Graffiti Literary Magazine Spring 2019 Issue by Graffiti Literary Magazine

G R A F F I T I

G r a f f i t i

Undergraduate Literary Magazine Manhattanville College Purchase, New York Spring 2019 Edition

MASTHEAD Editor-in-Chief Katherine Matuszek Associate Editor Helena Rampersaud Fiction & Poetry Caleb Crocker Morgan Ericson Ezra Fogel Noah Garcia Christal Hussain Stephanie Kleid Cristina Masi Christopher Sanders Samantha Theusen Stephanie Toledano Rachel Troy Art & Photography Morgan Ericson Faculty Advisor Van Hartmann Printed by The Sheridan Press 450 Fame Avenue Hanover, Pennsylvania 17331

FROM THE EDITOR Dear Readers, I am excited to present you the spring 2019 edition of Graffiti. The opportunity to serve as editor-in-chief this year has been humbling and rewarding, and something I am incredibly thankful for. This year’s magazine keeps with previous editorial and formatting changes to a more minimalist layout, thanks in part to incredible student photographers. I first would like to thank our advisor Professor Hartmann for his reliability and constant enthusiasm about the magazine. I also would like to thank the editorial staff, for always asking the right questions and sticking with me through each deadline. Thank you to the College’s M.F.A. in Creative Writing Program for your support during the year and use of the Barat House. And of course, to Helena, my associate editor, for pushing through each challenge with me. We received a group of fantastic submissions this year and increased our prose section to mirror the pieces accepted. This edition is filled with compelling pieces on family, identity, cooking, love, and loss. I cannot wait to see what the future holds for Graffiti with Helena’s lead. Finally, to you dear reader, thank you for picking up this edition and spending some time with us. Best, Katherine Matuszek ’19

NAVIGATION Prose

13 ........ Lost Ties - Samantha Thuesen 16 ........ Rise - Katherine Matuszek 23 ........ Where I Came From- Morgan Ericson 38 ........ Snow Sisters - Ani Kumin 41 ........ Plausible Deniability or Something Like That - Stephanie Kleid 52 ........ What Could Have Been if it Was Now - Max Grabler 54 ......... Rest in Peace, Pamela - Morgan Finkeldy 62 ........ The Black Car- Matthew Villa* 75 ........ Emails to My Dead Dog - Samantha Thuesen*

Poetry

91 ........ The Windstar- Lucia Bautista 92 ........ Unbreakable - Helena Rampersaud 94 ........ The Silent Killer - Antoinette Mercora 95 ........ Oâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; Childhood - Luba Castelot 97 ........ May We Pray? - Christal Hussain 99 ........ Deliverance - Lucia 100 ........the little things - Cristina Masi 101 ........ Musical Masterpiece - Stephanie Toledano 102 ........ Sibling Love - Samantha Saumell 103 ........ Cabin- Thea Nitis 105 ........ A Bee Fell in Love with a Daisy - Stephanie Kleid 106 ........ Rough Tides - Jessica Jordaens 108 ........ Mama & Boy - Ali Mounkay 109 ........ NXVIII - Morgan Ericson 110 ......... On the Beach- Noah Garcia 112 ........ Alone - Elijah Fulton 114 ........ Salted Crystals - Jessica Jordaens 116 ........ Ink - Morgan Ericson 117 ......... Fire in the Sky- Thea Nitis 118 ........ listen- Cristina Masi

NAVIGATION 120 ........Brown Honey- Helena Rampersaud 123 ......... Savior- Helena Rampersaud* 124 ......... Melting - Helena Rampersaud* 126......... The Heart Collector - Stephanie Kleid* 127 ......... Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m Wearing the Earrings You Bought Me - Stephanie Kleid* 128 ......... I Would Have Given You Anything - Stephanie Kleid*

Abtracts & Essays

131 ........ What Exactly to do With the Other? * - Walter Argueta 133 ........ I See in the Round: Max Ophul, Circles, and Other Similar Shapes - Elizabeth DiGiorgio* 135 ......... The Language of Cinema - Jorge Porta*

Photography

37 ......... Woman of Mine - Natalia Veras 51 ........ Untitled - Rachel Stasolla 61 ........ Untitled - Halpa Duarte 87 ........ Untitled - Katherine Matuszek 96 ......... Untitled - Patricia Swietek 104 ........ Untitled - Morgan Ericson

119 ........ Dragonfly - Christina Modica 137 ........ Contributors List On the Cover:

Coney - Rachel Stasolla * Winners of departmental English awards

“That is part of the beauty of all literature. You discover that your longings are universal longings, that you’re not lonely and isolated from anyone. You belong.” ― F. Scott Fitzgerald

PROSE

Lost Ties

Samantha Thuesen Elliot forgot his shoes weren’t tied that morning, but he didn’t notice until the paper mache leaves seeped through the soles of his red sneakers, soaking his blue rocket ship socks. He looked down, and his white laces were stained with the autumn muck that covered the sidewalk, like a sticky, maple jacket keeping the world warm. Usually accompanied by his older sister Dahlia, Elliot wasn’t sure how to get to the playground. He held his fingers to his temples, trying to telepathically connect to her detailed knowledge of fifth-grade geography—a knowledge her teachers declared to be at a ninth-grade level. Eventually, after squinting his eyes hard enough, he imagined Dahlia’s laugh coming from around the corner. Elliot ran along the rows of gated townhouses to follow it, splashing sludge onto the back of his ankles, pulling the threads of his laces on the concrete, and cracking their aglets under the weight of his step. Everything was drowning in last night’s rain: a puddle rested at the bottom of the purple tube slide, water dripped rhythmically from the monkey bars, and the wet rubber seats of the two swings glistened in the morning sun. Elliott’s foot sank into the cold, damp wood chips that blanketed the ground. He walked towards the seesaw and dried the seat with his shirt, a big dark gray blot now settled in the middle of his light gray T-shirt. When he sat down, he looked up at the vacant spot across from him, and realized how much colder it was on the ground; he rubbed his naked arms, trying to smooth out his goosebumps. He had finally been catching up to Dahlia in height and weight; she always gloated about how she could hold him captive in the air. “Let me down!” Elliot yelled a few weeks earlier. “Then eat all your food like Mommy says.” Mischief gleamed in Dahlia’s eyes. He was anticipating the day he’d be able to catapult her into the air like she had always done to him, but now he wanted her to stay on the ground. He needed to be higher; it was the only way to see her again. Firmly planting both feet on the earth, he took a deep breath, and pushed

Graffiti with all his strength until he was airborne for one small second. He came crashing back down, wincing at the unexpected force. He got up, rubbing his bottom, and walked over to the monkey bars. It was an intimidating metal contraption—rows of thick industrial poles all connected in a circle, curving inward at the top to create a birdcage. Elliot would normally avoid them, with the fear of falling through and getting trapped, but he needed to see if Dahlia was at the top. Slowly tightening his fingers around the slippery metal, as if he were in an action movie, he gently lifted one foot off the ground and started to climb. One step, two steps, three steps, he counted in his head before losing his grip and falling backwards into the wood chips. The pain felt worse than the seesaw, but he dried his hands on his gym shorts and tried again. This time he counted four steps until he found himself on his back, staring up at the sky, blocking the sun with his red, aggravated hands. A small breeze chilled his wet clothes. For his final attempt, he climbed faster and more confidently, conquering seven steps. He was inches away from the top, and just as he was about to peek over, he stepped on his loose shoelace and lost his footing. He slammed into the earth and screamed. He picked up handfuls of wood chips and threw them at the monkey bars, then turned his anger toward his sneakers, trying to rip off the dirty brown laces. But everything was too wet; his hands were useless. Sitting, nearly defeated, in the battlefield of wood chips, he looked toward the slide with nervous, but hopeful eyes. Dahlia called it the Purple Monster; it was menacing: a big tube that twisted around three times before spitting its victims out. Elliot never went down the slide because he was afraid of the dark, but it was the last place Dahlia could have been. Just last week he watched in horror as she excitedly threw herself into the mouth. He never understood how one person could always be so brave; Dahlia never met an adventure that intimidated her. When she didn’t come out at the end, he panicked, and screamed her name until she popped her head out of the bottom. “You cried like a big baby!” She pointed her finger at him, and her laughter echoed upward through the slide, like steam on a train. He was so angry that he walked home without her, despite their parents’ rule that they

Graffiti should always stay together. The ladder steps were wide, so he reached the top with ease. He stared into the gaping mouth of the monster; it was completely black inside, and water was dripping from the overhang like blood from a dinosaur’s teeth. Elliot waited and listened for any sign of life. After a couple minutes, he took a deep breath and sat himself down. He leaned all the way back, but laid still for a moment and closed his eyes. He pressed down on both his eyeballs until pops of colors appeared in the black of his eyelids, like fireworks. He saw triangles that were green like Dahlia’s backpack, circles yellow like her hair clips, rectangles pink like her room. And if he focused hard enough, he could see the colors come together and make her face—a painted version—one he would make in art class. He thought he heard her laughter again, but he realized it was his own. He opened his eyes. He was at the bottom of the slide, laying in the puddle of rain water and soggy wood chips, but he didn’t care; he didn’t feel angry. He looked down at his untied shoelaces, where the water had washed away most of the brown sludge, leaving them stained a dirty white. He walked away from the playground and sat in the wet grass, trying to remember Dahlia’s song. “Criss-cross, under on top…,” he sang to himself. He could remember some of the words, but not exactly what to do with his laces. He crossed them on top and wrapped them around each other until they weren’t dangling off the sides of his sneakers, then stuck the extra bits into his socks. They weren’t bunny ears, but they would suffice for the trip home—if he could remember how to get back. As he got up, a car pulled into the parking lot on the other side of the park—a big beige one with stickers on the back. A woman—his mom—burst out of the passenger door, and his dad out of the driver’s seat. They ran towards Elliot, yelling his name. He got up and walked towards them, tripping once, but catching himself. He knew he couldn’t fall in front of them; he had to show them he wasn’t scared, so they could stop being scared, too.

Rise

Katherine Matuszek Anna opened her front door, walking into the a wall of heat that poured from the house. Easter had fallen early this year. The air outside still carried a chill, but the abrupt temperature changes had her shedding her layers as she walked further into the house. When she turned the corner, her mother came into sight. Her lithe body leaned toward the counter, gazing down at a recipe. Nothing was cooking, so it seemed the heat in the house had been turned up a few notches. As a result her mother’s short hair had expanded, now more closely resembling her regretful and decades-old perm than her usual hairstyle. Next to her was an overwhelming workspace, seemingly in miduse. On the remaining space sat an egg carton, half full, lines of containers filled with other ingredients, a flour dusted sifter, a standing mixer, and a surprisingly large number of bowls for the space that their kitchen allowed. It took her mother a moment to notice Anna standing in the entrance. When she looked up, Anna saw her face was flushed, matching the warmth that she could feel in her own cheeks. She was confused by her mother’s expanded presence in the kitchen, but before she could begin her question, her mother interrupted. “I’m trying to make the damn bread.” Anna just blinked in response. Before Easter each year, Grandma A invited Anna and her mother over to her house to bake dozens of babkas. Anna spent the day each year; her mother would not. Her mother, who usually dutifully attended the Friday night dinners at the house down the street, would suddenly be unavailable on babka day, running out of the house after dropping Anna off. Excuses varied from meetings, and random lunches, but it was eventually revealed to Anna that her mom just hated babka day. She hated the taste of sweet bread and its dried fruit, hated the step by step preparation instructions, the patience it required that she seemed to lack and that her own mother had in spades. She didn’t like being alone with her because as an adult, her

Graffiti five younger siblings to deflect any attention. As a child Anna thought it was so she could enjoy the moment alone with her grandmother, without the noises and distractions of her cousins that would arrive from various counties and states on the holiday. A moment that was not all lesson, a moment for the beauty in baking. It was an art for her grandmother and her. Taking each ingredient out, separating the eggs, watching the yeast bubble up, sifting and leveling flour—each measurement needs to be precise when baking bread. All mixed together in the white standing mixer that was ever present on her grandmother’s kitchen counter. The kneading would come next. Grandma A would remind her each year that she needed to be strong against the dough, but also gentle. She eventually found her rhythm. Always using knuckles, never spread the hands so the sticky dough would have fewer crevices. And finally, the rise. Under the largest bowls, Anna had seen the dough would begin to peek out eventually growing to monstrous proportions, until it would be beaten down to rise once more. Eventually the bread would leave the oven with a golden-brown shine and fluffy center. This year would be the first babka day without each other. To Anna’s amazement, her mom really was attempting to make the bread. By the looks of the kitchen, it seemed that she was making an attempt nonetheless, even though it wasn’t a success. With a shake of her head her mother laughed and pointed at a flat mess of wet dough sinking in their trash. “That was try number one,” she said sighing. She turned around, fiddled with the recipe sheet, and then slammed it onto the counter top, the force blowing remnants of flour across. “And now…to number two.” Anna sat at the table across from the counter in silence. Her mother continued her ramble. “I can make Pierogis, Gołąbki, and better Kruschiki than her, without any help, but ask me to bake a bread and this is what you get,” she said pointing at the trash. “Do you want help?” Anna finally asked. She was met with a swift shake of her head. Her mother was determined that she could do it alone. Despite her not making the bread, or

Graffiti even being in the room in the past twenty years, she was inflexible enough to think she could do it. She began scanning the recipe again and cursed under her breath. “What did you forget to include?” “Yeast.” “Yup. That is usually important when baking bread. I could have told you that when I was five,” she said stifling a laugh. “Let me help at least…with the yeast.” With another slightly self-conscious glance at Anna, she relented and began collecting the used bowls to wash. Anna assessed the space and began to re-measure ingredients. Once poured and sifted into separate cups, they began again. In January, Grandma A laid in her hospital bed. The years of smoking had caught up with her, forcing her into the space. She was smaller than Anna had seen before. The bed sheets appeared to consume her fragile body, but her presence loomed larger. There was a desperation with each passing visit. As if her shrinking body became more pronounced with the acknowledgement from those surrounding that she could no longer be a phone call away when you forgot the type of chocolate to use in her cake. The root of their familial plant could be unceremoniously be torn from the ground with each passing day. Anna would patiently sit by her bedside, rubbing her hands and telling her about the classes she would be taking next semester. She was her grandmother’s namesake after all and even shared the same temperament. Anna had not been alive the last time Grandma A had been in the hospital twenty years ago. Anna’s mother, during her pregnancy at the time, decided to name her child after her mother, hoping that a new grandchild would give her strength to keep her going. And it seemed to be. Grandma A liked to joke to Anna that

Graffiti she saved her life before she even left the womb. That they shared the same personality and parallel life forces. Each other sharing the calm, thoughtful perspectives. Though the temperament that the two Annas shared had skipped a generation. Anna’s mother would instead pace the halls urgently speaking at whatever nurse was on duty. It had been enough days that her brothers had left the hospital and gone back to their homes, leaving her alone to hope. “Rita, whatever happens will happen and life will go on. I just don’t want you to forget our traditions. You are the oldest woman left in the family and you need to keep the family together, even when it gets difficult,” Grandma A said one afternoon. “You better not die, because I promise, I will never make your babka or anything else for that matter. I’ve never even liked it.” She huffed, and left Anna and her grandmother in silence, staring after her figure walking down the brightly lit hall. They looked to each other, and with a smile, promised that she would do as much as she could to make it seem like she was still with them. It might not be immediate, but she could even try to convince her mom to participate. Once they began again, there was an unspoken agreement that Anna would take the lead. She would slowly pour the ingredients and gesture to her mother to increase the speed of the mixer, careful not to have the flour puff back into their faces. Every few minutes Anna’s mother would wipe a stray hair or a bead of sweat off her forehead, leaving a trail of flour wherever the back of her hand passed over. Anna began sharing stories of Grandma A on babka day that Rita had never heard. The women laughed at stories of a younger Anna turning the mixer on too quickly, flour bursting onto her face, or when Grandma A was cat-sitting one year and had to continuously shoo the animal from the counter, stepping near the rising dough, threatening to deflate the mounds.

Graffiti When the liquids and the solids were blended together fully, they floured their hands and the counter with the dough spread out began to knead. Their hands eventually became in sync, each pressing and prodding each section. Four hands methodically worked the dough, without a misstep, as the motions nevertheless had been ingrained in each. And with ease, they formed a ball, tucked the hanging pieces of dough beneath and placed the largest bowl over the dough. Anna tried to clean her hands herself, rubbing them against each other over the trash to form little balls of dough that would fall off with the friction. Instead the warmth just spread the sticky dough more. Anna knew it wasn’t the best solution, but it was the best she could do. Her mother after watching her struggle, grabbed her hand, and with a long flat butter knife, scraped down her palm and in between each finger, the knife tickling her as it ran across. “This is what your grandma would do for us when we finished. We never could seem to keep our hands clean,” she said as she lifted Anna’s left hand. It was a simple and comfortable act that Anna hadn’t given much thought until the blade was wielded by her mother’s hand instead of the papery hands of her grandmother. “I remember we would make what seemed like hundreds of these when I was younger,” Rita’s voice became softer as she fell into the memory, “They covered each flat surface of our kitchen to cool and then we would wrap each and hand deliver them to every neighbor on the block, each one of our teachers, and the priest. The six of us just walking around.” Anna laughed at the thought of her mother and uncles walking down the street she lived with a wagon filled with the dense breads. There had been fewer and fewer of these moments between them since Anna went to school and Grandma A passed. When Anna was home, they kept missing each other, one holding the door while the other left. Never quite putting in the effort to make plans for a meal together. Each grieved in their own way. Anna poured herself into her work, but the memories and tears welled up anyways unexpectedly in cla. She would will the leaking liquid until she could find some time alone. Rita hadn’t been able to cry since the funeral, her body and mind numb to the unfathomable.

Graffiti She couldn’t quite process the loss and walked around the house and supermarkets aimlessly. She tried to find something new focus, now her time was no longer spent in a hospital room, but never followed through. In the kitchen, Rita glanced once more at Anna. Her daughter solidly present at their workspace, so easily mirrored a vestige of the woman who once stood in her place. With each scrape of dough, Rita’s eyes gleamed with the semblance of the tears that had alluded her for months. “It was good,” said Anna, looking up. Her mother nodded her head at the simple word. “Very good.” After they covered the dough with the bowl for the last time, the pair sighed in relief. Only the clicking of the oven pre-heating and their soft breaths filled the kitchen. Nothing needed to be done until the dough was ready for the oven. They didn’t want to risk opening any doors, which would change the air pressure. They kept the air still and humid so that their dough mound would not deflate but rise faster. Instead they stared throughout the kitchen, eyes passing over the mess that would need to be cleaned, the rising bowl, the oven’s clock ticking, but never at each other. Now all is left is time. Anna looked around for anything left out of place, and then finally her mother. Their eyes met and, in their silence, they smiled at one another. Together, they left the kitchen, awaiting the next step. Alone on the countertop, the dough grew and expanded out the sides. It propelled the bowl upwards as it consumed the kitchen.

Where I Came From Morgan Ericson

When we first came to the house we saw it as a new beginning. My mother called it our clean slate. Our tabula rasa. I was eight when we moved in. I didn’t know what any of these words meant. I didn’t understand the need to start over, to wipe the slate clean. But, to the other members of my family, this was exactly what they’d been searching for. An escape. An awakening. A chance to start over and forget the past. At least, that was the intention. Moving into a new house had become something of the ordinary for us. The process of packing up our things into boxes became therapeutic. A system of which all that was required of us was to follow the instructions step by step. After the third time moving, we kids had the act of packing down to a science. Even at five years old I’d become accustomed to the fact that wherever we went, there wasn’t going to be much space for all of us. We were a big family that was continuing to grow (my mother was, once again, pregnant). But even as our family grew larger, the houses we moved into never seemed to get any bigger and we were forced to adapt, contorting our bodies and cramming ourselves into cubicle rooms. At a young age I learned that possessions aren’t necessary. Each of us kids were only allowed two boxes; one for toys and one for clothing. I was taught to only pack what I desperately needed. When I was younger the list used to include things like stuffed animals and toys. However, as I grew older, the list began to dwindle as toys were replaced with trinkets, and stuffed animals were replaced with photographs and books. My ideas of what I needed changed until, by the third time we moved, there was hardly anything worth taking with me. The house itself was small. From the outside it looked more like a glorified shed than a home. But, stepping out of my father’s station wagon, filled to capacity with children and cardboard boxes, my parents looked at it like it was a sanctuary. “My, oh my,” my mother said, standing in front of the car. Her

Graffiti body was wrapped up in an old cardigan that had most likely belonged to her mother, my grandmother. It was old, ratty and ripped in a few places, the elbows peppered with patches. But she loved it. “Would you look at this? Children, get out of the car and take a look at this house.” One by one we piled out of the car, in which we’d been crammed in, shoulder to shoulder in the back-seat, like sardines. Once outside, all three of us stood side by side gazing up at the house we would come to call home. The outside was a faded blue, like a pair of threadbare jeans. The paint was chipped away in some places, revealing brown wood underneath. There were curtains hanging in the windows, which were a dirty gray, as though stained with smoke. Our father extracted himself from the front seat of the car. He stood like a lumberjack, towering over all of us, including my mother, who wasn’t much taller than my oldest brother. He closed the door with a slam and came to stand beside my mother, a cigarette already lit and dangling from between his lips. “Isn’t it beautiful?” My mother asked to no one in particular. I shared a look with my two brothers, who were standing beside me, their arms wrapped tight around their abdomens in a failing attempts to keep warm. The heat in the car had been busted all through the fall. Even with winter quickly approaching our father didn’t look to have any intentions of fixing it. “Well, I think it’s lovely. Just what we need.” Mother said, answering her own question. “Let’s start unloading the car. It’s getting cold out here and it’s not like it’s going to unload itself.” This was a joke she would make every time we moved, and though we flashed her a tight-lipped smile to hide our chattering teeth, the authenticity of the joke had long since faded. My brothers and I, as instructed, started unloading the car; piling boxes on top of boxes and carrying them up the embankment to the front of the house. Once there our father reached into his pocket and took out the keys, opening the door and letting us in. The inside of the house was almost black with darkness. All we

Graffiti could make out from the threshold were bold shapes and slivers of light that rested on the wooden floor and flashed against the walls in long, white slants. “Get in, would ya. I’m freezing my ass off out here.” My brothers walked a few feet inside, just far enough to find a place to drop the boxes, before darting back out into the cold. I stumbled in right behind them and dropped the boxes on the floor next to theirs. My father, however, went straight back into the house, disappearing from view. It only took us a couple of trips before we’d unloaded the car. By that time my father had managed to turn on the electricity. There was already some furniture in the house, supposedly left by the previous owners. Walking back in through the front door I could make out a couch and a lounge chair in one room, along with a small table and a lamp. As I walked throughout the house I caught sight of a few paintings, hanging from the walls. I stared at them for a while, trying to make out the picture amidst the strange swirls of colors, but I couldn’t, even when I squinted. My father started a fire in the fireplace in the living room. It was here that my siblings and I gathered at the end of the day. We huddled together on the floor beside the fire, while our parents claimed the couch. The fire started out small, barely dispensing enough heat to keep the chill out of our bones, but after a little while I stopped shivering and my teeth stopped chattering against each other. We slept on the floor in front of the fire. We spread out a few blankets and pillows and laid there, side by side, letting the heat wash over us. My brothers and I whispered made-up stories to each other long into the night. Our stories involved dragons, hermits that lived under bridges, and damsels in distress. We’d take turns, each of us trying to outdo the others, until we couldn’t keep our eyes opened anymore and, so, we went to sleep. The house looked different in the morning. More alive. Waking in the living room, curled up on my side, I looked around the room, taking in the cobwebs in the corners, the dust on the fireplace mantel, and the grimy windows. The curtains that I’d noticed when we first got here weren’t curtains after all, they were sheets.

Graffiti This didn’t look like any other house that we’d live in before. This one looked inhabitable. My father and mother were already awake. Their blankets discarded at the foot of the couch. The fire was still going, if only barely, embers buried in gray ash glowed orange and red under burnt-black logs. I could hear someone moving around in the kitchen; the familiar clank of metal pots and pans and the opening and closing of cabinet doors. I untangled my feet from the blankets, trying my best not to disturb my snoring brothers. Then I walking on the balls of my feet to the entryway of what I assumed to be the kitchen. As I got closer I started to hear the sound of my mother humming a slow melodic tune that I remember her singing to me not too long ago. I stopped to listen, leaning my back against the wall, keeping myself out of view, savoring the moment. The front door opened, the screen door slammed closed and rattled against the door jam. My mother’s humming faltered before she started again from the beginning. But I was no longer paying any attention to the song, instead I listened to the sound of my father’s work boots as he walked across the floor and over to my mother. “Lina, what in the hell are you doing?” “Oh, hi, hon. I’m just straightening up a little bit. The kids are still asleep so I figured—” “Not that,” he snapped, I imagine bits of saliva spewing from his mouth and hanging from his lower lip. “I mean that goddamned song. Didn’t I tell you to stop singing that damned song?” “Yes, but—” “But, nothing. I don’t want to hear that song in this house. This is a new start, a new beginning, for all of us.” “I know, I was just—” “I don’t want to hear that song again. Got it?” “Y-yes. Of course. I’m sorry.” Neither of them said anything for a moment, but the seconds that followed seemed to stretch out for minutes, maybe even longer. I remember holding my breath, scared that, somehow, they would hear me lurking

Graffiti nearby, and my father’s anger, like many times before, would be displaced to me. “Here,” my father said. His voice softer. “I went out and got us some food. Cereal, milk, eggs, bread, the works. Why don’t you fix up some breakfast before the kids get up?” “That sounds like a great idea. I’ll get right on it.” “Alright then.” Father left back through the same door he came in through. I heard the screen door close behind him. I waited, my back pressed against the wall, listening to my mother. The kitchen was silent. No more humming, I could no longer hear the clank of pots and pans. Just silence remained. Eventually I went back to the where my brothers were curled up beside the fireplace. I lay down again beside my brother and close my eyes, even though I knew I wouldn’t be able to fall back to sleep. Instead I lay there, curled up on my side, listening to the sound of my brothers breathing. Children are meant to grow up looking up to their parents. They’re supposed to look to them for advice, see them as examples, the epitome of perfection. Parents, in a child’s eyes, are meant to know all. From the time we’re little we are meant to see our parents as soulmates, as two people brought together by fate, who are meant to be together. I never grew up thinking these things. Instead, I was raised watching my parents keep their distance from each other. I was raised watching my mother hold her tongue, bit her lip, and blink back the tears as my dad would fling hurtful insults her way. From a young age I remember going up to my mom, asking if she was okay. Other times I would simply stand by, not saying a word, just letting her know that I was nearby. I’d pass her tissues as she leaned over the bathroom sink, tears running down her cheeks and chin, gathering in the concave space of her neck. From a young age I learned how to conceal my emotions, to not let people see how their words affected me or how their insults got under my skin. I was raised to have steel skin and a metal heart; thick and impenetrable, just like my mother.

Graffiti Weeks go by in the house with no definitive way of telling how much time has actually passed. There’s a calendar nailed to the wall in the kitchen, with each day crossed off in blue pen. According to the calendar it’s almost halfway through December. Since we’d been pulled out of school so late in the year, mother didn’t see a point in re-enrolling us until spring. We had, what she referred to as, an extended winter break. I can’t remember much of the past few weeks, which blur and bleed together, becoming indistinguishable. The leaves, which had long since changed from yellow to red and then to a crisp brown, littered the ground outside, gathered at the trunks of the trees and under the front porch. I had my own room. It was in the farthest corner of the house, looking out at the woods. I have a bed and a dresser and a closet. Pictures were tacked to the walls and tapped above my bed. Memories of the past that I relentlessly clung to despite my father’s relentlessness to leave it behind us. My brothers were in the room across the hall from me. Their walls are bare except for a few drawings and old movie posters. My brothers were both named after my grandfather, on my dad’s side. My oldest brother, Wyatt, is ten, two years older than me. He acts more like an adult than any of us; constantly watching over us, keeping us safe. My other brother, Luke, is four. He’s quiet and sheltered, like me. He clings to Wyatt’s side constantly, unable to be away from him for more than a few moments. This is part of the reason that they’re in the same room. That, and the lack of available space in the house. I was named after my grandmother on my mom’s side. Her name was Sandra, but my mother thought the name was too uptight, too posh, so she opted for the name Sadie. My sister, like me, will be named after our grandmother. She’ll take her middle name, Ruth. I’m already planning on calling her Ruthie. Mother was eight and a half months pregnant. Her stomach bulged drastically from underneath her shirts and blouses. Even her biggest, bulkiest sweater did nothing to hide the human growing inside of her. She complained a lot lately. About her feet, her ankles, her back, her breasts. She’d complain about cravings, like pickles dipped in peanut butter and caramel salted ice-cream.

Graffiti We would talk about my new sister. In the light beside the fireplace, late into the night, we’d sit side by side whispering to each other, each of us with a gentle hand pressed to her stomach, hoping for a kick, a punch, or some subtle movement to show at Ruthie was there with us, listening in. We wondered aloud what she’d look like. If she’d have blue eyes like me or brown like Wyatt. Would she have short, scrunched toes, or long gangly ones? Would she cry all throughout the night and sleep all day, or would she sleep through the night, breathing softly in her crib, with mother checking on her periodically throughout the night? There were a lot of unanswerable questions that we whispered to each other in the comfort of the living room, when everyone else in the house was asleep. It was quiet moments like these, with only the crackle of the fire to keep us company, that I really start to enjoy the house and what it meant not only for me, but for all of us. For Ruth. Ruth was born early one morning. I heard mother moving around in the kitchen. She hadn’t been sleeping much lately, she’d claimed that Ruth kept her up all night, moving around in her stomach. I heard father wake up, the springs in the mattress grinding as he got out of bed. I listened as he made his way he goes down the stairs into the kitchen. I hold my breath trying to listen to their conversation, but their voices get distorted and muffled as they travel up through the wooden floors. At some point father came upstairs to tell us what was happening. Ruth was on her way. He would be taking mother to the hospital and he’d they’d come back later. “Don’t you worry. We’ll be home in no time.” Then, they left. Once they’d left I went down stairs to see Wyatt tending to the fire with a poker and Luke seated on the floor, playing cards sprawled out in front of him, a mix of black and red suits. I took a seat on the couch. “How did dad seem to you?” I asked. He shrugged again. “The usual. He was mad about something. Lit a

Graffiti cigarette before they left. Mom told him not to, especially since she was in the car with him, but he didn’t listen. Said he didn’t see the point.” The day was quiet. Other than tending to the fire there isn’t much else to focus on or distract ourselves with. Wyatt and I took turns playing cards with Luke. We taught him what the different names of all the suits, then we played Go Fish and Crazy Eights. At one point I taught him how to play Slap Jack, which entertained us all for a little while, until the palms of our hands became too sore to play anymore. After a while I read my book on the couch while Luke and Wyatt talked laying belly-up on the floor next to the fire. Periodically I would I look at the sky through the window, watching as the sun ducked down behind the trees. Ruthie came home the next day wrapped in a white cloth, my mother cradling her close to her chest. She had a small pink cap on her head and was wearing a onesie I’d never seen before. I was never under the illusion that my family was normal. I knew from the beginning that we were not. But, it wasn’t until Ruthie was born that things in our family started to change. The dynamic that all of us had grown so accustomed to, so used to, began to shift. Father, who’d always been the kind of person to air his grievances (so to speak), suddenly stopped turning his harsh words on mother, for a while anyway. Rather, he turned them on myself and my brother, Wyatt. I remember a handful of times over the winter, cooped up in that small house, the fire burning and the wind howling outside, when father would get this look in his eye like he didn’t recognize any of us. It was in those moments, as his gaze scanned over the four of us, that I truly feared him. Sometimes it wasn’t even over anything major. It could have been something simple, like leaving the door opened and letting in a draft, or leaving a dirty bowl in the sink. There’s one instance that sticks out in my mind. It was early in the morning. Ruthie and Luke were still asleep upstairs. Mom was still in bed as well. She’d been sleeping a lot lately, since Ruthie was born. Wyatt was in the living room, keeping the fire going, while I was in the kitchen frying some eggs.

Graffiti We didn’t know where dad was. That was how the last few weeks had gone. When he wasn’t home we all let out the breath that we hadn’t realized we’d been holding. When he was home we were in a constant state of anxiety, like walking on bits of broken glass. We no longer knew what would set him off because, lately, it seemed that everything did. We’d learned to live with this anxiety. We gave it it’s own place at the table, it’s own spot on the couch. In a sense, it lived with us, and, in many ways, it was more of an active participant in our life than our father was. The eggs were starting to burn around the edges when he came in. The screen door closed behind him, bouncing back against the doorframe. I hadn’t noticed I was humming until his hand wrapped around my arm, yanking my body back away from the stove. “What did I tell you about singing that damned song?” For a second, when I looked into his eyes I got that same feeling; as though the eyes looking back at me had never seen me before. Though he was looking straight at me, his eyes weren’t fixed on my face, but rather somewhere farther away. “I don’t want to hear that song in this house again. Understood?” I nodded fast, scared. But even once he’d let go of my arm and had taken a step back the fear in me didn’t dissipate, it spread. As he walked away from me into the livingroom all I could think about was my brother who had a habit of letting the fire get low. The song used to be sung every night before bed. My brothers and I would pile onto the same bed with mother sandwiched between us. Her stomach wasn’t all that big yet. She would ask us which song we wanted sung to us hat night, even though we all knew the answer. It was a short melody consisting of only a few lines, bu its liling pattern would put us to sleep within minutes. She’d heard the song on the radio when she was younger and had held onto the lyrics ever since. “Don’t worry about a thing, ‘cause every little thing’s gonna be alright.” Even after the baby stopped growing she kept singing that song, as a reminder to all of us that everything was fine, even though, as young as we were, we could tell that it wasn’t. She’d continue to sing this song to us. Long

Graffiti after the nursery had been closed and locked she would sit with us on our bd, cramped together, and she’d whisper the familiar lyrics into our ears. Sometimes, in the middle of the night, if you were quiet enough, you’d be able to hear her whispering them to herself, the lilting melody all but gone, so that only the dry words remained behind. We moved again when I turned fourteen and Ruthie turned 6. The rooms we once inhabited had become too small to house even us. We packed up the truck. Our once faithful station wagon had long since been retired by this point, replaced with a pick up truck with a backseat and a long bed. In those years father’s anger didn’t dissipate, rather it found new forms to take. It became something we lived with and accepted, not that we were necessarily given much of a choice. Mother told us we were moving again over breakfast one morning while the skillet was spewing grease from the bacon, and we could smell the toast burning from being left in the toaster for too long. When my brother asked her why, his mouth crammed with egg, she replied solemnly: “The timing seems right.” Same as the time before, us kids packed up our belongings into cardboard boxes. My boxes were filled mainly with books by authors with obscure names, and small trinkets I’d gathered over the years, like a necklace I got one year for my birthday and a statue of an owl carved out of stone. As usual, most of the things in my room that I’d once looked at fondly, no longer held the same significance as they once did. I’ve noticed as I’ve grown older that the things that are important to us when we’re younger don’t necessarily retain their importance throughout our lives. We left on a Monday afternoon. It was warm and sunny outside as we loaded the back of the truck up with our cardboard boxes and pieces of furniture, which we secured with long strips of rope. Before we left my brothers, Ruthie, and I went to the attic upstairs, where we all carved our names into the stones of the chimney, which went right through the center of the room before exiting through the roof. We

Graffiti used my dad’s pocket-knife, an old one with a wooden handle, and each took turns carving our names. Even Ruthie. As we pulled out of the driveway and away from the house, I only looked back once. The house that I’d sworn long ago I would never call home had, in that moment, started to resemble something close to it. We just got to the new house. Father pulls the truck up the driveway to the front. We climb out, one by one and stand, gazing at it silently. No one says a word, not even mother. We’re all silently taking it all in. The house is white on the outside, with big, clear windows. There’s a small front porch that wraps around the front of the house. The front door is red with a large black knocker located in the center. “Well, let’s get a move on then,” Mother says. We unload the car silently, begrudgingly, each of us carrying as much as we can up the front steps and into the house. Before long the truck had been emptied. I claim my bedroom, a large room with white walls and a large window. Once again I’m facing the trees, which seem to go on and on, with no end to them. There’s already a bed waiting for me and a dresser with a vanity. There’s a closet in the corner of the room. I place my boxes on the floor and begin to unpack my life. I tack photographs to a corkboard and tape others to the back of my door. I arrange my books on top of the dresser and on the windowsill. By the time everything’s laid out I can almost imagine that I’ve lived here all along. It’s as if I never lived anywhere else. Like the house before and the events that transpired there never happened. Almost. Later in the night, after my younger sister and brother have gone to bed and I’m about to go to bed myself, I hear mother whispering to father down in the living room. “We’re home,” she whispers. “I can feel it. This is it for us.” The words resonate but have no particular meaning, because I’ve heard them said before. The first fews weeks that we’re here everything is seemingly normal, ordinary. Ruthie is enrolled in kindergarten. She comes home daily,

Graffiti her purple backpack slung over her shoulder. She shows me the drawings that she did that day. Most of them are streaks of yellow and orange, to represent hair and skin. The sky is a bright blue and trees are brown sticks with green foliage sticking out of the top. The house’s roof is often slanted and the truck, when it’s included, only has two tires. Today I watch her run up the driveway, a huge smile on her face, revealing several missing teeth. She comes in through the front door and presents a small stack of construction paper, each of them showcasing a different scene. “Look what I drew today,” she tells me, placing the papers into my hands. The first one is obviously a picture of her and I. Our orange faces are bordered by corn-colored hair and we each wear a matching red grin. In the next drawing I see mother making dinner, her hair up in a bun and her hands outstretched toward the black oven. The third drawing, however, shows our father, big and burly in his red flannel shirt. He stands off to the side, while the rest of us are huddled together on the other side of the page. His eyes, two black dots, bore out of the paper. Even with the simplicity of a child’s drawing, the anger radiating from his image is unmistakable. The rest of us, hunched together, don’t wear smiles. In fact, we don’t even have mouths. Rather, our faces, where our mouths and eyes should be, are blank. “What was the assignment?” I ask her. “Draw something you’re afraid of.” “Did you show anyone this, Ruthie?” She shakes her head. I imagine Ruthie sitting in her Kindergarten classroom, with the multicolored letters on the wall. I imagine the teacher saying the assignment and all of the other children drawing pictures of what scares them most: clowns, insects, heights... Ruthie, on the other hand, is left thinking of only one thing, a fear that trumps every last one of theirs. “Don’t show mom this, okay?” I tell her. She nods, frightened blue eyes staring back at me.

We make little adjustments to maintain what little sanity resides in

Graffiti our family. We don’t discuss what happens, at least not in words. It’s a silent agreement between all of us. I remember similar incidents that happened at the old house, events that I’d tried to bury and keep hidden. I hadn’t realized I was doing it then, but now, thinking back on it, it makes sense. Though I try to ignore it, try to forget, at a certain point I’m unable to. There are things that you don’t understand as a child. It isn’t until you grow up and begin to experience similar things that you realize the truth. You realize that there was something your subconscious had tried so long to keep hidden from you. Even though it’s only part way into September and the weather outside is still humid, we sometimes wear long-sleeved shirts to school, because we know what will happen if other students, if teachers, see the purple marks on our arms. Marks from when father held on too tightly or yanked too quickly or punched too harshly. One night, when I forget to clean up after dinner, he smacked me hard against the face, reddening my check and leaving a purplish bruise under one eye. I don’t go to school for two days, until the swelling has gone down, and when people ask what happened I tell them I fell and smacked my eye on a doorknob. Though the walls that enclose me have changed colors, and when I look out my window I no longer see the same expanse of woods, nothing much has changed on the inside. Words and conversations are whispered late into the night, long after cigarettes have been extinguished and glasses of brandy, the ice long melted, have been discarded on the livingroom table. If walls could scream or whisper or talk, what conversations we would have. I’m awake late into the night. The clock on my bedside table reads 11:38, flashing the numbers back at me in neon lines. I have a textbook opened on my bed, looseleaf pages laying out on the bedspread in front of me. The house is quiet, until something shifts. I hear the sound of a glass shattering against the floor. The blood in my

Graffiti veins turns to ice. I freeze like an animal, the air suspended in my throat. Then I hear my mother scream. I throw push the covers off my legs and get out of bed. I open my door and peer out into the hallways where I see my brother Wyatt, his head poking out of his room. “Get Luke,” I mouth to him. He nods and we both head out into the hallway. Another scream. I hear my father yell, his voice gravely and harsh, carrying up through the floorboards. I walk on my tiptoes, inching my way over to Ruthie’s room, only a few feet from mine. I turn the door knob and let myself in. She’s still asleep; a petite, sleeping form, small and curled up on one side, a stuffed rabbit clutched in her tiny fists. I move the covers away and slip one arm underneath her neck and the other behind her knees. I cradle her to my chest, her head beneath my chin, the stuffed animal still in her grasp. “Where’re we going, Sand?” She whispers, her voice heavy with sleep. “Shh, we’re just going somewhere safe, go back to sleep.” I carry her into my room and over to my closet, where I open the door, push aside the clothes hanging there, and place her in the back. Then I crawl in beside her. The closet isn’t that big; I have to press my back against the wall and pull my legs up against my chest to fit in the narrow space. I close the door behind me and rearrange the clothing so that they hang just right, shielding us from view. I imagine Luke and Wyatt hidden under Wyatt’s bed, shielded by the dark and the covers. I imagine Wyatt cradling Luke to his chest, whispering in his ear, reminding him to stay quiet, all the while listening for sounds of footsteps on the stairs. I don’t breathe out a sigh of relief, because I know that even though we’re hidden it doesn’t necessarily mean that we’re safe. “Sandy.” Ruthie’s voice is tiny, just barely above a whisper. “What’s going on?” There’s no right answer, no right way to accurately explain to her what’s going on outside of these walls.

Graffiti I reach out and find her hand, small and warm. I take it in mine and squeeze softly. “Is it dad?” She asks. “Is he angry again?” I sigh. Even at a young age she’s starting to recognize things that I’d tried to ignore at her age. I remember a night at the house when I’d been awoken by the same thing; glass shattering and mother screaming, begging for him to calm down and not to wake us. I’d crawled out of bed and crept to the edge of the stairs, where I peered down into the kitchen. I watched him yell at her, his face no more than a few inches from hers. Luke caught me by the shoulders and yanked me back before I could be seen. He instructed me to go to my room and hide in the closet until he came to get me. “What will you do?” I’d asked him. “I’ll be fine. You just stay there until I say so, okay?” So I did. I stayed there for what seemed like hours, cradling my pillow to my chest, until my butt went numb from staying seated for so long. At some point I fell asleep, curled up on my closet floor. Eventually Wyatt came to get me, just as he said he would. He carried me to bed and tucked me in before returning to his own room. I’d never realized, until now, how much danger he’d put himself in just to keep me safe. But, as I sit here, in my darkened closet, Ruthie’s hand clasped in mine, I realize exactly why he did it.

Woman of Mine - Natalia Veras 37

Snow Sisters Ani Kumin

Nina and Julia had waited for the wind to die down before they went outside, that had the unfortunate side effect of giving the snow time to freeze over. Nina was a freshman in high school, but the shovels she dragged down the porch was still taller than her. Julia was a freshman too, she had just started going to the local CUNY a few months ago. It was close enough to commute, which was fortunate because their mother couldn’t carry the massive bag of salt. The two of them began the process of cracking the ice on the porch steps to make a safe path to the sidewalk. Julia positioned her shovel in the crevice where ice met stone and tried to pry them apart. Nina turned her shovel sideways and used it like a hammer. Bludgeoning the ice into submission. Julia’s dark hair was neatly tucked away in a floppy winter hat. Her gray jacket zipped all the way to her neck. With her scarf wound around her the only part of her body exposed to the cold were her eyes. Every breath she took fogged up her glasses, but taking them off wouldn’t necessarily improve her vision. Nina had so many layers on she was practically spherical. She had rejected a scarf, citing the gross feeling when the cold made her nose run felt worse when she wore one. The grips in her gloves were worn down so much that every time she hit the ice the handle threatened to slip away. Julia saw her sister practically holding the shovel with her forearms and started to smile. “You should have asked “Santa” for new gloves” she said. Nina glared at her, “I like these gloves. New ones are always so stiff. I can’t do anything in them.” “You can’t do anything in those gloves either.” That got Julia an angry glare. Nina had cleared off part of the top step and was moving down.” “Don’t slip.” Julia said.

Graffiti “I think I’m gonna slip all the way down, crack my skull open, and then you’re going to be the one to clean it up.” Nina responded without missing a beat. But she did move her left hand to grip the railing next to her. “Do brains break or freeze? Their muscle right?” The slab of ice that Julia had been pushing on popped off. Sliding down the stairs it broke the second it hit pavement. “You are so gross!” Julia said. “Why would you ask that?” “Just curious.” Nina raised her shovel to begin a new pulverizing. “Hey, careful!” Julia snapped, dodging her head to the right. Taking a step up, she get that salt from the vestibule. “I’m always careful!” Nina snapped back. “It wasn’t anywhere near you!” “Yes it was! You almost hit me!” “I did not!” Before Julia could continue the shouting match, muffled music started playing from her coat pocket. When she took it out her smile was so wide it was clear though her scarf. “We got in!” she exclaimed. Nina stopped attacking the ice. “Got in?” “You know Terri right? We and a few other girls were trying to rent an apartment so we could live closer to campus next semester. We got it!” Julia was bouncing on the balls of her feet so hard she was practically jumping. “But you’re already close to campus.” Nina grumbled. “Yeah, but I want to move out. Just for a little bit. I definitely can’t stay gone forever in this economy.” Neither of them said anything for a few minutes. “I’m sorry I almost hit you with the shovel.” Nina’s voice was so quiet Julia almost missed it. “It won’t happen again.” Julia saw the tears welling up in her sister’s eyes. Putting down her shovel Julia stepped down and gave her sister a hug. “It’s not like that munchkin. I’m not mad at you.” Nina hugged her sister back as hard as she could. She always

Graffiti knew Julia might move out, but she just couldn’t imagine it. Mornings where the breakfast table had an empty seat. An apartment where there was not arguing over the volume of her music. No one to talk to when mom and dad were being too parental to handle. Julia had always been such a large part of her life. From teaching her how to swim to hand-medown-gloves. “I love you,” Nina said, before she let go.

Plausible Deniability or Something Like

Stephanie Kleid

Bea put the earrings Charlie gave her for Christmas in the envelope with the letter. That was the first thing she told him in it. If the earrings weren’t there when he got it, the mailman probably stole them to regift to his wife or something. In which case, she suggested filing a report with the police since she’s pretty sure that’s a felony. She wrote Charlie a letter for two reasons: 1. Because he was blocked. She blocked his number, his Facebook, his Instagram. Even his damn Spotify. (Okay, not actually his Spotify because that’s not an available option, but she sure as hell didn’t follow him anymore because she couldn’t stand to keep seeing what song he was listening to and then fiendishly opening Google to look up the lyrics to see if somehow, some way, they related to them.) He was blocked because everyone kept telling her, “Out of sight, out of mind!” But in writing her letter, she was sure that he could tell that was not necessarily the case. 2. Because she knew he loved receiving letters in the mail. They used to pull up in front of his house after dates and the first thing he’d do when he got out of the car was check the mailbox to see if anything were addressed to him. Most often, whatever was in there was a bill or a MasterCard brochure, and he knew they would be. But his face lit up anyway. She could never tell if he liked getting mail so much because the idea of receiving a letter is so outdated and he’s so old-school, or if he liked getting it so much because it somehow fueled his ego. Like he was flattered but not at all surprised that someone, somewhere was thinking of him. Bea met Charlie on Tinder. It was the first time she’d ever really used the app. She never had a need to before that, being in a very long, very serious relationship and all. But that ended the August before she met Charlie, and the short months after the breakup were filled with endless strings of Snapchat stories of her ex out at bars and seeing him follow what felt like hundreds of picture-perfect Instagram models with their tight little asses bared in all their annoying, perfectly-round glory. “You need some good dick.” That’s what Mel said. “You need to download Tinder, match with a couple hot guys, and find someone else so

Graffiti you can stop stalking him and hurting your own feelings.” “It’s all so superficial.” Bea sipped her coffee. “You just swipe on the guys whose physical appearance you deem worthy of your time and they do the same to you. There is way more to me than boobs, you know.” They were sitting around the folding table in their kitchen that doubled as a beer-pong table on the weekends. It was their weekly Tuesday routine. That was the only time during the week they could actually spend time eating breakfast before class and catching up with each other. Mel laughed at her. “You’re not looking for your husband on Tinder, Bea. You’re looking for some free drinks, free meals, and probably bad but usually satisfying sex. That’s it.” “How can sex be bad and satisfying at the same time?” “You’d know exactly how if you just listened to me for once.” “I’m just saying it seems like an oxymoron.” “You’re an oxy-moron.” Mel threw a crumpled-up napkin at Bea’s head. She snatched Bea’s phone from across the table. “I’m making your profile for you.” She chose six pictures off of Bea’s Instagram that were perfectly curated to highlight each of Bea’s best assets which included but were not limited to: eyes, smile, boobs, love of bars, love of friends, and, well, boobs again. Men in a 15-mile radius ranging from 18-25 would be able to view these six things and only these six things about her and decide whether or not she was good enough to fuck. She felt like she was shoved into a box with those particular labels written in black marker on the outside and placed at a Chinese Auction. She was set out on display next to a bunch of other boxes with specific labels; each right swipe she received was a bid on her outer-shell and whatever contents were inside didn’t particularly matter. At first, she liked to read the bios. She tended to swipe right on guys whose bios were more involved, highlighting their studies or travels, their favorite Netflix shows or love of dogs. They seemed to care less about that, though, and, like she had predicted, mostly commented on the size of her breasts in an attempt to start a conversation with her. It was when she started to just look at their pictures and not their bios that she matched

Graffiti with Charlie. He wasn’t conventionally handsome. She wasn’t sure many of her friends would find him attractive in the same way she did; his hair was wild, and his pictures told her that he smoked cigarettes. But she found his crooked smile endearing, so she swiped right. His very first message to her commended her dreams of becoming a high school English teacher, which she had highlighted in her own bio. *** When the idea came to Bea to write Charlie the letter, she thought it’d be angry. She thought she would send him a letter in the mail so ragefilled and hate-laden that when he unsealed the envelope, it would burst into flames before he even had the chance to read it. And, actually, she wrote several letters like that: scrawling soliloquies of “fuck you” said in as many similes and metaphors as she could muster. Her hand would ache and spaz for days after she finished one, as though her body were trying to keep her from spewing more hateful words and putting that bad juju out into the universe or whatever. The letters horrified her. They animated a side of her that she never knew existed, a side of her that knew what it was like to loathe something, a side of her that threw her shoes at the radiator and shouted at her friends when she was drunk and crying over Charlie again. She threw them all away. She crumpled them and uncrumpled them and then tore them into tiny little shreds and lit them on fire with an older lighter of his she found in her nightstand. And then she scooped the ashes into her hands and flushed them down the toilet. She needed them obliterated so that she could try and convince herself that the unrecognizable person she had become didn’t really exist. But each time, a few days later, another letter would beg to be written. She’d see him listening to some song on her Spotify feed that they used to shout out of the open windows of her car or notice he’d been tagged in a picture with his teeth bared in utter bliss and suddenly the nearest pen and paper were in front of her, taking the brunt of all her pent-up frustrations. There were a lot of letters; she lost count around 23, but she knew there were plenty more after. The one she finally sent wasn’t an angry letter, though. At least, she didn’t think it was. Being angry all the time had exhausted her. It yanked the soul from

Graffiti her body and tossed it into a freezing cold, soap-less, 6-month-long spin cycle. She was too tired to be angry now. She felt all wet and heavy like she’d set herself out on the clothes line to drip-dry. *** Charlie was the one to ask Bea for her phone number. Texting someone instead of messaging over Tinder was different. It was more intimate somehow. Bea was surprised because, in her endeavors, she had come to find that guys usually asked for her Snapchat. She didn’t quite understand the phenomenon, but she thought it might’ve had something to do with the fact that any communications over Snapchat were deleted immediately after being opened. She thought it probably gave guys the idea that they could do or say whatever they wanted, then, because there’d be no record of it; plausible deniability or something like that. But Charlie was different. He wasn’t into social media like most people Bea knew, and certainly not like she was. His Instagram wasn’t necessarily up-to-date with the most recent pictures of him; his Facebook profile was filled with pictures he’d been tagged in by his mom or friends, and not ones that he had posted himself. In fact, the only thing he regularly used was Spotify. He loved music. He had playlist upon playlist for every genre he liked, every mood he ever felt; feeling sad called for the scary metal music she hated, a rainy day constituted slow acoustic music. They texted for a week or so before they met in person for the first time. Their conversations started with a “good morning” text and lasted all day until one of them fell asleep before the other. Bea felt like she knew him before they even physically met. He cared a lot about his family; they talked quite a bit about his mom and his sister and how he worked for his dad’s tile company. He sent Bea countless pictures of his Schnauzer, Pepper, and they joked about how her German Shephard back home, Sandy, would gobble Pepper up whole. She learned that he wanted to work in the music industry. He was witty and understood her jokes, even through text. She got used to his presence in her life quicker than she imagined she would, and she looked forward to seeing new messages from him appear on her phone. Even still, Mel had to convince her to go out with him for the first

Graffiti time. Bea was afraid of “shattering the illusion,” as she’d put it. What if she wasn’t what he was expecting? What if he wasn’t what she was expecting? Then what? Mel tried to ration with her, telling her that no one is exactly how they present themselves over text, not even her, and they both probably wouldn’t be what the other was expecting. Charlie’s promise of free drinks was what finally convinced her. If her fears became reality, at least getting a little tipsy meant she could pretend that they were exactly who their text alter-egos said they were. Mel dropped Bea off at a local bar that Friday night and promised to stay in the area—just in case—something that Bea had done for Mel plenty of times before. Charlie met Bea outside the bar. He was smoking a cigarette that he promptly smushed into the concrete before he reached her; Bea was relieved that Mel wasn’t there to see him puffing on a Marlboro. Charlie was taller than she had imagined, and his eyes were stunning. She could see them even from the distance. He smiled his crooked smile at her before he reached her. Strangely, the shaking in her hands and the flipping of her stomach ceased upon his arrival. She felt at ease in his presence, like she was meeting with an old friend, and not a stranger from a dating app who, in all reality, could very well have been a serial killer, for all she knew. *** Their relationship grew quickly after they met. She introduced him to all of her friends and he charmed them all like she knew he would. In December, they bought each other Christmas gifts. Bea had gotten him a cheesy little flask with a Metallica album cover printed on it. They’d only known each other for about a month by then, so she thought something simple would suffice. Charlie took it more seriously, though, and gifted her with a stunning pair of earrings. The gem in middle was multi-colored. “They complement your skin tone.” He’d said. “I can’t wait for you to wear them.” She put them on right then and there and kissed him as a thank you. *** Once, after everything had happened, Mel asked Bea why she was still wearing the earrings Charlie had bought her. “Why wouldn’t I?”

Graffiti Mel shrugged her shoulders and looked back to the pile of dishes in the sink she was scrubbing, making a face like she didn’t know what to say. But Bea could read her face. Bea thought that Mel knew that if she said something more, it would have turned into an argument. Another, “Because I’m in fucking love with him!” fight, probably ending in a broken, dried-milk crusted bowl. The earrings felt like bricks in her ears, then. She went to her room and left them on her nightstand and cried herself to sleep. *** The first time Charlie asked Bea to be his girlfriend, they were making out on her bed, half-undressed, pawing at each other like they had never touched another person before. He took her cheeks in his hand and pulled away for a moment. He looked her in the eyes, kissed her, and pulled back again. And then he said, “Bea, I think we should be together.” In the letter she wrote him, she asked him if he remembered what she did, then. She laughed. He looked so stupid with his lip pouted and his eyes all wide as though he were a baby on the verge of a meltdown. She didn’t mean for the laugh to come out, but it did, and he pretended he didn’t hear her, but she knew he did because he blinked once, real hard, like he always did when she hurt his ego. But she didn’t know that, then. He wasn’t hurt because he thought she didn’t feel the same way about him, as she had assumed in that moment. No, he was hurt because he knew she was about to say no. And what woman had ever said no to Charlie Napoli? She’d bet money that she was the first. She liked Charlie. A lot. But something felt off. She didn’t feel ready to commit to being with him. She said to him, then, “Just give me some time.” Not long after that, he told her he loved her and from then on, she convinced herself that she loved him back because that’s how it’s supposed to be. *** It was still winter when Bea finally told Charlie she wanted to be with him. It was no use to her to wait to be with someone who she claimed to love. And what was she waiting for anyway? To be ready? But she

Graffiti that when she was “ready” she would just know it. But the “ready” feeling never came, so while they were sitting on his couch one night, watching some classic movie that he was shocked to learn she’d never seen, she decided to take the plunge, and told him that she wanted to be with him. He made that same pouted-lip face. This time, she fought to refrain herself from laughing at how ridiculous he looked. He’d finally gotten what he’d wanted all along. So, he pulled her in close and kissed her on her cheeks and her forehead and said nothing else of it. A few days later, she asked him if they could make it Facebook Official. “I know it’s cheesy.” She shrugged. “But I’d like to do it, since we are officially dating now.” His eyes changed, then. “I mean…” He shifted in his chair across from her at the table. He took a moment too long before he spoke again. “I’m not really into that. I don’t really care about that stuff.” “I know, but I do.” She fingered the stem of her wine glass, and watched the red liquid make ripples as she did. “You’re my boyfriend now. I want to show you off.” He looked over her shoulder, past her. His eyes shifted for a moment, like he was looking for something. “Why isn’t it enough that we’re together, Bea? I don’t care about putting it out there for the world to see. As long as I know you’re mine, that’s all that matters to me.” Disappointment anchored in her chest. She didn’t know why it was so important to her to have their relationship status out for the internet to see, but it was. It felt like it would solidify things, somehow. She didn’t know how; there was no explanation. All of her friends in relationships made it a point to put them on Facebook. It was a habit they’d all picked up early in high school when they were much younger, much more naïve, and much more concerned about their status in the high school hierarchy. It was important to their images, then. Now, she didn’t think it mattered so much, and yet, there she sat, feeling like a let-down child. “It’s up to you.” Charlie said, then, and took a bite of his meal, still not looking at her. “Doesn’t matter, I guess.” She should have known, then. She changed her status on Facebook to “In A Relationship with Napoli” that night.

Graffiti One drunken night, in that little gray area after Bea broke up with her ex and before Bea met Charlie, she went home from the bar with a guy from one of her classes. After they’d had sex, they laid in bed together, their still-sweaty bodies on top of the covers, trying to cool down but still finding little, intimate ways to touch each other without sticking together; her fingertips circled the skin on his forearm, his hand laid gently in the dip of her waist. “What happens to us after this?” He’d asked. “What do you mean?” “I mean, are we going to make this awkward when we see each other?” The question was silly to her, then. She didn’t exactly understand why he would ask her that, but then again, the whole situation was foreign; she wasn’t used to being intimate like that with someone she barely knew. She’d shared a personal piece of herself with someone who was only just slightly a step above a stranger to her. She tried to think of what Mel would say if one of her conquests posed her with the same question, and she remembered a conversation that they’d had shortly after Bea’s breakup. “You have to stop beating yourself up.” Mel said. “I feel like an awful person. I feel like I wasted his time.” “Not to get all My-Mom-Shared-This-Quote-On-Facebook on you, Bea, but my mom shared this quote on Facebook the other day and it was basically, like, there’s a purpose behind every single person who walks into your life.” “Oh, great, so mine was to be a shit-head and break his heart?” “No, asshole. Do you ever let me finish? Everything might hurt like a bitch right now, but you’ll both understand your purposes in each other’s lives eventually. Like, remember that kid I hooked up with last Halloween? His purpose was to teach me that all lacrosse players are dicks and to stay away from them at all costs.” “Mel, didn’t you sleep with him again a couple weeks ago?” “That’s irrelevant.” *** It only took 31 hours after she changed her relationship status for

Graffiti Bea to get a message from Charlie’s other girlfriend on Facebook. Hi Beatrice, I know this is weird, but this is something I have to do. For both of us. I saw your relationship status... Fuck Charlie Napoli. *** The night Bea wrote the letter she sent to Charlie, she’d just come home from a date with a guy from Tinder. “I walked in and he was holding a single, solitary rose.” She snorted into the bowl of popcorn between her and Mel on the couch. Some old re-run of Jersey Shore was playing on the TV. “Thankfully, I caught myself before my eyes rolled. I think I would’ve offended him. Poor guy.” “Holy shit, what a cheeseball.” Mel was giggling. “Did you fuck him?” Bea covered her face with a couch pillow. She could feel her ears get hot. “No way. You did! You totally did.” “He was nice to me!” Bea threw a handful of popcorn at Mel. She couldn’t dodge all the pieces and they went all over. “He was a dork.” Mel picked a piece of popcorn out of her hair and tossed it back at Bea. “It was dorky, I’m not denying that. But he was cute. And you know what? It felt like he cared about me. Do you know how long it’s been since I felt like a guy actually cared about me?” Mel looked down, pulling at a loose seam in the blanket wrapped around her shoulders. Bea knew her too well to not know what she was thinking; of course Mel knew. Mel was the one that witnessed, first-hand, the emotional turmoil Bea had been through since Charlie. Mel was the one who swept up all the broken dishes and threw out all the wet, mascara stained tissues and had to keep her calm when Bea was unintentionally taking all of her frustrations out on her. Mel smiled a little, suddenly, and at that, Bea felt the ice melt inside her. She felt a letter to Charlie writing itself inside her, one she would write but wouldn’t destroy.

Rachel Stasolla 51

What Could Have Been if it Was Now

Max Grabler

The Christmas lights are still up from Halloween. Every year they put up a ceramic tree with a turkey instead of a star in September to make sure their house is decorated for the oncoming season. Their home is Christmas for Halloween and stays in costume until almost Valentine’s Day. The TV is muted. Jy and Chera had long grown tired of the noises of the crowds. A playlist of filthy dubstep and ska is on shuffle. Chera throws down four eights from the tips of her neon purple and pink extensions. An almost blinding middle finger is flipped up by Jy as he picks up the cards from the center of the couch. “Double or nothing!” Jy grunts with a smirk that reaches from the small Tamagotchi tattoo on his left cheek to the tiny scar on his right cheek, so small only Chera would know he has it. He cuts the deck and puts the two halves down as he grabs a chilled bottle of vodka to sip from directly. He has flashy rings on each finger. Chera flips him off with both hands. All the charms smashing together on her bracelet sound like a terrible DJ is trying to use turntables as she snatches the bottle with one of the birds and says “you’re already down fifty beans, I’d like to see that first big pimping”. She wolfs down a swig twice Jy’s, which prompts him to grab it back and double hers. The cycle continues. When Chera lifts her head you can see the rainbow fish of colors she has put into her hair over the years. She gestures with her left hand to pay up pushing her thumb through the hole in her sleeve to rub it against her fingers. Chera puts the knife off her half eaten dinner plate and yells “Where’s my money, bitch?” “This is what I love about you. You’re about this money. Always have been” Jy thinks to himself as his smirk becomes a smile. Jy pulls out his wallet and as he is grabbing the fifty a picture of a much younger them falls out. They lock eyes before staring at the picture of their childish faces.

Graffiti Both of them stick their tongues out at each other. Just like in this picture of them at seventeen. Silently they both ponder the same thing. “I can’t believe we’ve been married almost sixty three years. What’s even weirder is that we’re definitely both thinking the same thing.” They both take another shot.

Rest in Peace, Pamela Morgan Finkeldey

Sarah, while ambitious in her efforts, could not cook. Her mother was more of a TV dinner kinda gal, so Sarah didn’t even process the most basic of culinary skills to warrant her to be within thirty feet of a kitchen. This was displayed most obviously when her freshman dorm had to evacuate the building because Sarah did not know you needed water to cook pasta. Lesson learned, albeit the hard way. She was banned from using the dorm’s kitchen after that and it didn’t faze her too much; she had the cheapest meal plan so she could at least eat twice a day. This didn’t become an issue until Lauren left. Fresh from college and dining hall food, Sarah and Lauren moved in together in a shitty little apartment. You see, Lauren’s mother was a stay-at-home mom and knew the recipes of the Betty Crocker cookbook like the back of her hand. Growing up in an environment like that gives you the skills to make an omelet or bake a mean casserole. They lived paycheck to paycheck, but Lauren’s culinary knowhow made great food without the price tag of takeout or the sodium of prepackaged ramen. In return, Sarah would do the laundry— hemming and mending the clothes as needed. She knew how to scour a Goodwill to get the best deals and always knew where to find cheap fabric to make anything for a fraction of what it would cost at the mall. They were young and broke, dumb and in love and isn’t that what every relationship is in your early-twenties? Then, Lauren found a better job and with that, a better girlfriend. Sarah would love to say she saw it coming but that would be a lie. Her head was still up in the clouds, living in the fantasy of her perfect sapphic life, when Lauren admitted that she hadn’t been staying late at work to try and get a promotion. She had been gettin’ busy with Bethany from accounting in her fancy uptown apartment and before Sarah could even formulate her thoughts on the situation, Lauren was gone. And with Lauren went the food. To be honest, Sarah had picked up nothing from the two years her and Lauren had lived together— she still could not figure out how to fry an egg without setting off the smoke

Graffiti as a multitude of other utensils that clashed with each other were stacked precariously in her arms as she headed for the register. Janice, a grandmother in her fifties from Long Island, was working today. Janice was semi-retired, but still wanted to make some extra cash since her daughter had moved back in with her with her kids. Sarah liked her; she reminded her of her Aunt Maureen with her thick accent and her bright-red acrylic nails. They had become decent friends as Sarah would spend hours in the store at the most obscure hours to buy clothes and tacky knickknacks that covered her bookshelf. “Y’know, you could’ve gotten a cart,” she commented as she unloaded the kitchenware from Sarah’s, now trembling, arms. “What’s with all this junk? I know you don’t cook.” “New Year’s resolution,” Sarah declared as she fiddled with neon orange whisk. “It’s October,” Janice said as she scanned the items one-by-one, placing them into a box. “Fine, my microwave broke and I can’t afford a new one. Plus, Lean Cuisines are not as good as I remember them being.” Her total was $29.54 for the essential hardware to cook a halfway decent meal. Now all she needed was skill. … Sarah set the ingredients in front of her, eyeing them cautiously for a moment. She had boldly decided that her first attempt at cooking would be enchiladas but now realized she might have been overly ambitious. She grabbed a knife from the block and sliced the ends off of the onion, chucking them in the trash can next to her. After slicing the vegetable in half, she became more confident in her ability. Maybe this wouldn’t be a complete disaster. That would show Lauren what she lost out on. Just as Sarah settled into a rhythm, she felt a sharp pain in her hand. Sarah flinched, dropping the knife to the floor and focusing her attention on her bleeding finger. She thankfully had enough foresight to move her foot out of the path of the knife, hearing the clatter as it hit the linoleum. “Of fucking course,” she mumbled as she grabbed a paper towel. Sarah clamped the cloth around her finger as she headed to the

Graffiti bathroom to assess the damage further. It wasn’t stitches worthy. That being said, the skin still curled off her finger and left a steady stream of blood in its place. She turned on the tap and held her finger underneath the stream, watching the blood swirl down the drain. She remembered that poem by Sylvia Plath, What a thrill -- My thumb instead of an onion. The top quite gone Except for a sort of a hinge She laughed at the thought before rummaging in the drawer for band-aids. She eventually found a box with Rugrats printed on them that had to be at least a decade old. They certainly weren’t hers, so she assumed Lauren must have left them; she did always love collecting things like that. Sarah reentered the kitchen only to jump backwards in fear. The knife was not on the floor where she left it; it laid on the cutting board next to not only a completely chopped onion, but also fully chopped peppers and minced garlic. “Who’s here?” she called out. She walked back into the kitchen to grab the knife, holding it in front of her to protect her from this intruder that… chopped her ingredients for her? At least it was a helpful burglar? Sarah checked the locks on her windows and doors— all were bolted shut. Every room, closet, and corner was just as unremarkable as it had always been. Was she finally losing her mind? Sarah headed back towards the kitchen to continue with her meal. She checked the recipe after every step to make sure she hadn’t completely messed up. Surprisingly, things went well and she slid the Pyrex casserole dish into the oven that she did not remember preheating. She was proud of herself and sank into the lumpy couch as she waited for her dinner to be complete. … Sarah woke up and squinted at the time on her phone. 1:34 AM. The enchiladas had gone in around 8 PM and needed to be taken out after half an hour.

Graffiti “Oh no!” she screeched as she raced towards the kitchen, ready to grab the fire extinguisher and coat the room in noxious foam. But there was no smoke, no fire, not even the smell of burnt food. Wafting through the air in its place was the aroma of enchiladas that sat on the counter cooling. Sarah was dumbfounded. Had she taken them out while she was half asleep and then dozed back off? No, that couldn’t be it; the enchiladas were still hot from the oven. Fork in hand, Sarah hesitantly took a bite of the mystery enchilada, only to let out a groan of happiness. This was better than any frozen dinner she had ever had—fuck it, this was better than anything Lauren had ever made. “Adam, I think I’m going crazy.” Sarah sat with speakerphone on as she shoveled mouthful after mouthful of the mystery enchilada into her face. “Like, our normal level of crazy or completely bonkers?” Adam asked as he strummed the chords to “Morning Theft” in the background. “Bonkers,” Sarah remarked as she shoved another forkful of food into her mouth. “Either I’m being haunted or I have multiple personalities and one of them has an affinity for the culinary arts.” “What does that even mean?” “I don’t know, man! I made enchiladas except I didn’t do some of the steps, they just, happened?” “You need to get more sleep, kid.” And with that, he hung up. … As the weeks continued, so did the unexplainable kitchen miracles. No matter what she did, Sarah could not fail, whether it be putting the chicken in the oven for three hours instead of thirty minutes, putting dried mustard in the pumpkin pie instead of ginger, or the flan fiasco. Every night dinner would come out perfect even if she had severely fucked up the recipe. There must be a food angel taking pity on my sad, sad life she thought to herself as she took a bite of a perfectly baked snickerdoodle. The sound of the refrigerator being opened broke the silence of the apartment and caused Sarah to lunge out of her seat and towards the kitchen. There was someone in there and Sarah could actually see her. A girl, maybe a year or two older than Sarah, was putting the cookie ingredients

Graffiti back in the fridge, humming to herself as she did. “Hey!” Sarah shouted, causing the girl to jump and disappear… into thin air. What the actual fuck was going on? This couldn’t be real; people just don’t just vanish into nothing—unless they are a seriously talented magician, and Sarah doubted a magician with that much skill would be helping her make cookies. Whoever she was, Sarah needed her to keep her kitchen from becoming a pile of ashes. “Wait, no, no, no, come back! Are you my food angel?” Sarah called out, opening cupboards frantically. No random girl was hiding in any of the cabinets and to be completely honest, Sarah didn’t expect there to be. Sarah heard a booming laugh from behind her, and twisted her body to face her. She was beautiful. She looked like the love child of Audrey Hepburn and Lupita Nyong’o and dressed like she was straight out of the 90’s grunge scene. “What the hell is a food angel?” the girl asked as she took a step closer to Sarah. “I don’t know, man. My food was practically making itself; I had to come up with some sort of explanation.” Sarah laughed awkwardly before sticking her hand out. “I’m Sarah, but you probably know that by now.” The girl smiled and took Sarah’s clammy hand and shook it. “Holly.” Her smile reminded Sarah of warm cocoa on a rainy day—sweet, bubbly, and safe. “Wait a second; why aren’t you completely freaking out about me and this mystery food? Most people would have called in an exorcist by now.” Sarah withdrew her hand and shrugged. “Adult life is already so goddamn weird— this might as well happen.” “Fair enough.” “So, if you’re not an angel, what are you and why are you in my apartment?” “Your apartment? This is my apartment and I didn’t go to culinary school to watch you eat three trays of Stouffer’s mac and cheese in one sitting.” Holly smiled and walked towards the living room. “I made some adjustments and now here we are!”

Graffiti “What do you mean-” Sarah cut herself off before the realization hit her. “You were the one that killed Pamela; you monster!” “Pamela? You named your microwave?” Holly stood in shock for a moment before shaking her head. “We had been through so much together.” Sarah sat back on the couch with a groan. “She was too young.” “You are ridiculous,” Holly mused as she sat next to her. “So yeah, not an angel; I’m a ghost, spirit, whatever you wanna call it.” “Holy shit, you died here?” Sarah asked with wide eyes. “You’re too young to be a ghost.” “You know what they say: die young, leave a pretty corpse.” “That’s true,” Sarah said with a weak smile. “But seriously,” she said as her smile faded, “how’d you become my kitchen ghost?” “Long story short, landlord refused to fix my stove and it leaked gas. Nothing too crazy, peaceful way to go out.” Holly frowned for a moment before pointing to the tray of cookies. “Do you like them? It’s a family recipe.” “Are you kidding me? These are incredible!” Sarah smiled a toothy grin before taking a huge bite out of the cookie. “Best I’ve ever had.” Holly’s face flushed lightly. “I bet you say that to all the dead culinary students.” “You caught me; I have a treasure trove of ghost chefs catering to my every whim.” Sarah leaned back and let out a small chuckle. “Seriously though, you have made the best food I have ever had in my entire life.” “I’m glad you like it. After Little Miss Betty Crocker left, you were living off trash and I just couldn’t suffer through watching you eat food with a cartoon penguin plastered on the box.” “Hey! Leave K.C. Penguin out of this,” Sarah said before crossing her arms. “I grew up eating those and they taste awesome.” “I’m not even going to ask how you know the name of the goddamn mascot for Kid Cuisine.” Holly grabbed one of the cookies from the tin and smiled. “My mom and I used to make these every Christmas and leave them out for Santa. Always thought it was so funny that Santa and my dad had the same favorite kind of cookie—good times.” “My mom used to just buy those super cakey supermarket cookies to leave

Graffiti for Santa and I am 90% sure she would feed them to the cat once I was asleep. Boy did that cat get fat every December” Sarah said, smiling slightly at the memory of Poundcake. “You better believe you’re getting the true Christmas cookie experience this year; nothing is worse than shitty store-bought cookies,” Holly said. “I’ll take you up on that offer only if I can repay you with a tacky Christmas sweater.” Sarah’s brow furrowed in thought for a moment. “Wait, can ghosts even wear sweaters?” “I don’t know, I’ve never thought to try it before—its not that often someone offers me anything besides ‘sending me into the fiery depths of hell from whence you came.’” “That’s no way to make a first impression!” … Fun fact: ghosts can in fact wear sweaters. This was proven when Holly was presented with a red and green sweater covered in jingle bells, the phrase “Have a Holly Jolly Christmas” neatly stitched across the front. Although it was a gaudy monstrosity, it was incredibly well made. Christmas came and went without a hitch—gifts were given, cookies were baked, and A Christmas Story was watched too many times (if that was even possible). Living with a ghost wasn’t nearly as weird as one might expect, though maybe that is due to Sarah technically having been living with a ghost for over two years. It was like having a roommate who never had to sleep, which was useful since Sarah had essentially reverted to her nocturnal sleep schedule. Sarah didn’t mention Holly to anyone, not even Adam. It was easy enough since most of her friends lived far enough away not to visit often and she didn’t really have any desire to change that. She figured she could pass Holly off as a roommate until someone caught her off guard, then Sarah couldn’t really explain how her roommate vanished into thin air. Luckily, that hadn’t really been a problem.

Halpaa Duarte 61

The Black Car Matthew Villa

Winner of the Sister Eileen O’Gorman Prize for Short Fiction Luke failed his road test 3 times. He hated being responsible for his own safety. He imagined being hit, his vision would blur and he swore he was going to pass out. “Pathetic, I’ve never seen anything like it,” Luke’s dad would say as he laughed. A “joke,” Luke thought accurate. His parents decided it would be best if Luke got professional help. Not a psychiatrist for the anxiety, but a road instructor for the driving. Two months later Luke passed. His parents encouraged him to drive, though he knew he wouldn’t. Luke received his license in the mail on Monday, August 1st, and decided that this was the day he changed his life. Later that night, Luke download Tinder. He had never used a dating app with his picture before; he was terrified that somebody would recognize him. Luke uploaded pictures that flattered him most. One showcased his sharp jaw and high cheekbones. Another showed him on top of a mountain, to prove he enjoyed hiking as he stated in his bio. He wanted a boyfriend, he thought to himself. Someone good this time. Luke was conservative with his swipes, saving them for people taller and more muscular than him, for people who seemed witty and looked like they might be able to read. When the messages started coming in, Luke felt a surge of confidence, a sense of validation. “You mad cute” -Jake “Love your eyes” -Frank “Wow handsome dude” -David Luke answered these and had conversations he soon forgot. He ignored most of the provocative ones. However, when he was bored or lonely, and if the man was good-looking enough, he would reply. But he never

Graffiti allowed anything to come of it. Then, on Thursday, Luke received a message from Scott. You’re different, I can tell -Scott Different how? -Luke A good different for sure -Scott Scott’s first picture was a gym mirror selfie which made Luke roll his eyes as he smiled. Another was of his back as he faced the colosseum in Rome. Still there? -Scott The message was sent with a gif of a grizzly bear waving hello. Luke waited a few more minutes and enjoyed looking through his other pictures. It was a compliment, you are very cute -Scott Luke began to blush and struggled to think of something to respond with. Sorry, I was busy looking at your pictures -Luke You’re handsome yourself, I like the gym selfie Very original. Haha It works on all the boys -Scott That was a joke... So tell me about yourself? What’s a guy like you doing here? The two chatted on Tinder the whole night and Luke ignored all other messages he received. He found out that Scott worked at an Apple store and that he was 24 instead of 22, like his profile suggested. Luke was 19, and confessed that he was going back to college in the beginning of September to start his sophomore year. The next morning, Scott sent a gif of a smiling sun with sunglasses and asked for Luke’s number. Luke was reluctant because he couldn’t find Scott on Facebook and thought it was suspicious for someone his age. Yet Luke’s body got warm when he received a message and saw it was from Scott. The conversations felt more real over text, as if there was only a thin barrier between them now. One that could easily be broken. Scott responded promptly and Luke followed the rhythm, if Scott texted 5 minutes after, so would Luke. If an hour or so went by, the other would send a gif

Graffiti of something funny as an apology for the delay. Luke worked for an investment firm, only as an intern. An unpaid intern. When he got off the train and began walking home, he received a text from Scott. I want to see you tonight, you free? -Scott Luke’s veins began to fill, and he received that nauseous feeling, the one he got right before getting a cavity filled. Luke wanted to hear Scott’s voice first, somehow that seemed like an appropriate step before meeting in real life. Luke was too afraid to ask before, but now Luke thought it necessary. Scott messaged back that he didn’t like to talk on the phone. Luke wanted to insist, but didn’t want to anger him. What do you have in mind? -Luke Something non-lethal I hope? Planning on murdering me already? No no, that’s on the 5th date -Scott Stop rushing things Pick you up around 7? Luke had gotten home at 5. He texted Scott his address and rushed into the shower. He put the water on hot, hotter than he normally did. He let the water burn him and sat under it. He reassured himself that he could do this, that a little pain was good, that a little pain was normal. Luke was ready by 6:15 and wondered why Scott hadn’t texted him since his last message. Luke’s parents were sitting in the living room by the front door. “Where are you going? It’s late.” Luke’s Mom asked. Luke lied and said his friend Sam was picking him up for coffee. “Can’t you drive now, why is she picking you up still? You are a guy, pick her up,” Luke’s dad said with a smirk. Luke ignored his father and walked into the next room. Luke waited for Scott to text him, but it was soon 6:46 and Luke feared that he wasn’t going to show. Luke’s Mom walked into the kitchen, “Where is she? It’s getting late,” Luke mumbled, “She’s coming,” almost inaudible, as if the words were a secret he did not want to share.

Graffiti Luke’s head was down as he played with a fork and squeezed it between his hand. At 6:58 he received a text from Scott: “Outside, in the black car.” Luke couldn’t help but feel annoyed that he had not heard from Scott until the last minute, but his hands were shaking enough that he dismissed the irritation. Luke left the house fast; he didn’t want his mother to see the black car because she knew that Sam’s car was white and would grow suspicious. Scott’s car was indeed black, a black BMW. Luke thought it seemed expensive for someone who worked at an Apple store. The dim sunlight was shining on it and the car seemed to be new or at least freshly waxed. Luke hoped it was really Scott in the car and not some old man or killer. Luke knew that he should have gotten Scott on the phone, heard his voice. As he got closer, he could see the front windows were tinted and only received a glimpse of Scott’s face from the windshield. The door opened as Luke meekly got in the car, Scott said, “I would have gotten out and opened the door for you. You said you like that sort of thing, but I don’t trust the drivers around here.” Luke looked at him and was relieved that he looked like his pictures. His hair was longer, though, tied up into a small messy bun. “Maybe next time,” Luke said accepting the meager excuse. Scott nodded as if he was taking a mental note. Scott pulled away from the curb before Luke could buckle his seat belt. Luke looked back at his house as if he was trying to take a picture of it. Scott spoke most of the car ride leaving little empty space in the air. Luke was grateful for this and knew that silence would kill him. Scott drove fast and laughed at Luke as he grabbed the “bitch bar” at the top of the door. The car was small and low to the ground. Luke laughed in his head, imagining how Scott even fit in the car, considering his height and broad shoulders. Luke thought he looked like a man trying to fit into children’s clothes. They wound up at a walkway overlooking the Whitethorn bridge. Luke had been here before which allowed his shoulders to drop when they got out of the car. The sun was still out, not setting quite yet as they began their walk. Scott spoke of his love for technology, which surprised Luke

Graffiti because he had not mentioned it before. Scott said he wanted to start his own business, maybe create his own app. He spoke of his job and his last trip to Russia. Luke asked interesting follow-up questions to prove he was paying attention and Scott complimented him on his listening abilities. It was a warm night out, not the humid, sticky kind of warm, not the warm that made Luke feel dirty. Neither of them mentioned the weather. The first time they touched, Scott pulled Luke close to him because he thought a bicyclist was getting too close. Luke flinched and pulled away. “Keep your hands to yourself, Mister,” Luke said playfully and pointed at Scott’s chest. “Fine, fine. I’ll never touch you again,” Scott pretended to sound serious. “I’m just joking.” “There is a little truth in every joke,” Scott had spoken it into existence, as if it was a fact. At that point, Luke knew that he liked Scott. He thought it over and over again. He wondered if Scott had liked him back. They began speaking about politics and the state of the economy, topics Luke was more familiar with. They would use the word “elaborate” when they wanted to know more about the other’s opinion. They used it so often it became a game they played. The sun set as they sat on a bench in front of the water. People stopped around them to take pictures of the sunset under the bridge. Neither of them looked. Luke studied Scott’s face and imagined he did the same. He had gotten more handsome through the night, Luke thought. Scott had a hard face and was about five inches taller than Luke. Not particularly muscular, but his arms were big and Luke liked that. His eyes were brown, the dark kind of brown, the kind that tried so hard not to be black. But blue eyes always creeped Luke out anyway. They ended up on the topic of their virginity. Scott shared his story of a girl in high school and then gave another account about a guy in college. He said he had lost his virginity twice, because being with a guy was “different.” Luke wanted to know if he liked girls as well.

Graffiti Scott replied, “I don’t know. Guys ruined girls for me. What girl would want to be with me now, knowing I have been with a guy?” Luke tried not to feel insulted or even attacked by his words. The space between them seemed larger now. “How about you?” Scott asked. Luke dodged the question, “That’s not fair, I told you.” As Scott was insisting, Luke began to bite the inside of his cheeks. Luke was thinking of a way to keep his answer as vague as possible. He told Scott about his first and only boyfriend. A guy who was older than Luke. He hated to think of him and knew Scott could tell by his facial expressions. “Elaborate,” Scott said. “What happened?” Luke waved his hand in the air as if he was erasing the topic out of existence. He always talked with his hands. “He was a bad guy,” Luke finally mumbled. When the two started to walk again, the sun was gone. They walked closer together, with barely an inch between them, close enough that Luke thought people were staring as they walked by. Scott took Luke to a small hill off of the walking path, and they sat on the grass a foot apart. Luke received a text and knew it was his mother. He apologized and asked Scott if he could answer his phone. “Of course,” Scott said. Where are you, it’s late? -Mom Luke Looked at the time, 11:09. We are still out, go to bed. Be home soon. -Luke Luke sheepishly revealed his mother was texting him, and told Scott the time, even though he wore a watch. “That late already? Do I need to take you home now?” Scott looked disappointed. Luke reassured him that they could stay a bit longer. Scott complimented Luke on how he didn’t take out his phone once before this. “Everyone I go out with is always on their phone. It’s rude, I hate it. Even my friends. You’re different.” Luke began to blush and Scott

Graffiti made fun of him for it. Luke stared up at the moon and pointed at it. “I love the moon, it’s a floating rock in space, that follows you throughout the night and makes sure you’re safe, and people just ignore it like it’s not incredible.” Scott confessed that he never paid much attention to the moon, but agreed that it was incredible. Scott had been complaining that mosquitoes were biting him. Luke stated with pride that he had not been bitten. “They must like your blood better than mine.” Luke said as he let out a small laugh. “Jealous?” Scott said with a half smirk “Not particularly. You can keep them.” “But I like to share. Maybe if I sit closer to you, they will start biting you instead.” Scott slid his body next to Luke and their bodies touched. “How romantic of you to share your bugs with me, I’m touched.” Scott was smiling with his eyes and Luke thought that one day he could love Scott. Scott leaned his head into Luke, as if offering himself. Luke received him and the two began to kiss. After a while, Luke didn’t hear people chattering from the walkway anymore, and knew it was late. All he could hear was Scott’s heavy breathing and the beat of his heart as he laid on Scott’s chest. When they got back to the car, Scott opened the passenger door for Luke as if completing a complex equation. “You learn fast,” Luke said as he opened the driver’s door from the inside. When the car was on, the time read 2:34. “My mom’s gonna kill me,” Luke said as he let out a yawn. “Don’t worry my clock is fast.” “How fast?” “By like a minute or two.” Scott drove fast with one hand resting on Luke’s leg, Luke stared out the window at the moon and watched as it followed them. When they got to Luke’s house, Scott parked and played a song of no relevance. They began to kiss and ended up in the backseat, cramped against each other. They fumbled around in the confined space and laughed at each other

Graffiti trying to find their footing. Fog quickly built up, covering the already tinted windows. Luke pressed his palm against the back window, careful to leave his mark. Scott looked at Luke curiously and pressed his palm against the window next to Luke’s handprint. Luke hoped the marks would live on the windshield, always appearing when fog gathered. Scott pulled Luke in, hugging him tight. Luke thought if he squeezed any tighter they would fuse together. At some point, Luke fell asleep on top of Scott and woke up to his pants vibrating. He answered the phone and his mother was yelling frantically about it being 5:30. Luke told her that he was outside and hung up. Scott was awake now, rubbing his eyes. “Hope I didn’t get you in too much trouble.” “It was worth it.” They kissed and Scott said he would text Luke tomorrow. When Luke walked back to his house he could see Scott through the windshield. He was on his phone. Luke wished that Scott had been watching him as he went into the house. Luke waved goodbye to the black car. In the morning, Luke woke up at about 12 and was yelled at by his mother. Luke had received nothing from Scott and felt an abyss growing inside him. He began to question every conversation they had the night before to see if he misread something and wondered if Scott had actually liked him. When Luke received a message from Scott at 5, he thanked a god he did not believe in. The next four days they saw each other consecutively for 8 hours or more. Always late at night, when they were done with work. They grabbed coffee from different cafes around town, but they never stayed in the place. Luke felt anxious trapped inside and wanted to walk. Scott found different parks or pathways they could explore. But every night they ended up squished together in the backseat. When fog built up their marks would appear. They found a position where they fit. Scott layed down with Luke laying on top of him, their arms wrapped around each other. Scott said he thought they fit like a puzzle, like something that was inherently right. Scott’s body seemed to wrap around Luke, consuming

Graffiti him like a blanket, one that smelled of artificial grape flavoring. They kissed each other on the lips, slow with passion, a way in which Luke felt safe. Speed would pick up overwhelming Luke. Luke held onto Scott’s head like a lifeboat, as Scott kissed Luke’s neck and then his forehead. When Scott reached for Luke’s stomach or for the button on Luke’s pants, Luke would grab his hand and tensed up. Scott would ask, “Are you afraid of me? I’m not gonna hurt you.” It was a problem Luke developed from his first boyfriend and knew he had to work on it. When Luke got home from work his mom screamed at him, claiming that he was “acting different.” She said, “Nothing good can happen that late at night.” Luke’s dad mischievously chimed in, “Maybe he’s doing drugs.” Luke knew this would anger his mom, because she took everything seriously, and his dad took everything as a joke. Later that night, Luke received a text There is a marina near my gym -Scott Can you meet me here? So I don’t have to drive to you and then back here? Luke frantically looked at google maps and saw the marina was 25 minutes away. He knew his parents would let him take the car, but thought if he did, he would never make it. I’m sorry, don’t think my dad will let me take the car. -Luke Please get me? Are you serious? -Scott Luke didn’t answer and hoped Scott would forget he existed. Fine i’ll be there in 30 -Scott Luke felt pathetic waiting for Scott to pick him up. He sat in the bathroom with the door locked and thought himself less than a child. They ended up not going to the marina. Scott said he was tired of driving. They spent the night crammed in the backseat watching a movie on Scott’s phone. A message popped up, hey stud, when are you free? -(426) 815-7531 When Scott saw it he quickly swiped up dismissing it. A fit of panic

Graffiti surged into Luke. “Who is that?” “I don’t know.” Luke didn’t reply. “Maybe it’s another boy I’m seeing,” Scott said jokingly. “Maybe.” “It’s a joke.” “There is a little truth in every joke.” The next night they went to an Italian restaurant, their first sit down dinner. They walked into the restaurant and Luke thought about what people would think of them. This place was too fancy for friends, he thought. Scott excused himself to use the restroom. When he got back, he put his hand on the back of Luke’s neck. Luke jolted his hand as a reflex and knocked a glass of water off the table that shattered near Scott’s feet. A waiter came over quickly and began to clean it up. Luke apologized profusely to both the waiter and Scott who both assured him that it was alright. Luke could feel the eyes of the other customers descend around him. He started to shake slightly and grind his teeth together. After the waiter left, Scott leaned over the table and asked Luke why he was so flinchy. “You said you were going to tell me. Now seems like a good time,” Scott was concentrating on Luke, waiting for an answer. Luke hummed and grunted a bit, noises that Scott found cute and smiled. “You are not getting out of this one. Tell me,” Scott said with confidence. Luke took deep breaths and felt if he spoke the words, vomit would soon follow. He swallowed and told Scott about his first boyfriend when he was 16. Luke did not say his name, but he was 23 then, and worked as a volunteer firefighter. Luke explained how the relationship quickly became controlling and how he would beat Luke when he was angry and apologize soon after. When Luke would come home with a black eye, he told his parents he was being bullied at school, Luke never gave a name. Once Luke finished, he began to quietly cry. He thought about how foolish he was being and pinched his inner thigh hard enough to leave a mark. Scott paid the bill, and they quickly left the restaurant.

Graffiti When they got back to the car Scott opened the passenger door for Luke, something he hadn’t done since their first date. “That’s a terrible story,” he said in a sympathetic voice. “I wonder what you did,” Scott said plainly. “What I did?” “What made him hit you?” Scott said looking out the window. Luke had a look of disgust on his face as if the words Scott had spoken smacked him. “What do you mean what did I do? I didn’t do anything.” “Nobody gets that mad over nothing. What did you do?” “Sometimes I didn’t want to have sex, and that would anger him.” “Why didn’t you want to have sex with him?” Luke became confused and started to wonder if he misunderstood Scott. Luke began to think that Scott was defending this man, taking his side as if his actions weren’t as bad as they sounded. Luke told Scott he felt sick and asked to be taken home. From then on, every time Scott made a joke about women, Luke viewed it as misogynistic. Every time he offered a positive opinion about gun rights or blamed the country’s problems on the poor, Luke viewed him as backwards. Luke wondered if Scott was like his ex; they both drove fast, were both muscular, tall, and white. But Scott’s hair was black not blond, his eyes brown not blue. And most importantly, Scott had never hit Luke and never made him bleed. Luke was headed back to college in a week. He and Scott did not see each other every day anymore, more like two or three times a week now. When they would see each other, Scott would always mention the number of days until Luke returned to college and would sound sad. “I’m not going to die, it’s just an hour away,” Luke would say reassuringly. Luke hadn’t been on Tinder since he gave Scott his number. He didn’t see the need. He wanted to delete it before he got back to school. Luke opened the app before deleting it. He read his conversation with Scott a few times. Luke looked through Scott’s pictures and realized that they had changed. His mirror selfie was gone and there was a picture of him from the wedding he’d been to the week before. He looked good in

Graffiti a tux, Luke thought. Luke began to think about the message from the random number Scott received on his phone. Luke knew now that Scott had been using Tinder the whole time they were “dating.” Luke flung his phone across the room and sat on the floor. He felt around the floor for a nail that was sticking out. He didn’t find any. When Luke finally got up and found his phone, there was a small crack on the bottom left corner. He enjoyed that crack and was glad it was there. Scott had texted him and Luke turned off his phone and looked outside at the moon and thought that it had betrayed him. Luke didn’t answer for most of the next day. Scott had sent three or four messages asking if everything was ok. No Luke replied. I’m coming over Scott sent a few minutes later. Luke couldn’t stop the smile that had crept up on his face. When Scott arrived, Luke got in his car, and they drove up the block and parked. Luke was quiet and clung to the seat belt. “What’s wrong?” Scott said as he chewed on his fingernail. Luke explained how he went to delete his Tinder and saw Scott had changed his picture. “Are you talking to someone else?” Luke asked as if he didn’t know the answer. Scott looked down into his lap and scratched his head. He looked at Luke and said, “Nobody specifically. I’m just looking.” The answer shocked Luke, and he let out a sigh of disapproval. Luke looked at Scott and thought he looked defeated, like he just lost some sort of battle. I’m the best you will ever have, Luke thought to himself. It was something he told himself to feel better, but knew that Scott would agree. Luke made a fist and dug his nails into his hand. Scott went on to explain how they had never had the “talk” and that he didn’t know they were exclusive. Scott’s eyes looked sad, full of guilt. Luke desperately wanted an apology, but knew he would never get it. “You are amazing and I love spending time with you, but I can never read you. I didn’t know what you wanted. Plus, you’re going back to college. You will be far.” Luke felt offended that Scott referred to them in the past tense. Luke looked in the backseat and remembered the nights they’d

Graffiti spent squished together back there, and then he wondered if Scott had been squished back there with another guy. Or another girl, for that matter. The space now seemed claustrophobic to Luke, like if he stayed there too long he would be trapped, swallowed up by the seats. The conversation died out quickly and Lukeâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s hand began to bleed. Luke opened the door to leave the car but Scott grabbed his wrist. Luke pulled away, but Scott held on. They looked each other in the eye and Luke thought that he could have loved Scott. Scott leaned in close tilting his head, offering himself to Luke. Luke wanted to pull away, but knew he would have regretted it if he did. They kissed for a while and then Luke left without closing the car door behind him. Luke wanted to look back to see if Scott was watching him, but forced himself to look straight ahead.

Emails to My Dead Dog Samantha Thuesen

Winner of the Sister Eileen O’Gorman Prize for Short Fiction From: Julian To: Benji Date: Saturday, 27 June 2015 3:12:51 AM Subject: how would you rate your dog food? dear benji, have you ever heard of metaphysics? it’s basically the study of what’s real. questioning everything and never finding the answers. there’s this guy, john searle (annie was telling me about him). i guess he’s super obnoxious and talks in circles to feel important. philosophy people really like to shit on him. there’s this debate going on over the mind and the body, and he was trying to prove they’re the same thing. we could argue they’re independent from each other. my mind tells my body to do things, sure. i lift my arm, go to bed, scratch my neck, but what if i have a seizure? or a heart attack? my mind is my consciousness. it’s me. i didn’t tell myself to have a seizure or heart attack. on the other hand, we could agree with searle. what if i were to be brainwashed? someone needs to take control of my mind, not my body. if the mind and body were separate, they’d bound my arms and legs with puppeteer strings. but no, the actions of my body are a result of my mind. it can’t do whatever it wants without the permission of my mind. or can it? i could still have a seizure while being brainwashed...so where’s the difference? which one controls the other at the end of the day?

Graffiti all of our cells are completely replaced every 7 years. did you know that? so if i were brainwashed for 7 whole years, i would have never controlled that newly developed body. it wouldn’t be mine. but would it still be me? they’re both equally victim to someone else’s will, so they’re the same at that point, right? and what about when i die? if i die in the state of being brainwashed, does that version of myself someone created die, too? where does my original self go? out of existence? and what about you? you didn’t want to learn how to sit. i forced you to do it. i forced you to bring me the remote and roll on your back. did i brainwash you? did i kill your original self? would you have wanted to listen to me if it weren’t your instinctual desire to see me as your leader? you would have died for me. you would have done anything i said, like it was my mind and not yours, only your body. but i loved you. we weren’t separate. we were the same. searle must be right, but no one wants to believe him. did you know that mathematics has never proven 1 + 1 = 2? this is a fun one. what does “plus” mean? to put together, right? okay, stick with me here. say you and me are both 1. 1 mind and 1 body. two 1s put together equal a bigger 1, no? because we’re the same, not separate, so what the hell is anyone talking about? especially if 2 doesn’t even exist. what is 2? a 1 and another 1 stuck next to each other? how close are they? are they in the same room? is there a room? are they in the same dimension? are they the same size? is anything else around them? they’re telling us that 2 is actually an axiom, something we have to accept as truth. i know that human beings will never have it all figured out, but how am i supposed to accept anything when 1 + 1 isn’t even 2? everything we’re told is an axiom then. the sky is blue. crime is bad. everything they wrote in that handbook on how to brainwash your dog. and you’re dead. mathematicians expect me to just accept that. talk soon, buddy. julian

Graffiti p.s. there’s a shit ton of dog food left in the pantry. annie wants me to bring it down to the shelter and donate it. was it any good? did they use real chicken? can you tell? you were never picky. choose a number between 1 and 10 for me. just not 2, please. _____________________________________________________________ From: Julian To: Benji Date: Wednesday, 1 July 2015 12:16:59 PM Subject: i wish i never met vasily kandinsky Attachments (1) | 46.1050 ph web-1.jpg benji, i have to make this quick because i told annie i was just going to the bathroom. i actually am in the bathroom right now, but that’s beside the point. we’re at this exhibition opening at the guggenheim, right? annie dragged me along. everyone’s losing their champagne flutes over this vasily kandinsky guy, and don’t get me wrong, the man can paint, and i’m not one of those assholes who likes hating on abstract shit, but this woman (who doesn’t even work at the guggenheim) was going on and on about this one painting and i had to get out of there. it’s called “circles on black.” creative, i know, but i’ll give vasily the benefit of the doubt (because i’m not an asshole). let’s start with what it looks like: the black is there, like he says in the title, but there’s barely any circles. all the colors are very muted, and there’s these things at the bottom that kind of look like video game controllers. and these blue, green, and yellow stripes shooting across the canvas look like a surfboard. there’s some zig-zags thrown around, too. i’d say those look like the remnants of some botched elementary school snowflake project, but they work. in the top left corner, there’s a bunch of stuff——a peacock feather, a cheetah’s eye, and an avocado——that mashed together look like a butterfly. smack in the middle is this beautiful moon, but the surfboard and whatever tic-tac-toe shit is coming

Graffiti out of the butterfly is almost covering it. why’d he choose to do that? i don’t know. i can’t paint. the reason i’m sitting on the toilet is because i was starting to get pissed off. well, i was actually having a panic attack. the woman who apparently knows everything about kandinsky was explaining his transition from “vibrant colors and swirling lines” to “muted colors and bold contrasts and geometric shapes,” and ultimately all of this fit into his intentions of finding “balance and spirituality,” which lead into all kinds of information about his life in russia and berlin and the bauhaus school and weimar and the first world war and absolutely nothing about his family except for that great grandmother who was a princess and that gabriele woman he had a mountain alps fling with and finally paris where he stayed to die. now i know all this crap about this dead guy that i never wanted to know because i couldn’t think to go to the bathroom sooner. no offense to him. it’s not personal. is it selfish? maybe it’s selfish that i didn’t want to know anything about vasily. for shit’s sake, i’m on a first name basis with him now, but i was blissfully ignorant, and that bony, diamond-necklaced, botoxed woman ripped me into reality, surrounded by the works of art people like vasily specifically created to escape it. or to make sense of it. i saw the abyss of the universe in that painting, and behind the moon and the surfboard and the game controllers and the avocado butterfly is the tiny hole where it all originated. a beautifully hideous explosion where nothing and everything makes sense. where a big black gash cuts through the colors to show that life’s a bitch and sometimes it’s going to stab you. And who knows what kind of abyss lies in that gash—— an ugly one that’s more endless than the universe itself. none of this could be contained because all of us standing there in the middle of the guggenheim were meant to see it. to feel it. it was all of us, until it wasn’t. until i learned everything about who it belonged to. the moon wasn’t my moon, it was the moon setting outside vasily’s window in russia, the surfboard became the streets he walked, the zig-zags became the teeth of maybe a childhood cat or dog, and video games weren’t even invented at that point so who knows what they’re doing there.

Graffiti he was able to turn all of this shit into something magnificent, exactly what he intended. he created harmony amongst chaos, and it was all mine until that god damn woman opened her mouth. it made sense of what/who/ where/how i am. “why of course, i’m a catastrophe contained in a small corner of the universe, where when things go wrong, i erupt, but my existentialism is contained within this one canvas, and it comes together to create something absolutely exquisite. will you marry me?” i could have said to annie. everything could have been fixed. i wouldn’t even be sad that you died, because somehow, it’d be beautiful and meaningful. you’d be the third white squiggle to the right, if you want. but no, the painting is not mine. i’m sure vasily wouldn’t mind sharing with me, if i introduced myself, took him for a walk on the rockaway beach boardwalk, got him a picture with some statue of liberty mooch. after all, an artist’s art doesn’t belong to him after he gives it to the public. but it does still belong to him, whether we want to admit it or not. that’s why the guy has his own exhibition and i don’t, because he could gather an ugly mess and turn it into something i can’t stop staring at. i think the worst part is that vasily’s mess is just that. a mess. it’s not his mother’s death, gabriele’s break up letter, the dethroning of his great grandmother. it exists simply because one day he decided to find harmony in nothing. he did it for fun. because he was bored. he did it to mock me. fuck you, mr. kandinsky. julian p.s. i attached a picture of the painting for you. don’t stare at it for too long. it means nothing. _____________________________________________________________ From: Julian To: Benji Date: Friday, 3 July 2015 1:34:11 PM Subject: corn??

Graffiti hi benji, i’m sitting here in the shelter parking lot. there’s 5 20-pound bags of food in my trunk, and i can’t bring myself to carry them inside. i can feel them weighing down the car, and i’m afraid if that feeling goes way, i’ll lose my shit. it’s dumb, i know, and i should go in soon because i decided to park right in the front, and the receptionist keeps making eye contact with me. she must think i’m planning a heist, like i’m going to lead every last dog out of there and god forbid find them a better home. i didn’t plan on coming here today, but annie made me. she’s mad. apparently i was in the bathroom for forty-five minutes. i explained to her that i couldn’t listen to that woman flap her gums about kandinsky for another second, that my mental health depended on that toilet seat, but she just assumed i was an abstract-hating asshole. i’ve been thinking about ways to not go inside. what if i accidentally drop the bags while i’m taking them out of the trunk? would the receptionist come out and yell at me to clean it up? what if i tell annie the shelter didn’t want the food? then they’d just be sitting in our garage for the next six months until the shelter needed it. or until we got another dog. would you be mad if i got another dog? i don’t want to lie and say i haven’t thought about it. i wouldn’t be replacing you, you know? just someone to keep me company. me and annie. or maybe i should find a dumpster and throw it all out. what if it’s the food that gave you cancer? you know, i read about these cancer-causing molds called aflatoxins. they can grow carcinogen really easily. some brands released statements saying it’s unavoidable——it can’t be killed with heat or anything. other brands blame it on corn. did you know hundreds of stray dogs died in india in 1974 because of an aflatoxin outbreak? hundreds in the united states died in 2005 because of it. hell, tests have shown that nearly every brand on the market contains it. they recommend not storing it in moist environments. was the garage too moist? what if i put a dehumidifier in there? or what if i just checked the ingredients for corn? would you still be alive?

Graffiti i’m in the trunk now, and i see anchovies, beef, canola meal, chicken hearts, duck, dried yeast, corn gluten meal. corn. gluten. meal. i thought that was it, but then there’s the list of carbohydrates: rice flour, tapioca starch, cellulose fiber, malted barley extract, long grain rice, whole grain corn. corn gluten meal and whole grain corn. now here’s the fats and oils: sunflower seed oil, canola oil, beef fat, fish oil, palm oil, corn oil. corn oil. plus all these fancy minerals, vitamins, and amino acids: defluorinated phosphate, choline chloride, thiamine mononitrate, l-carnitine. why didn’t i read all of this before? i would’ve taken online classes, become a scientist or something. i mean shit, are they feeding dogs or doing an oil change? why the hell do they need to use so much corn? corn is only digestible when it’s processed. did you know that? i didn’t until just now. i looked it up. that’s basically like taking mold and making it edible, which holy shit, we already do that. blue cheese. dogs can’t even eat blue cheese, so why the hell are we feeding you corn? why do we think we know everything about what you need? you were perfectly independent before human beings came along. you knew where to sleep, what to avoid, what to eat. rabbits aren’t filled with corn gluten meal. maybe if i left you in the pound some bohemian man would’ve adopted you, and you would’ve gone to live in the mountains with him, where you two would’ve caught and cooked your own non-gmo, corn-free food. maybe it’d be the alps, like kandinsky. maybe the bohemian would’ve painted, too, and you could’ve been the moon instead of a squiggle. i’m going to throw the food out. talk to you soon. julian p.s. i promise i won’t get another dog. i’m sorry. ____________________________________________________________

Graffiti From: Julian To: Benji Date: Sunday, 12 July 2015 4:05:36 AM Subject: squeaky toys did nothing to us dear benji, i couldn’t sleep. not next to her. she’s fine now. annie. understandably. she didn’t know you for as long as i did. you and i have so much more history, too. fifteen years compared to a year and a half. we were at bed bath and beyond yesterday morning (she wanted some new hand towels) and out of the blue she tells me she doesn’t want another dog. well, i asked her if she did, because this old lady was walking around with a little maltese in her shopping cart, but she didn’t answer me until 5 minutes later, so i told her to meet me at the front whenever she finished. i couldn’t find the damn bathroom, so i circled the pharmacy isle for 30 minutes. 30 minutes. that’s how long it took her to decide she didn’t even like any of the hand towels. she got a new trash can instead. i saw these digestive enzymes and googled if they have them for dogs because of the whole corn thing, and i found an article on the real reason they put corn in dog food. because it’s cheap, which is totally okay because then being a dog owner is “more affordable.” you hear that? we’re giving you cancer because it’s “more affordable.” capitalism is disgusting. when annie came to the front i refused to give her the credit card to pay for the trash can. the manager asked us to leave, so now she’s mad at me again. don’t get me wrong, i love her. of course i love her. i was probably going to ask her to marry me before all of this happened. i still will. maybe. i just need some time to think. i wouldn’t be able to buy a ring though. not after today. i refuse. what would that even be? $2000? $5000? where is that money going? the corn industry? blue cheese? i don’t think so. not if i can help it. that’s not love. i’ve thought about breaking it off, you know. i’ve felt that a few times. i

Graffiti haven’t told her. i should be able to tell her everything, but i can barely talk to her. she knows it, too. i’d be better off writing letters to her. i’ll only listen, really listen, when it’s about you. like when she told me to vacuum up the rest of your hair, bring the food down to the shelter, throw away all those toys. i never told you this, but she would rip the squeakers out of every single one of your toys. she’d tell me you wouldn’t care, but i know you did. she said the sound drove her insane. it was incessant. maddening. but you were happy. how am i supposed to know you’re happy when you’re chewing on some soggy corpse? i mean, you still did it, for hours. and you seemed happy, but were you as happy as you could have been? it’s something i think about a lot. how are any of us supposed to measure how happy we are when there’s a million possibilities in one lifetime? we could be living the worst version of our life and not even know it. we could throw our faith into the abyss and be optimistic: trust god will fulfill our plan, but can we trust him? his word is essentially just another axiom. or we could go out and search for our best life, but maybe we’ll just find disillusionment. maybe the best versions of us are inevitably dreadful. i’ll never really know what version annie fits into, whether i’m happily married to her or not. really, the only way to be happy is to rely on other people. trust them. human beings are lonely creatures, you know. we crave companionship. quality time. words of affirmation. but we’re also supposed to make sacrifices. and if someone can’t even tolerate the sound of a squeaker, the simplest pleasure you could ask for, do any of us really care about making each other happy? sure, we do nice things for each other: a mother raises her kids, a stranger pays ahead at the drive-thru, friends give each other birthday gifts, but a mother has to raise her kids, paying ahead is just a trend, and birthdays are a social construct created for more capitalism. is anyone truly, genuinely selfless? even doing nice things comes with a personal gain——you feel good. is pure selflessness doing something good and then feeling like shit? was does that entail? pulling the plug on a brain-dead patient? snapping the chicken’s neck before you cook him? putting down a

Graffiti dog who’s suffering from liver cancer? death is selfless. it’s real love. so if death is the only love we have to offer, what are we waiting for? why don’t we all just snap our neighbor’s neck? well, i guess it falls into the whole “not every rectangle is a square” argument. death is love, but love isn’t always death. no one dies from playing with a squeaky toy, and that’s love, isn’t it? biting the stuffing out, drowning it in your water bowl, burying it in the yard, hugging it at night, dropping it at annie’s feet every morning. no matter how torn, stained, ugly, and broken, it’s love. julian p.s. i’m going to go back and buy that trash can. ____________________________________________________________ From: Julian To: Benji Date: Friday, 31 July 2015 7:10:01 AM Subject: schrödinger’s spam mail dear benji, i hate august. despite that, a friend recommended i plan fun outings a few months ahead of time, so i have something to look forward to, so back awhile i bought two tickets to see earth, wind & fire at jones beach to surprise annie. i saw there would have been tickets for nickelback, but chad kroeger got a cyst on his larynx and they called it off. she would have liked them better, but i figured everyone likes earth, wind & fire, right? they’re up there with toto i’m pretty sure. this plan backfired because annie left 5 days ago. i’m not upset, because i don’t blame her. i woke up and all her stuff was gone, but the first question i asked wasn’t where she went, it was how she was able to gather all her things

Graffiti in under six hours, in the dark, without waking me up. i know it’s technically my apartment, and this past year has just been one big sleepover, but still. more importantly, i asked why she didn’t do it sooner. i don’t think it was because of earth, wind & fire. why didn’t i ask her to do it sooner? why didn’t i even try to fix it? i’d return the trash can, but i threw out the receipt. in the trash can. believe it or not, i’ve been looking out the window every morning because part of me expects her to come back. or wants her to. i don’t know the difference. i can’t even figure out for myself how i’m feeling. i’ve only ever been able to tell you. maybe i should have been writing to her all along. but if i were to do that, i’d probably send them to an email she doesn’t check very often, maybe only once every couple months. would you mind if i put your name in her contact? it feels safer sending it to you. just so you know, i’m not going to write emails to you anymore, but not because i don’t care about you. it’s because i know i would never stop. if you don’t answer, i’ll understand. i’ll just assume it’s all gone to your spam. then it’s neither of our faults. best, julian

Katherine Matuszek 87

POETRY

The Windstar

Lucia Bautista

He placed her on an ivory pedestal Upon every sunrise, before the birds could chirp, He was already singing to her Dancing with the smoke she exhaled Every breath more magnetizing than the other The thicket of smoke saturating his every pore How she lured him and how She picked him up in her leather arms Her open wound, on the lower left of her face gushed out all the secrets of her past owners It only made her even more unique Her soul, an engine that roared like a dog, hungry for a bone Except one day, his heart broke once she gave her last breath and was lifelessly dragged on the asphalt. The hook, through her jaw, leaving only the smear of her tires on the road. Only he could hear her whispers waving goodbye. And the memories of long ago all came flooding From the moment he laid eyes on her over eighteen years ago He knew Heaven had blessed him Gone she was, to be dissected and her most intimate parts sold Where machines would crunch every bit of aluminum out of her And green and gray puzzle pieces would be formed Except it would never be her again And she will go by the wind to the stars.

Unbreakable

Helena Rampersaud

There are nights where my heart yearns for things that I cannot give her I have to tell my heart, “no you are not broken you are just breaking out of an old routine.” That usually pacifies her for a bit Until I’m in my bed, with the covers wrapped all the way up to my face My body silently convulsing underneath their shelter Because my heart is just sobbing that hard Repeatedly Pounding her face against the cages inside of me I’m afraid she will bruise herself And that she will not care She just wants what I cannot give her So she figures if she keeps pounding hard enough someone will hear her and grant her wish “You Sweet Heart,” I say to her, “you actually only beat for me” I have to remind her that I am her home Her safe haven That no one will cherish her the way I do No one else will cup her into the palms of their hands kiss the parts she thinks have grown too big Massage her when she feels too burnt out to keep beating She tends to sigh in contemplation when I say these things and I get goosebumps at feeling the breath of her glory I whisper my reminders to her: “Remember when you taught me to say I love you? I will always be young, and you will always be my wisest teacher You are the world’s greatest gps, and I am prone to getting lost I will never stop looking in your direction You tend to give and give and give You forget to keep some things back for yourself

Graffiti But I promise to keep affirmations under my skin so you can swallow them when it gets hard to breathe You have always been so welcoming when new people walk in I will always hug you so tightly if they walk out If you just Beat For Me I will be your best friend I will try to protect you even though you tell me it’s no use That’s what I admire most about you You are ready to throw yourself to make someone else smile and you never ask for returns You soft shell You are my unbreakable”

The Silent Killer Antoinette Mercora

She’s cheerful, says her bright smile and the way she skips around gleefully. She’s young, says her stout height and chubby features. She loves art, says the crayons and paper littering her room. “She’s mature for her age,” says her parents watching her work on her homework on her own. She refuses the help, showing everyone how big she was getting. She’s nervous, says her half- hearted chuckles. She’s excited, says her constant bouncing around. She’s shy, says her sketchbook that hides in her bag. She’s scared, says the way she scans the lunchroom. She holds in her breath to look like everyone else, just so they don’t bother her anymore. She’s withdrawn, said the corners she sat in. She’s embarrassed, said the billowy clothes she wore. “Be skinny!”, they told her on a daily basis. “Exercise!” They say as she practiced what she loved. She tried to stop eating, says the lunch she refused to eat. “I’m fine,” she tells them as she walks to class hungry.

O’ Childhood

Luba Castelot

O’ childhood, you are gone like a feather that blew away in the wind. The years ran by and took away my endless carefree days of playing around. “Why did you sprint so fast and where did you go without me?” You are a cloud that washed away in the blue sky gone forever… My youth disappeared like the Malaysian plane into the vast, deep ocean of memories. The days of my mom treating me to doughnuts; now I am the one who is selling the doughnuts to her. Toys lying dusty and broken in a corner with the echo children’s laughter. As comets fly through the sky you hurtle through the sky leaving but a wisp in its wake. A charming story book closing all too soon many new chapters beginning. That storybook smiling as it remembers giggles and lollipops; tears and bloody knees; mother’s arms and father’s lap. O’ childhood, you warm me up when the chill of sadness slams into me. Once you were everything to me; now you are a long distance friend. When I reach out for you, you slip away far remaining mystically elusive. If I could only step into that story book for one day and relive those moments. O’ childhood, return to me from time to time so I can feel what it is to be innocent and carefree for those brief moments.

Patricia Swietek 96

May We Pray?

Christal Hussain

May we pray together? I don’t know you and you don’t know me. But may we pray despite the weather? Can we have a moment of silence for Eric Garner. We got an officer who denied choking him. But the Medical Examiner report has a different informer. It said “Cause of Death: Compression of neck, compression Of chest and prone positioning during physical restraint by police.” Was it forced oppression or backward progression? Can we pray for Trayvon Martin? God we hope you let him finish his skittles next to you. We need officers in neighborhoods where anxiety doesn’t brew We don’t need officers playing guessing games each time a bullet flies through. Heavenly father, can we pray for Philando Castile. Someone who did not present a bad action, but got shot for one. See there’s an angle colored people have to reach for our license and registration Hence the reason officers give us a limited duration 1, 2, 3, 4… By the count of 5 you don’t have your documentation? BOOM we turn into cremation Can we pray for Danny Ray Thomas? Unarmed yet still perceived to be harmful. When you’re mentally ill and black that’s already 2 strikes Houston streets ain’t nothing to play with Them white people the only ones with mics

Graffiti Can we pray for Saheed Vassell? Just another case of being black and mentally ill 10 aimed bullets. Shot down in my own hometown What the fuck these cops think this is? A pistol playground? Can we pray for Junior from the Bronx? An innocent king, just 15 years old God why you let a gang rob his soul! God why you bless people with hearts, If itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s not gone be whole?

Deliverance

After “The Blue Rider” by Wassily Kandinsky Lucia Bautista A daring breeze combs the white mare’s mane and its tail sweeps carelessly behind like a pendulum waving Goodbye to being poverty’s slave and the Old King’s rag. And so it gallops and swallows the untamed wilderness ahead while the blue rider rehearses knocking on Opportunity’s door, that with every flower the mare crushes is a hit to the Oppressor’s Head to the land of the free and home of the brave, where there are velvet dusks and men and women are pregnant with blessings the holy rain baptizes them In the far distance, a murky river shimmers under the sun’s illustrious rays and the distorted reflection of a tree flickers on the surface. There, on a branch, two black, thin legs poke through a chrysalis; a monarch butterfly wriggles out.

the little things

Cristina Masi

not about the fancy dinner dates, or that perfect bouquet of roses that you sent to my office. not about that damn ring, that is solely just another piece of jewelry in your eyes. it’s not about those leather, heated seats in the car, because they’re only good for keeping me warm when you refuse to. about the nights we spent together eating chinese take-out off the floor because there were no chairs to sit in. or the time we got lost in the Bronx because you put the wrong address in. it’s about how every time we go to the mall you walk ahead of me and stick your hand out waiting for me to grab it and pull you back.

100

Musical Masterpiece Stephanie Toledano

Nature drums its song hail shakes leaves like maracas birds sing different tunes one came close to my window Are you enjoying the show?

101

Sibling Love

Samantha Saumell The love for a brother, is a love like no other. The bond between two little boys was one of a kind, they were never apart and what they shared one could only dream to find, but nothing ever compared. The love they had for one another, was a love like no other. The love they had for one another, was a love like no other. From the coast of Pensacola to the sea in Korea, their bond was left unbroken. The letters that flew around the world were key, to delivering the words left unspoken. They dedicated their youth to their homeland, and the rest of their lives to their wives, while they gave each other a helping hand, as they figured out their lives. Simple phone calls kept them intact. Brother it’s me. Brother it’s me. The language they shared was one like no other, just like the love they shared for one another. Through all the ups and downs they always had each other. Now one looks up and says, “hey brother!” The love they had for one another, was a love like no other. The love they had for one another, was a love like no other.

102

Cabin

Thea Nitis Lying down leaning on elbows Soaking wet on beach towels In that muddy crammed room There was a sort of smell to it, musty Yet we were satisfied We sat there giggling like children Honoring our existence Because life gives you dirt Life gives you damp clothes in cold rooms It gives you people who donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t understand But we exist through intense Unfathomable human connections We were free in that rainy gloom That spacious red cabin womb The middle of a natural nowhere Laughing like simple girls do Searching for nothing beyond What we already had there To think that all this beauty Came from a screaming storm

103

Morgan Ericson 104

A Bee Fell in Love with a Daisy

Stephanie Kleid

A bee fell in love with a daisy or so he said he did. He couldn’t resist her nectar, said her petals were the softest his little legs had ever touched. He brought the daisy’s sweetest pollen back to the hive every day. He told the daisy that she was the only flower for him. But a bee is a bee and that’s all he’ll ever be. And one day, passing over his usual field, he spotted a dandelion— a weed— an ugly, yellow little thing. And he decided to stop there, for no particular reason, and sip the pollen of the fake flower.

105

Rough Tides Jessica Jordaens

I’m always finding myself adrift at sea on a boat Much like the one on which my grandmother spent her childhood Although beauty and life may dwell just underneath The waters below me are treacherous and unforgiving I prefer to avoid it at all costs The current is rarely gentle Always thrashing and rough The deck shifts below me leaving my stomach uneasy Although there are times where the water will calm At times like these I admire the view of endless shades of blue The smell of the nautical air The sound of the waves as they kiss the bow I’m finding those times harder to remember I had capsized long ago My beautiful and stable craft, reduced to a skimpy raft I’ve been drifting along the sharp tides Brutal storms have scorned me As I cling onto the ropes for dear life Praying I’ll have the strength to hold on It’s been days, weeks, months The raft has started to frey I’m clinging to the blind hope That a life preserver will appear Just help me stay afloat a little longer

106

Graffiti Several came my way, but just too far out of reach I cried and begged “Please, come back. Please don’t leave me alone.” Only I never made a sound It’s not that I couldn’t reach them I let them float by I couldn’t burden them with my weight Because I carry so much other than my own It was useless, you can’t save someone lost at sea who’s already drowned

107

Mama & Boy

Ali Mounkary

On the thin line that is the ying and the yang, A little boy was born. His mother raised him the most radical of ways. They lived in the middle of the forest. She taught him the basics of the world, English, literature, music. At night they would dance and eat and live. She sat him down in the evening, the day before the moon dissolves into space. She said, “This craze we are in right now is called life… and we are the humans that live it. Just like the bird and the trees. That’s it, it’s simple.” The little boy looked around, And rubbed his eyes as if he was just reborn into a new realm. “I love it mama.” The morning came, And mom hung elegantly from the tree in which they once danced to rid their souls of dirt. Written across her face, “I’m sorry I lied to you, I was trying to save you from a harsh reality.” Afterall, She forgot the mailman still comes to houses with no address. -Wake Up

108

N XVIII

Morgan Ericson You left muddied footprints on the carpet, Cigarette butts in the ashtray -A half-drunk bottle of scotch on the counter, An old shirt of yours under the bed. You left your smell on the bed sheets Your hair tangled in the brush in the bathroom. If I didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t know any better I would have thought that You left all these little pieces of you here To remind me of how fleeting of a presence you always were-One foot out the door, one foot in, Never in one place for too long.

109

On The Beach

Noah Garcia

Did you pull me into your sickly-sweet dream or did I stumble with you? Maybe the means to the end don’t matter, as long as I’m there with you. If we’re speaking the truth, I’m beyond afraid of what will come. Facing reality isn’t just skipping smooth, flat stones on the beach with you. Waves don’t always crash against jagged rocks to punctuate whipping wind. But when they do, it fills my ears and blankets everything else with you. Cool, damp sand doesn’t always fill the spaces between my toes. When I dig my feet in, though, it feels like a home with you. For some reason, sandwiches always taste better when I’m sitting in the sand. That day, my turkey pesto and my bite of your chicken salad were divine with you. The beach never gets old, there are new shells and new sea glass every morning. I’m convinced I would never grow tired of combing through each one with you. But your words to me cut like the sharpest shell we ever found. Mine, they normally bounce, but they fell flat with you. On that day, the one with the sandwiches, we left the beach up the cobbled path. And I started to feel the pesky sand, the sunburn I suddenly had on my nose with you. I only know I’m dreaming when I enter and exit my peaceful repose. The cobbled path binds us to our worlds away from my dream with you.

110

Graffiti I have blisters; my bare feet are worn from feeling its rough brick surface. As much as I want the beach to be my home, I must walk the cobbled path with you.

111

Alone

Elijah Fulton He sat alone, feeling abandoned by his friends, shaking his head because he knew all good things eventually end, He’s never really had a friend, no one who he can really rely on in a way, He sits back on his bed and thinks about the rest of the day He refusing to leave his room, he doesn’t want to get out of bed He just sulks around and hangs his head. The light of hope he is unable to see, Too unstable and lost in a pool of misery Reflecting on his past,hoping to find another way ? As my light escapes me And I fade to black I look deeper from within to find the things I lack The truth outside, I struggle to find what it means They chain down the mind and body but the soul is free They build self hate while destroying self esteem The truth of the world I wonder what it means Why is the world filled with hate, why do we have to experience this pain If they’re was a God watching over us why isn’t he more humane Loyalty and not love Love is so precious, Love is so pure, Love is one of the things you have to be strong to endure Sweeter than any Cherry, more sour than any type of lime It opens our eyes and blinds us at the same time You have to be lucky to experience this feeling, For love is for the essence And love is only for a second

112

Graffiti But loyalty is strong and is tough during moments when love just isnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t enough Loyalty is truth Loyalty is light Loyalty brings everything into sight In any true bond loyalty is a must Because loyalty will always prevail When love isnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t enough

113

Salted Crystals

Jessica Jordaens

I hate it when my grandmother cries Since I was young it’s been something I wasn’t sure how to handle To say she isn’t emotional Would be a lie But to say I’ve caused some tears Is the weighted truth She wastes her hydration on me Expelling the salted waters Because my words upset her Because the stories I tell Strike fear into her The pain that she isn’t doing enough But I’m doing it to her I can’t release my own salty fears Some sick part of me dares to think That I let me releases flow From my mouth, to her eyes Even if that isn’t the case It might as well be I am her oldest grandchild The first blue eyes of my generation And arguably the most stubborn

114

Graffiti She taught me strength When I couldn’t find it myself And I repaid her with wet cheeks Because mine remain dry I hate it when my grandma cries When she drives me home at night Because I’ve told her what I expect behind the door I hate that the anguish I can’t expel Leaks from her eyeshat have their own demons to mind I hope that one day I will cry Until the earth floods around me If it means she won’t shed a tear on my behalf I hope that my grandchildren Will never have to cry I will take their tears I will release their fears If it means they’ll have the strength That lives in their bloodstream If I can’t make them flow now Then I’ll learn And my grandmother’s tears Will not have shed in vain

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Ink

Morgan Ericson I have ink staining my fingertips. Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s permanent; canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t be washed, or erased. I apologize for the smudges of black that I will surely leave on your checks, on the sides of your waist, on the insides of your wrists.

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Fire in the Sky

Thea Nitis

The warming moon Radiates a circle of light Like a halo Surrounded by darkness Crescent shaped sharpness Being blocked by storming skies Dimming in and out Coming closer and creasing Donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t leave me Golden piece of heaven Let me lay on you for a little more Like a hammock on a summer night

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listen

Cristina Masi

looks like that trip to Cali is shot to hell. just like our reservation to that restaurant in the city, you know the one the one that we’ve been dying to go to. but the only thing dying right now are the flowers, the “i’m sorry” flowers you left, at my doorstep.

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Dragonfly - Christina Modica 119

Brown Honey

Helena Rampersaud

Winner of the Robert Oâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;Clair Prize for Poetry Brown Honey. The bees have envied me because you slathered yourself onto my skin. Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve grown more golden every day. I sit in the sun and crystalize with clumps of you tangling my hair. My skin is fragrant because of your labor Your fulfillment lays thickly on my body A constant reminder to the birds that sing to me that my sweetness comes from more than just me That the taste of sugar is born of the taste of toil and strife The taste of migrating souls The taste of searching for the types of flowers that are not just beautiful But have the type of lovely that nourishes you That the flowers that sit in the vase Plucked from their homes and made out to be a dying thing thing to admire Have exuded their nectar for me I am made possible by the endless bouquets of sacrifice As winter comes The flowers will sleep, the bees will hide But what will happen to you and I? Tell me where do I find our honeycomb? I want to continuously add you in dollops to my future I have been waiting for the slow, steady heaps As time passes, there are parts of you that will dry and crack off my skin

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Graffiti And I am afraid I will forget you How just a spoonful of you could leave me satisfied How you were simple And together, we are simple When we glow in the sun, We are pure and simple and made of the earth And when we are together, we make the birds sing and the monarchs flutter around us and we can admire their wing dance as we sit in all our goldenness We are ethereal The clouds part to admire us, the wild things roaming around grow docile at how delicious we sound when we start singing We taste like perseverance. Like a light explosion that was fated to happen. And when we are together, we glisten Like past lives’ destiny being fulfilled Together, we are the purest homecoming. But we don’t have a honeycomb. Or maybe we did but you gave it away. Maybe I had it, but I was too foolish to cherish it because I didn’t think the rising sun we love so much could be our demise. Maybe I dropped it Maybe some other golden girl is using it to garnish her tresses Besides, we never worked in slow, small dollops We only know the “bottom’s up” kind of union A speedy pouring of you onto my skin Which i wear proudly as an extra layer of me Sometimes you were too sweet And you made me sick to my stomach Sometimes you spoiled something else I could have been tasting I wonder if you ever feel guilt for this Was I wrong for acting like that was okay? Am I always supposed to taste you?

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Graffiti Even if you can’t feed parts of yourself to me anymore I will never fully lose you Your stories will always stick to my skin And I will sing our songs as if you were singing with me Let the creatures dance to our sticky, messy tunes They will still sound beautiful And we will always taste like a fresh beginning Your remnants are your gift to me And I’ve added them to my ambrosia With me, you can always have a new beginning I’ll leave you untainted Let you be the the endless spoonful of goodness that will leave us satisfied And when the rays of the sun bounce off memories of you We are together I smile at how much we are thriving

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Savior

Helena Rampersaud

Winner of the Robert O’Clair Prize for Poetry And today is one of those days where I am more dust than starlight. I am not ashamed. Today, I am not shining outwardly but for myself and there is nothing wrong with that. For most of my days, I illuminated myself. I burned things, left my mark on souls and made them feel warm. I did not question how or why. All I know is that I enjoyed it. Not for me, but for the way people look when I’ve made them glow. I fell in love with the shadows, even now my imagination will still take the darkness and put on a show for me. She is the puppeteer and we are her toys. She will let me play the lead role if I ask her to. I’ve asked her to make me a savior. Make me a savior for the people I love and then a savior that asks for some saving back. And is not ashamed. A savior that can say no. A savior on the ground, feet walking in the dirt, skin with hair protruding out of it, a savior that sweats from labor in the sun. A savior that cries and then wakes up every day thanking her God for a new breath of life. A savior that will forgive herself before anyone else. A savior that has sinned, who loves people that have sinned, will sin, but always glow. A savior that does not run away. She is blessed. Even in the shadows, she is blessed. When she doesn’t want to feel that way, she is blessed. Always and forever will she save herself before anyone else has the chance to. She gathers gratitude in the dust. Before the show ends, I will pick her up from the shadows and sit her down in the light. Present her to my God and say ‘“Look at what you have gifted us.” And I will say thank you. And I will save her. And she will save me. And we will save you. And you will save us. In the shadows, in the light. Among the particles of dust. That is what we are. Bits of salvation in the dust.

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Melting

Helena Rampersaud

Winner of the Robert O’Clair Prize for Poetry I know of your rhythm Every sob that escapes your chest causes mine to convulse simultaneously Every teardrop is caught for safekeeping Sing to me your sad melodies And I will teach you that even then you can still find a beat to dance to And if you melt at the sound of your own voice in the middle of the dance floor Then that’s ok too No one will fall on top of you Or step on your secrets No one can slip off of your sadness They can’t sue you for putting up a “caution” sign It’s not like they’ve ever paid heed to the words: “Fragile: handle with care” Let me mop you up You can fill the bucket at the bottom of my heart full of fluff I’ll take you outside Lay you out on the grass Let the sun kiss the parts of your spirit you never let anyone else see Let the wind whistle to the crevices of your bones “Oh, so human” The heat will hum As she blankets you in her warmth while you find new ways to mold aged skin

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Graffiti We’ll gather all the self sacrificing that has been scraping your lungs and hang them off the hooks the clouds offer us Watch them float away as we make new shapes out of them And when the clouds get too heavy They will cry And we will not shame them for their tears Instead We will glorify them For filling our rivers and feeding our gardens And as we dance in them then we will cry too Rejoicing That so many tears will one day evaporate into the heat that warms aged skin And if the thought overwhelms us and we start melting all over again then that’s ok too The sun is always ready to love us We just need to start moving Even if our tears drop like hot wax Even if our sobs burn our esophagus Can’t you hear what your mind screams at you when you hold things captive inside of it? Let your thoughts taste fresh air Your eyes still glow in the light Your hair still blows in the breeze Your lungs still swell and collapse with air So come, join me As I dance on a makeshift mountaintop My laughter, swaying to my own rhythm Then piercing the air with a ripple wave effect It will reach someone else soon and sound so much sweeter Until then I’ll hold your hand as we scream from the highest peak “Yes, I am human. And I feel this way too.”

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The Heart Collector

Stephanie Kleid

Winner of the Robert O’Clair Prize for Poetry He took his mother’s heart, keeps it on his desk in its own golden-lidded jar— polished twice daily— where he can see it. He keeps the other ones— the other hearts he’s stolen— in a black trunk under his bed. Their beats are incessant tell-tales: Reminders that he chooses to ignore. When he feels like it, he’ll pull out the trunk and admire what he’s done, smile at every still-bloody aorta. When he adds a new one, it gets tossed on top of the collection and the lid gets locked. There is no separation between them, nothing special about them. To him, anyway. Except for his mother’s. And wouldn’t she love to know what’s hidden underneath his bed?

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I’m Wearing the Earrings You Bought Me

Stephanie Kleid

Winner of the Robert O’Clair Prize for Poetry i’m wearing the earrings you bought me even though i shouldn’t because the colors of the stones complement my skin tone (your words, not mine) thoughts of you weigh in them they are heavy anchors i choke. i drown. i am a sinking ship (your words, not mine) they are little stars in my ears tiny, pressure-filled balls of gas i reach up to remove them but they burn and blister my fingers (me, not you) there is too much space between stars vast expanses of oblivion cousin to the bottom of the ocean where i didn’t mean to drop anchor

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I Would Have Given You Anything

Stephanie Kleid

Winner of the Robert O’Clair Prize for Poetry Tell me what you want. The moon as your bedroom night light? So for once in your damn life you can feel a little bit of light through the darkest darks and I’ll hold it for you all night long, all night long until the blood drains from my arms and they get stuck permanently the way you needed them to be only for you to decide you’d rather have the sun.

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ESSAYS & ABSTRACTS

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What Exactly to do with the Other? Levinas and Camus Walter Argueta

Winner of the Sister Margaret Williams Prize for Literary Criticism The Twentieth Century is arguably the grimmest period in human history. Two World Wars erupted that brought humanity close to its total annihilation and the breaking of old colonial rule brought a new world into existence. The chaos of the twentieth century created the need to overcome the vast moral decay that plagued society. From a philosophical perspective, in order to salvage morality and social progress, a moral system was needed that aimed to prevent past ills and preserve the values of the present. This is not to say that a perfect system was created. Upon reflecting on the past events, it became clear that the pressing issue that arguably initiated the Wars and exacerbated the problems after was the relationship between the I and the Other. By Other it should be understood as not only another person, but a person that who is outside the norm for someone. The Other also signifies for the person or I that the reality in which they are living in not solely occupied by them. Therefore, the I must face sharing and in turn learning something about the Other. Humanity had witnessed the carrying out of numerous genocides, as well as the popularization of ideologies that instilled tribal mentality in order to consolidate power. The attempt to understand the Other became corrupted, which forced societies and its people further away from one another. The difficult problem that philosophers quarreled over was determining the extent in which a moral hole exists between people. The magnitude of this problem becomes apparent when taking into consideration the conditions for what constitutes a human being as a person. Upon acknowledging another person, the question becomes,

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Graffiti what exactly is being recognized? It is not calling someone by their name that demonstrates a complete recognition of that personâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s existence, nor is it a physical body, but a deeper essence that also denies a direct understanding due to its transcendental nature. In other words, the Otherness of a friend is incommunicable to someone else, yet it exists. Two thinkers approach this dilemma differently but suggest a similar negative outcome if a deeper existential relationship is not created that allows for a recognition of the incommunicable in the Other. Emmanuel Levinas, an early Twentieth Century French philosopher, confronted this issue by establishing an ethical stance on the primordial relationship between the Other and I. Levinas asserted that this relationship deals with the incomprehensible or infinite. His ideas suggest that the relationship between Other and I is intimate but the I lacks direct knowledge of the Other. Albert Camus, a contemporary of Levinas, was an existential absurdist who dedicated his life to contesting nihilism. In his seminal novel, The Stranger (1942), Camus deals with the issues that arise with the incommunicability of the Other. The protagonist Meursault is unable to establish any sort of meaningful relationship with the people in his life. He is completely dissatisfied with the world, and as a result he embodies nihilism. The communicability between human beings is obstructed both by barriers created by the presence of the Other and the obstacles conditioning reality. For Levinas, there is a moral duty to the Other, which naturally seeks a closer bond between the I and Other that cannot be fully grasped rationally. The problem that occurs is whether such relationship is possible, as well as the repercussions of attempting to attain that relationship. In the case of the character of Meursault, his attempt to relate to another manifested itself in a violent causal relationship. Although Levinas expresses a clear moral framework and articulates a deep responsibility the I has to the Other, Camus never produces an answer towards the successful preservation of the Other. Instead, his novel explores the dangers in which the Other can be destroyed by a person overcome by a nihilistic personality.

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I See in the Round: Max Ophuls, Circles, and Other Similar Shapes Elizabeth DiGiorgio

Winner of the William K. Everson Prize for Writing on Film Life is an endless cycle. From the day we are born to the day we die, we view our lives as a cycle of pleasure, pain, hardship, and death. Once we die, we’re not sure where we go from there. However, the idea of where we go doesn’t concern director Max Ophuls. The question is that Ophuls is concerned with is: Where do we start again? Ophuls experiments with the ideas of cycles, time, and human life in multiple ways in his films. Some focus on the world revolving around an object, while other films dissect a whole character’s life. In Ophuls’ classic film, La Ronde (1950), there are plenty of visual appearances of cycles, but, do these ideas appear in any other Ophuls film? Through analyzing the different forms of cycles in Max Ophuls films, we will come to understand what makes La Ronde an Ophulsian film. […] Repetition and time are major elements in many Ophuls films. In Ronde, this repetition is presented through how all of the characters ask what time it is, showing “Ophuls’s fondness for formal repetition and symmetry… [underling] the sense of density the films express…” (Wood 234). The constant question of “Quelle heure est-il?”, which means “what time is it?” in French, presents how time is such a fleeting force in Ophuls films. In fact, the passage of time can be seen as another cycle all Ophuls characters are controlled by. In The Earrings of Madame De… (1953), this is conveyed through the elegant dance sequence with Madame De dancing with her lover Fabrizio. Fabrizio keeps stating how he can’t wait to see her. The brilliant catch during this sequence is how the time between when we see the

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Graffiti couple dancing, when not obstructed by people or objects, and Fabrizio’s exclamations of seeing Louise continue to decrease the longer the couple dances. Also, as the sequence continues, subtle changes in scenery and clothing suggest the passage of time, showing their budding relationship. Ophuls has always had a great eye for visual images conveying time. This is shown through repetitive dialogue and even the simplest objects like clocks that help convey to the audience these cycles. In fact, these tactics forward the narrative of any Ophuls film. “More striking are specific echoes of scenes, situations, dialogue, that recapitulate the past in order to underline the distance the characters have traveled.” (Wood 225). Yet this idea of repetition is nothing without the theme of time in Ophuls’ films. Whether it be through the use of flashbacks in Lola Montès (1955) or simply the mere mention of time itself such as in Ronde, we find that the concept of time is a constant force in Ophuls films.

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The Language of Cinema Jorge Porta

Winner of the William K. Everson Prize for Writing on Film The movie camera being a scientific discovery, it was first thought to be destined for scientific functions such as Eadweard Muybridge’s study of the motion of animals and humans. However, it was soon democratized and shown to audiences like in the case of the Lumière Brothers actualités projected in small cafés of Paris. Film was then disposed as a medium to express and communicate to an audience. It is this particular quality that I found to be cinema’s most important and the reason to be considered the most expressive of arts. Therefore, this paper focuses on studying the semiotics of film by comparing cinema and language, a system that allows humans to communicate with themselves. Many forms of language exist in our world nowadays, from dialects to non-verbal language like the American Sign Language or road signs. Since its primary function is to communicate ideas, language is able to create abstract concepts with the use of concrete elements such as letters and other signs. But what is the place of cinema in language? Is it an idiom? Is the shot a letter, a word, a sentence, a full text, a sign or even something else? Film’s functionality allows it to be communicative like a verbal language. Film even presents some of the same characteristics as having a set of rules and using signs in a certain order as a syntagm. Film elements can be compared to punctuation or a word. However, its use and combination of signification (signifiers, signifieds, connotation, and denotation) further pushes it to be closer to a sentence. Nevertheless, the infinite capacity of expressing ideas puts film as a richer medium of expression than verbal language. As stated, it even makes use of elements of non-verbal language,

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Graffiti trespassing more barriers. Lastly, we demonstrated that the language of the movies is like none other. It is closer to Germaine Dulac’s ideas on the imponderable (Dulac, “Essence”, p.40), a language only proper to the movies based on the image. It can’t be expressed with verbal language. Film is not only able to express feelings and senses, but also to make us experience them through sight.

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THE CONTRIBUTORS WALTER ARGUETA is a senior majoring in Philosophy and English with a concentration in film studies. He is pursuing graduate studies in the intersection between aesthetics and politics, film theory, critical theory/Marxism, and Latin American philosophy. LUCIA BAUTISTA is a junior who is double majoring in Creative Writing and Childhood Education. She is expected to graduate in May 2020 and will continue her studies in Childhood and Special Education at the graduate level in the Fall. Lucia hopes to become an elementary school teacher and write children’s books. LUBOV (LUBA) CASTELOT is a senior at Manhattanville College majoring in Psychology. She anticipates graduating in May 2019, and is a member of the Nation Society of Leadership and Success. She was a winner of the Common Reading Essay Contest in 2016. Luba gives back to her college by working at the library. She enjoys writing poetry and narrative writing. Her relaxation consists of drawing and painting, as well as creating various crafts. ELIZABETH DIGIORGIO is a junior at Manhattanville college. She is currently completing her double major in English with a Focus in Film and Communications and Media. She hopes for two last great semesters at Manhattanville. Her favorite Max Ophuls film is Lola Montès (1955). This is the first time her work has (excitedly) been featured in Graffiti. HALPAA DUARTE is a Senior at Manhattanville College. She is a double major in Spanish and Education, minoring in Sociology and Women and Gender Studies. She enjoys reading and writing in English, as well as in Spanish. She is graduating this May, and plans to continue her Master’s Degree at Manhattanville in TESOL (Teaching English to Speakers of Other Languages). She hopes to get certified to teach Spanish and English from K-12. MORGAN ERICSON is a senior at Manhattanville College and is graduating this May with a double major in English Literature and Creative Writing. Morgan has enjoyed her time at Manhattanville, where she spent most of her time with friends and catching up on her reading. Some of Morgan’s favorite things to do are write, read, and do art (such as painting and drawing).

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THE CONTRIBUTORS ELIJAH R. FULTON is a senior at Manhattanville College Majoring in Communication Studies, and Music Business. Elijah is a passionate writer, who enjoys writing poetry, fiction, and screenplays. JESSICA JORDAENS is a Digital Media major at Manhattanville College, a member of the class of 2020. Since writing has always been something that interests her, she took the opportunity to expand her style from prose to poetry and screenwriting. STEPHANIE KLEID is a senior Creative Writing major. Her parents live in New Jersey, but she lives in the moment. ANI PAGANELLIE KUMIN is a Junior Digital Media Major. She double Minors in Women & Gender Studies and Creative Writing and loves all forms of creative media from comics to movies. CRISTINA MASI is a third year student at Manhattanville College from Trumbull, Connecticut. She is majoring in Communication Studies and earning two minors in Sociology and English. She has always had a strong passion for writing. KATHERINE MATUSZEK is a senior English Literature and Communications double major. She is always excited to visit a new bookstore. ANTOINETTE MERCORA is a newly published writer who has been writing in all forms since she was in the fifth grade. She is currently working on these forms and one day hopes to continue getting them out to the public as an accomplished author.

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THE CONTRIBUTORS

ALI MOUNKARY is a first year student at Manhattanville College and will (hopefully) be graduating in spring 2022. He is a double major in Communications and Musical Theater. On top of writing, Ali has a passion for singing, dancing, and travelling. THEA NITIS is a passionate English Literature major and Psychology minor. She began writing short stories during her early childhood, but this year sparked her love for language. She is energetic and enjoys dancing, acting, going on trendy cafes, lounging on the beach, and surrounding herself with adventurous people. JORGE PORTA is a senior graduating this May. Lifelong interests in a broad range of areas have led him to major in Business Management with a concentration in International Management and minor in Film Studies, Finance and Digital Media Production. He is passionate about classic cinema and the Spanish 1980’s Movida Madrileña. HELENA RAMPERSAUD is a junior majoring in Creative Writing and Communications. She has been performing spoken word poetry across New York City from the tender age of 14. Currently, Helena is dedicating herself on producing writing that represents South Asian women and educates people on South Asians in the Caribbean. SAMANTHA SAUMELL is a freshman at Manhattanville planning on graduating in 2021 with her degree in education. After receiving her Bachelor’s she hopes to get her Master’s to become a speech pathologist. RACHEL STASOLLA is a senior at Manhattanville College and will graduate this May. Her major is Bachelor of Fine Arts with a concentration in Graphic Design, and a minor in Digital Media Production. She loves exploring with both Photography and Graphic Design. PATRICIA SWIETEK is a senior Dance and Theatre major with a minor in English Literature.

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THE CONTRIBUTORS SAMANTHA THUESEN is a senior at Manhattanville College, double majoring in Creative and Professional Writing and Digital Media Production. She’s also enrolled in Manhattanville’s accelerated MFA program for Creative Writing, and upon graduating, hopes to pursue a career in the entertainment industry—either writing for television or, if plans fall through, being a clown at children’s birthday parties. STEPHANIE TOLEDANO is an extraordinary, talented student who is studying to become a professional writer. She is currently an active, participating writer for Graffiti and has recently joined the magazine’s Editorial team. Some of the genres she enjoys to write include short fiction stories and poetry. As a first generation student of a Peruvian-American family, it is an honor for Stephanie to share her voice and creativity with the Manhattanville community NATALIA VERAS is currently undergoing her junior year here at Manhattanville College. She is pursuing a dual-major in Music Business and Digital Arts (a self designed major). She works in the fields of photography, videography, and graphic design. But her first, deepest love is photography. MATTHEW VILLA is graduating this May with a duel bachelor’s degree in Political Science and Creative Writing. He is passionate about changing the world, perhaps one day he will become the president.

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S p r i n g2 0 1 9 Ma n h a t t a n v i l l e C o l l e g e P u r C h a s e , N Y