of an hour I stood on the bridge over the pond, pondering the consequences as I turned a small, clear bag of white powder over and over again in my hands.

by Sophie Calhoun

by Jordan McNair

Artist Interview interview by Christine Lavosky Christine Lavosky: What is your major? Jordan McNair: Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m a freshman BA Theatre Studies Acting major. CL:Did you consider art school? JM: I did at first. In high school, I struggled with the decision greatly. I knew that when it came down to it, my profession was either going to be centered around art or acting. In the end, acting won. I was badly influenced by a horrible art teacher I had for two years in high school. She was very rude and critical of my artwork, and I thought if art school would be like this (which she said it would be), I would self-destruct from negative commentary. Sometimes I regret my decision. CL: How long did your pointillism drawing take you? What inspired you to do this drawing? JM: My pointillism piece took me forever! I was just a freshman in high school and I remember sitting at my table for 11 hours straight the weekend before it was due. It was one of the most stressful things Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve ever done, because all it could take is one dot maybe a bit too close to another dot, and it would drastically change the whole piece. Plus, it was sharpie, so I was a nervous wreck! It was an assignment for my art class. Other people used cars or models as their subjects, but I found this tiny part of an ad in a magazine with the most adorable African American baby boy and I knew I had to draw him. I think the picture called to the motherly side in me. I saw such innocence and strength in his eyes. CL: You have a lot of hallucinogenic artwork, what moved you to create artwork with this theme? Any specific experiences? 15

JM: So my senior year of high school I took AP Studio Art Drawing. I had a new teacher, Mr. Sohn, and he encouraged us to risk take and delve into the abstract. I had been extremely discouraged from risk taking in previous classes and was unconfident and terrified to do any abstract pieces. Part of the AP portfolio I would have to submit at the end of the year would have to include a concentration of 12 pieces following a common theme or purpose. I decided to devote my concentration to surrealism, portraying how physical, mental, and emotional abuse can create turmoil and lasting conditions in its victims. My hallucinogenic style artwork is based on this surreal representation of pain, some that I personally and some that friends and family have experienced. I’ve dealt with depression, bullying, and emotional abuse, mostly experienced in the earlier half of my life. Also, I’m close with people who were victims of physical and sexual abuse. I wanted their voices heard and their pain seen. I wanted someone to acknowledge their struggle. CL: A lot of your artwork seems to be based around bullying or assault. Are there some social messages you are trying to send through your artwork? Would you consider yourself an artistic activist? JM: Artistic activist, I like the sound of that! I never thought of it that way! Yes, there are many social messages that I am trying to send in these pieces. I wanted to draw my audience in with my images, touch their heart, but at the same time make sure that they would not recoil at some of the issues I address. For example, I have a charcoal drawing of a girl hanging from a tree, being beaten by children as if she was a piñata. I wanted to touch on the subject of bullying and suicide, but if I portrayed it realistically, my audience could be too shocked or offended to come to terms with it. I think I use my surreal style in order to allow others to approach the messages I’m trying to send without fear or spite. CL: Your piece of a boy under a green mass looks as if it was created in a very unique way. Can you explain how you created the melting effect in the piece? What techniques and materials did you use? JM: Now that was tricky! So, I’m not going to lie, this one did not turn out exactly as planned, but I’m not too disappointed. I dated someone who strug16

gled with clinical depression and I wanted to create a dripping effect because the world seemed to melt and collapse around him. I had wanted to work with melted crayon and had always wondered if there was a way I could control the temperature to paint with the crayon before it would dry. That day, I went to Target and got a candle wax melter, the ones used for aromatic candles, and took a crayons and melted the colors I wanted in it. I prepped my canvas by doing a draw by numbers kind of guideline for myself and continued to dip my paint brush into the melted crayon and paint quickly. Seconds after it would hit the canvas, it would dry, so I had to be quick and precise. CL: From the large body of work you sent us you seem to be a very prolific artist. How much time do you devote to making your art? JM: Sadly, I come and go in spurts. Since I’ve been at Emerson, I haven’t had any supplies, drive, inspiration, or outlet to create more. I’m so used to having art classes and assignments every week that now I have no force driving me. It’s very depressing actually. I need something to do with my hands. I didn’t realize until this year how much I need art in order to be happy. The closest thing I have here to an art class is my scene painting class where I’m copying “The Bride of the Wind” by Oskar Kockoshka onto a door sized canvas. I mean, it’s great picking up a brush again, but it doesn’t really do the trick. CL: How do you balance making your art with your studies? JM: I tend to doodle a lot on my homework or notes. I have some charcoal pencils that I take to class and I tend to draw weird faces and swirly lines on the edges of my paper. I haven’t had any real inspiration lately. I need a new issue that I’m really passionate about that’s not very popular, but until I find one, I’m on haitus. CL: It looks like you have a very eclectic style as an artist (Realistic, Cubist, cartoon, trippy, social message) You explore a lot of different styles. Which would you say is your favorite and the one you are most proud of? JM: Yeah, I tend to dabble around! I don’t really know how to describe it, but 17

I love working with charcoal in my weird, social message, urban-ish style. I’m very proud of it because that was the first way I ever ventured into the world of abstract. It’s also very natural to me now. When I doodle, I draw like that. When I imagine creating new pieces, they’re in that style. Something about it really speaks to me. I think it stems from wanting to get back to my roots. I’m African American, half black and half white, and the curves of my nose and lips and body and that of my race are beautiful to me. Drawing in this style makes me feel like I’m paying homage and expressing who I am at the same time. It took me a long time to be comfortable with the racial differences I saw in my body, and being able to now love them makes me want to spread the awareness of that beauty. CL: Do you have a website or online portfolio where people can view your work? JM: I do! I have a Tumblr called jordanelizabethart.tumblr.com. It has some poetry, short stories, and photography on there, although a lot is from high school. I’m sorry to say that there hasn’t been anything new in a while, but I’m hoping to change that soon.

title

by NAME

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by Christine Lavosky

Stars

by Lindsay Maher “Seeing the stars in the city is about as easy as finding a needle in a haystack. When you’re far away from everybody else, where not even the wind whispers and you can’t see one foot ahead of you in the darkness, is when you see the stars the best. The world is filled with fools, and the stars guide us away from them.” Nan once whispered to me as a young girl. I lied with her on her small guest bed, a handmade quilt tucked under my arms. She looked up at the window directly above us, moonlight and starlight soaking up the darkness of the floorboards. Her aging face was cast with milky light, and her teeth glimmered as she smiled at some memory seen only behind her eyes. She then pulled me closer, and I closed my eyes, hugging my grandmother and dreaming of the stars in the sky. I couldn’t see the stars that early June morning 12 years later, when Augustus came for me, waiting for me under the street lamp outside of my bedroom window. I looked up at the sky and strained my eyes for a few heartbeats to find them when I was safely out of my family’s apartment on Beacon Hill. The lamps were not entirely the problem; the buildings rising far above us on all sides made for partial viewing of the world overhead. Taking my hand, Augustus smiled and led me down the sloping hill, where we turned left and followed the outline of the Boston Common. “Where are we goin’ tonight?” I asked Augustus after a few moments of silence, looking up at him and smiling. He squeezed my hand gently as we winded through the streets of Boston among staggering drunks returning from speakeasies and giggling young girls hanging on the arms of some tall, rich men. I almost burst out laughing at them, but bit my tongue and instinctively clung closer to Augustus as we passed. We met two summers ago, in 1920, when our fathers began working together. Augustus was twenty then, at Harvard studying law. I was sixteen, learning my grammar and arithmetic, as well as French, ballet, and doing household chores. We found out we lived not two blocks from each other, on Beacon Hill. He was devilishly handsome, smart, and chivalrous, and I was smitten. We became inseparable. Now, two years later, I was preparing to leave for Rosemont College in Pennsylvania at the end of the summer, while Augus-

tus stayed in Boston and finished his law studies. We spent a lot of time together. Sometimes we took strolls through the park or went shopping during the day. He bought me a lot of clothing and jewelry that I fawned over when he bought them and that sat in my closet after being worn once—just like the rest of the clothing I owned. I would just stare at it all, running my fingers over the silk of my dresses or the diamonds on the earrings that glittered in the light. Sometimes we’d go dancing, or to a fancy restaurant, or get tipsy after drinking alcohol from a speakeasy and drive through town in his father’s beautiful and prized Rolls Royce. Sometimes we would sneak out late at night, just for the sake of it. “It’s a surprise.” Augustus laughed and looked down at me, half a foot shorter than his six feet frame, his blue eyes bright as he brought me even closer to him. Our mingling body warmth became stifling, and I pulled back a bit. “Okay. Whatever you say.” He ran a hand through his blond hair and exposed his white teeth again. We continued maneuvering through small streets, cobble stoned streets, crowded streets until suddenly the air of life parted and nothing except the Charles River Esplanade and the surrounding skyline was visible. The black waters rippled in the slight breeze that was picking up. I removed myself from Augustus’s embrace and took my heels off, which certainly were not the right shoes to be wearing on what became half of an hour’s walk. I let my toes curl in the cool grass. The lights in the buildings across the way were blinking, and music and chatter rose to a distant hum. The moon glittered on top of the water, morphing into long, sometimes jagged shapes. I sat down and felt Augustus move beside me, our shoulders touching. I felt his gaze on me and I lied down, my short dark hair spilling across the earth. Augustus followed suit and took my hand in his. It was sweaty. I looked far into the sky to find the stars. But it was still really hard to see them. Augustus rolled me over to face him, and brushed his lips against my nose and cheeks before lingering on my lips. We parted, an inch of space and time and silence between us when he whispered, “I love you, Nellie.” ~*~ He held her hand as they traipsed through the fields, stars flooding the sky above the trees swaying in the sweet summer breeze. The wind tasted like the lilacs blooming on the edges of her family’s fields, brushed her tangled

and sleepy hair off of her shoulders, curled her lips upwards and tightened her grip on his large hand. He looked back at her grinning, and pulled her hand so that they were now walking next to each other. At the far end of the field, he gestured to the grass. She slowly got to the ground and then lied down, her arms at her sides and her eyes towards the sky. He lied down beside her and snuggled close. She felt his sticky skin against hers and reached for him. Their hands were rough from long days on their farms, two miles apart, and their bellies ached for more food, but they smiled and held one another and gazed at the stars. The breeze shifted as he turned his head, his forehead touching her temple, murmuring “I love you” into her ear. ~*~ My voice caught in my throat as Nan’s voice faded from my mind and I returned to my body, looking at Augustus’s handsome face watching me. He smiled gently, and I listened to his slow breathing and tried to match it. I rolled back onto my back and croaked, “I can’t see the stars, August.” Augustus sat up on his elbow, watching me. I didn’t meet his eyes as I strained to find those few stars in the sky. He looked up briefly before returning a curious gaze to me, stroking my cheek with his thumb. “It’s okay, Nelle. They’re there.” “No, no, no….” Covering my face with my forearms, I rolled away from him and curled into a ball. “No…” ~*~ Her heart filled and burst, the words spinning through her head as loud and as clear as the first time. The stars became brighter, almost, and filled her vision with their eternal twinkling. He squeezed her hand and left his head against hers. She turned to let her eyes roam his tanned face, brown eyes, shy smile. She pulled his neck down and pressed her lips to his. “I love you,” She breathed against his lips, silencing herself once more as the stars stretched far above them, twinkling and brightening the darkness. ~*~

I grew fainter and fainter as his three words raced through my ears. Augustus touched my shoulder with a large hand, but I only crawled further into myself. The wind picked up, causing the skirt of my lavender dress, fresh from Paris, to ruffle and lift briefly. I sat up quickly, the world tinged with black. “I’m sorry, August, I have to go. I can’t… I can’t be here…” I scrambled to my feet as I choked the words out, watching the play of emotions on his face. Finally, Augustus settled on furrowed eyebrows and wide eyes, his lips parting slightly. He jumped lithely to his feet. “Nellie… Nellie, wait, please… It’s alright… I’m sorry if this is too fast…” He reached out, his hands gently gripping my wrist. I tried to pull away but instead dropped my shoulders. The world darkened completely. “August… I just…. don’t… love you.” I couldn’t bear to look into his eyes, so I settled on staring at his muscular chest. He closed the space between us, his hand still holding my wrist. We exchanged no words for what felt like eternity. I inhaled sharply. “I don’t love you, August. And I don’t think I ever have.” The words cracked when they touched the air, and I leaned in to brush his smooth cheek with my lips. He released me. I turned without another glance. The stars beamed against the blanket of night.

Untitled by Sam Lyons

When you walk through a neighborhood at night you can see into your neighbors houses. You take a dark back path and fill the silence with loud music. You can’t hear your own footsteps or your own breathing as you walk down the path. You take a break from being a person. You’re not watching anyone get undressed or anything like that, nothing that interesting, But you can see the televisions. A car chase, something from the 70s. Vivid flashes of saturated orange and red cast tinted shadows on your face as you look in through the window. A vivid flash of saturated orange and red. Your face is lit for another second. You cough from the harshness but don’t hear it. It doesn’t matter anyway, you need these flashes to make out the path in front of you. You see a ceiling fan cycling endlessly in another house, whipping cool air through a kitchen where a refrigerator stands as a monument to children’s drawings, juice boxes, and organic wheat bread. A woman crosses her living room. You can’t hear the cars exploding or the men snoring in front of them. You can’t hear the still solid air colliding with the blades of the fan and shattering, You can’t hear your heart beating, your strained breathing, or your feet against the ground. And you can’t hear the hum of the refrigerator or the creaking of stairs. A man gets a glass of water. This could all be an exhibit on the comfortable routines of suburban life, “Comfortable Compromise.” What you’re doing, your cigarettes, your thoughts, and your plans are more important. “I’ll never end up like my parents” From this side of the window, everything is cold air, hot smoke, and superiority. 24

Music distorted by distance plays from an open window. Someone laughs from a backyard The headphones are out and the cigarette is just a filter now. You take a few steps but you’re shocked by how loud they are against the dark back path. You can now hear your own breathing. You’re reminded that you are organs, muscles, bones, and blood. It’s all so loud on such a calm night. In a minute the cool detachment goes out the window And crashes onto the path in front of you. Walk fast Smoke fast Wake up with strong legs and weak lungs. Walk fast until your footprints wear through your shoes and onto the ground. Walk fast until you find blisters, blood, and dirt. Walk fast until another eight dollars are burned into your lungs Struggle to see the path Don’t fall Turn up the volume Don’t throw up Don’t think about that Slip into the pool and get cleaned up Go home, get a glass of water, and fall asleep in front of the TV. I’ll give the path another try tomorrow night.

by Rina Deguichi

Death May Be Forever, But Dessert Is Foreverer by Emily Emiláy

Barnaby Barnáby was a small man, afraid of most things. He never met a graveyard, a ghost story, or even a lone balloon floating through a hallway, that he liked. Barnaby got scared of a stray hair on his jacket and moved across the country into a small cottage on a hill, with his Hepatitis B-positive wife. She died seconds after they finished unpacking, and his neighbors took this opportunity to introduce themselves and offer condolences. “Sorry,” they said. “Usually I’d bake something for this kind of thing.” Barnaby spent a lot of time wondering what they would have baked. Perhaps a nice lemon meringue, or a tray of blondies, or even a green bean casserole, which he actually didn’t like, but he thought it’d be nice to have anyway. He started to be angry with his wife for dying so soon after they moved into the cottage, leaving him without the tasty treats he could have savored while he cried onto the only photograph they ever had taken together. After weeks of alternating grief with fury, Barnaby decided to leave his cottage on the hill. Sometimes he woke up, thinking his wife was staring at him from inside the urn on the mantelpiece. He wouldn’t have minded if she was at least wearing her glasses so she wouldn’t squint at him so; it was quite uncomfortable. Barnaby gathered his materials and set out to start his exciting endeavor in the big city. He always wanted to be a dollhouse maker, but his wife thought it was too “frivolous” and “feminine” and “not something my husband’s going to be doing.” As he placed his last throw pillow on the couch in his studio apartment, Barnaby began to feel pretty happy that his wife had died. He set her urn inside his biggest dollhouse, a not so metaphorical “Fuck you” to the woman whom he realized he actually hated with every fiber of his being.

In the weeks after, Barnaby met with several famous and incredibly wealthy dollhouse dealers. He could just feel his wife’s disapproving aura all around as he stayed up late into the night crafting miniscule furnishings for his newest displays. Children from all over the city wanted to play with Barnaby’s houses, so he found himself to be quite rich very quickly. Once again, though, Barnaby mourned the loss of all the sweets and delicious delicacies he should have received after his wife’s passing. He started thinking about taking a new wife, and seeing how she would fare in the game of hunger. The hunger games, if you will. He met a wonderful lady named Sally Salláy, who not only was blind in one eye, but also blind in the other eye. So, in fewer words, she was blind. This was lucky, because after all his time locked away in his apartment, Barnaby had grown grotesque. Sally, of course, didn’t know, and was also fortunate to not have to see the terrible looks they received in the street. You might wonder why people were so mean about Barnaby’s appearance, so it’s probably important that I mention that he was born with a peg leg and tends to cough on children’s ice cream cones, which parents don’t seem to appreciate like they used to in “good ol’ days.” Barnaby and Sally fell in love quicker than you can say, “Hey, she kinda seems way too good for that guy. Why is she hanging out with him? I’m not really sure who I’m talking to, but I’m still wondering about it.” It wasn’t love at first sight, of course, because as I mentioned previously, Sally is, in fact, blind in both eyes. But Barnaby had plans for himself and Sally that sight, be it first or Second, could not stand in the way of. One night, Sally prepared a meatloaf. Barnaby said it was delicious, but there was no way for Sally to know that he didn’t actually eat it, and he had been, in fact, eating exclusively Starburst jelly beans for the past two weeks. She didn’t seem to notice that he had no teeth left. “Sally, my dear,” Barnaby began. “I have something I’d like to ask you.” “Yes, my love? My sweetest, most beautiful peg-legged love?” (He admitted to her, in the heat of a summer night, that he did not actually have two human legs.) “Would you do me the honor of being Mrs. Barnaby Barnáby?” “Oh, of course! How wonderful. How shall we proceed?”

“I’m not certain, I think I’d like to play you a song that I think represents our relationship well.” Barnaby ran to grab his ukelele and began to play that one Ingrid Michaelson song that everyone knows, but no one likes. It turns out, though, that he didn’t know how to play it, so he threw down his ukulele, picked up his guitar, and said in a bored voice, “Anyway, here’s Wonderwall.” When he was finished, Sally cried. Then Barnaby cried. Then, the urn in the dollhouse fell over and smashed to pieces. Barnaby yelped. “What was that?!” he exclaimed. “I think it was your dead wife! She is angry with our engagement!!” “You’re right, Sally. I should have asked my dead wife permission to marry you. I was so foolish.” Barnaby moved towards the shattered remains of the pottery that used to hold his dead wife’s ashes. He picked up a handful of the ashes, and whispered, “Hey, do you mind if I marry this chick for a sec? I promise it won’t be for long, and I think you owe me this, since you died before I got even one casserole.” “What was that?” Sally asked, picking on Barnaby’s ridiculous plot to acquire baked goods through her untimely death. “Oh nothing, my sweet, I would never hurt you.” “Of course not,” Sally reasoned. But she was not so sure. Sally began forming a plan of her own. The next day, when Barnaby sipped his morning Ovaltine smoothie with an energy boost á la Jamba Juice, he didn’t even notice that extra taste, that funny little thingy at the back of his throat. If he had, he would have expected that he would keel over in his dollhouse office, Doll Office, if you prefer, at exactly 12:01 pm, Sally’s favorite time of day. Sally smirked, her victory filling the air around her. She couldn’t see it, but she knew it was there. At exactly 12:32 pm, Sally’s new favorite time of day, Mrs. Wilkinson, the smelly old woman from down the hall knocked on the apartment door with an apple pie still emanating the cartoonish steam clouds that children dream of. “I heard about your fiancé, deary,” Mrs. Wilkinson said. “I’m so sorry

he left you so soon. Especially before you could procreate, am I right ladies?” Sally had no idea who these “ladies” were, that Mrs. Wilkinson was speaking to, but she supposed there could be other women in the hallway. She just wasn’t sure, because as I mentioned, she could not see out of either eye. “Thank you, Mrs. Wilkinson. Your kindness is appreciated.” Sally took the pie to the table and cut herself a heaping helping of revenge. A dish, in this case, best served á la mode. As the day progressed, many more sweets found their way to Sally’s kitchen table. She cackled at the thought of Barnaby eating these very same sweets, had she been the one laying mostly dead on the bedroom floor, or as Barnaby so annoyingly called it, The Doll Office. Barnaby officially died (stopped twitching) at 4:52 pm that day. Sally’s favorite time of day changed one final time, and the sweets and treats and delicious, mouthwatering morsels never ceased coming. Everyday, her breakfast, lunch, and dinner were taken care of, and she grew old alone, fat (and blind), but very, very happy.

by Kathleen Keefe

by Hazel King