Fotini M ourelatos 13, 17

O n T r ad er Joe's M i n i Ch ocolate M i n t Star s Zoë Alter On the topic of these little stars, one m ust first consider the size of them . I hold one now in m y hand. It rests delicately in m y palm , soft and inoffensive. Its five-pronged sides are like a baby's fingers, the size and shape slightly accurate. No m atter the sentim ental m ood I am in, I will always prefer m inty chocolate to a fetus: both are organic, but only one is edible. I cannot sim ply package babies' hands in a light green box. The advertisem ent would be too vulgar, and of course, ethically it would be tragic. M aybe that is what I like about these little fresh stars. They are neither tragic nor do they require anything from m e. This is also different from a baby. A baby requires everything, it yearns selfishly for warm th, com fort, love. I only have warm th, com fort, and love for these little stars. I love the way they feel when I bite into them when I chew and swallow when their flavors erupt in m y m outh like a green volcanic eruption. They com fort m e, these stars, their five little lim bs descending down m y esophagus. I swallow, and they tickle m y stom ach, before hugging it. They m ake sure m y organs are happy, with their attentive little hands, caressing and sm oothing m y insides. Warm th explodes inside of m e at the m ere thought of these little friends of m ine. They cannot com m unicate with m e, but they can m ake m e feel loved. They are not Christm as, but they are the holidays. W hile they do not offer m e gifts, and they do not kiss m e while I am wearing red flannel pajam as, they instead caress m y lips with som ething undeniable: sweet, decadent flavor. Like a baby, I will reseal their box, m ake sure they are tucked into bed so that the Devil cannot steal m y little infant m int stars from m e.

Vi gn ette # 1 M arcus Chiang It?s surprisingly easy to play a part right while sounding com pletely awful. W ith any instrum ent, touch is im perative to getting the right tone for a song. Play a key too loudly on a piano, and you? ll jolt som eone out of the world of the m usic and back into a stuffy recital room . Bow that cello string a little too forcefully, and suddenly Bach?s prelude sounds like jerky notes with no real rhym e or reason to their placem ents. Sure, it m ay not be unpleasant, but anyone who?s listened to enough m usic will be able to tell that som ething, one crucial thing, is m issing. W ith the drum s, it?s very hard to play a ?wrong?note. You? ll never m iss and hit the snare while swinging on the ride. The crash cym bals m ay hang over the tom s, but it?s not like you? re in danger of clam ping that hi-hat accidentally because you need a strong snare tone. No, the trouble doesn? t com e from playing the wrong or right thing; it?s how you play it. A sim ple groove can sound uncom fortable and weak because that stick is just a little too high, that pedal is just a little too loose. It?s not easily diagnosable, either. It?s only after I?ve listened to m yself play the sam e four bars of Hotel California that I realize that hi-hat strike before the third beat is just slightly enunciated. I? ll listen to Knights of Cydonia over and over to determ ine what m akes the song gallop. W hy does Rush still feel like half-tim e when the song has long since transitioned into double? And even after I figure out that those bass drum doubles m ove the song, and that the ride cym bal pairs with the bongos to keep the sam e feel of the intro, I?m stuck with the challenge of actually replicating it m yself. That hi-hat strike is going to feel awkward the first dozen tim es I try it. The syncopation between those bass doubles and the open hi-hat groove have m e tripping over the beat before the m ain guitar riff even begins. I let out a sm all laugh, alone in the basem ent, as I listen to just how fast I need to swing while som ehow m aintaining a groove that should be half the speed. And once that?s finished, once I can run it through with that extra hi-hat strike, consistent bass pedals, and consistent tem po, I am back at square one. I have im proved, but it?s not hard to im prove over nothing; now, to focus on that one fill at the end of the chorus. The 3:2 polyrhythm during the outro, split between m y right foot and hand. The drum solo that shouts and responds with a trom bone. But to m e, this is the beauty and the challenge of drum m ing. It?s so bare bones and sim ple that the only way to get better is doubling down on those m inuscule changes. The velocity of the stick. The extra m illisecond or so I spend on the tom s. It can be excruciating, sure, but it?s all worth it for that one m om ent where you know you?ve done it right. You? re locked into the beat. You?ve gotten so com fortable with the groove that your body begins to adjust to it in real tim e. Your stick lowers itself, you beat down on that pedal. Everything is just right.

Eu caly p tu s an d M en th ol Fotini M ourelatos

They found him dead in the m eadow, three bullet holes through the neck and collarbone in a perfect triangle (the coroner m easured). In his left hand, still gripped tightly, was a dulled kitchen knife that wasn? t his. H is sweater sm elled of m usk and eucalyptus. He was known, but he was not known. The townspeople had all m et him at least once throughout the years, whether through a borrowed book, perfectly tuned to their interests, or a lent ham m er or a pie given on holidays, m ysteriously absent of the receiver?s allergens, regardless of whether or not he was explicitly told what ingredients to avoid. He paid no particular attention to his reputation. Opinions differed som ewhat, but he was not hated. He was loved. He lived on the edge of town next to the forest in a house too large, surrounded by sugar m aples and peach trees. He worked at a hardware store som ewhat closer to the center of town, known by som e to be obnoxious and to others endearing. At the end of the day, those who had issues with him sim ply turned their backs on him . What good would it be, they m used, tochangehim?And so he was left alone. The way he carried him self was with an effortless precision. It was said he never exposed his neck. He could?ve thought him self a god and his surroundings his kingdom , if he wished, and on sour days it looked alm ost as if he did. Som e doubted his perfection, sm elled a sharpness beneath his rosy exterior. Perhaps they were right. Few were close enough to him to find out. He was alone, living in a sprawling, ancient, grey-stone hom e that stood out from the m odest brick-and-m ortar rowhom es found downtown. H is hom e, vaguely rem iniscent of a French country house, was blanketed in flowering ivy and wisteria. H is garden, if it could be called that, was run through with onion flowers in brilliant white and purple and shining yellow weeds. Those who had gone inside the house noted first its alm ost-neatness: dishes were left on the counter, but they were stacked and pushed aside; he had no bookshelves yet there was order to his piles of books; the cushions and blankets strewn over his sofa were tussled in a way that seem ed inviting. They would then notice alm ost all was green; the furniture, the walls, the flowers. All along the fir-colored walls were strings of little lights, and potted plants thrived in the glowing pools beneath them . The carpets looked Turkish in style, but shim m ered with contrasting shades of green; pale viridian, deep phthalo, shining jade, olive, and em erald. The great sugar m aples in the backyard were also decked with lights, and on warm sum m er nights they shone like a m iniature galaxy. The sm ell of sim m ering peach preserves wreathed the house. In the fall, he would bring in bouquets of red leaves and preserve them in such a m anner that they would stay soft throughout the season, woven into m int curtains or placed am ongst the pistachio-colored carnations. H is nam e was Om ar. Nick was one of the lucky (unlucky, unlucky, the townspeople clicked after) who did befriend him . He knew him for a good six years, a tim e he considered long and the town considered short. On weekends they shut them selves in Om ar?s too-large house and put his worryingly expansive record collection to use. On weeknights Om ar could be seen lounging on the balcony railing of Nick?s apartm ent, cradling a glass of 2 25

som ething pink. H is head was craned up, facing the sky, and he sm iled at the stars. The apartm ent was in a state of stifled organization, where dressers and floors were kept free of clutter and the surroundings were decorated sm artly but the insides, the drawers and the closets and the boxes under the bed, were in tangled disarray. The cram ped sitting room was upkept in a m anner he thought m ature, decked out in silver and white, his bachelor?s degree fram ed above the two-seater sofa. Throughout the apartm ent the sm ell of eucalyptus and m enthol hung heavy in the air, courtesy of the ointm ent Nick rubbed into his aching arm s and joints every other night. Nick was an outsider, em ployed at the town?s only salon/barbershop, winning the job the m om ent the owner caught sight of the intricate braids weaving across his scalp (ones he had put in him self ). He washed and cut hair for a living, and so his apartm ent was filled with clear bottles of jewel-colored sham poos (Om ar, naturally, was captivated the first tim e he caught sight of them ). Nick?s hands cracked and bled each afternoon and he repaired the fissures as best he could with petroleum jelly each night, only for them to reopen the com ing m orning. Custom ers soon noticed the delight he took in the unexpected, in tilting their heads every which way in the m ost counter-intuitive m anners in order to work his m agic, in telling them anecdotes about his tim e studying at a far-away prestigious university. They quickly learned that he?d punish those who showed up for a wash with stubborn product in their hair with icy water and foul-sm elling soaps. Nick was not exactly disliked in the sam e m anner that Om ar was loved, but six years was not enough tim e for the body of the town to warm to him . One could find any list of reasons floating around the parks and cafe?s: his tendencies in the barbershop, his know-it-all attitude, the way his voice was just that bit louder than everyone else?s. It was a good thing no one was there to tell Nick about his friend?s status as beloved. Despite that, Nick had caught the eye of m any, from Om ar?s rowdy coworkers to the quiet girl who worked at a coffee shop. Those who did not have issues with him tried to reach out, to show the town what they thought they saw in him . And so he was changed. Through each other, Nick and Om ar found their jealousies. Som e nights Nick would appear unannounced at Om ar?s hom e, only to stare at the carnations while his m outh watered, trace the wild splaying of the stem s and leaves with his eyes until they would roam and replicate them on their own. W hen he tried to sleep, faintly lit green lines would track behind his eyelids. Om ar, though, shivered with envy. Som e weeknights he would fall silent m id-sentence, m id-word, and pick up one of the jewel-colored bottles, adm iring its perfect positioning along the windowsill, pitying Nick for his inability to replicate that perfection elsewhere, wishing he was the one living in the tiny apartm ent with the m essy drawers and the sweet-sm elling sham poos, all the while dam ning Nick for what he had. He?d pocketed m ore than a few of those bottles. It?sonly fair, he thought as he caught sight of one of his carnations propagating in Nick?s bathroom . Som e days he?d call out sick only to follow Nick around, watch the banter Nick held with everyone he m et with a watering m outh. Others he?d avoid him at all costs, bad-m outhing him to whoever bothered to listen. In the weeks before, Om ar bem oaned his lonesom eness, how the vast stretches of his house grew larger and larger with each day. Nick listened politely and thought of his own apartm ent closing in on him . He wasn? t sure, but he?d thought he?d lost a room in the past m onth. And while Om ar droned on and on about his lack of connections, about how the regulars at the hardware store had been out of town and left him alone, Nick