Graffiti Literary Magazine Spring 2017 by Graffiti Literary Magazine

Undergraduate Literary Magazine Manhattanville College Purchase, New York Spring 2017 Edition

MASTHEAD Editor-in-Chief Emily Behnke Co-Editor Katherine Matuszek Fiction & Poetry Carmella DeCaria Morgan Ericson Alexis Garcia Waad Hassan Allison Stacy Malaluan Bianca Reyes Rebecca Ribeiro Samantha Theusen Rachel Troy Jordan Winch Art & Photography Yara Haddad Faculty Advisor Van Hartmann Printed by The Sheridan Press 450 Fame Avenue Hanover, Pennsylvania 17331

FROM THE EDITOR Dear readers, This has been an incredibly rewarding year for Graffiti. While we ultimately stuck closely in design to last year’s issue in terms of size and finish, we decided to take a more minimalist direction when choosing our cover. This decision was made in hopes of continuing Graffiti’s legacy as a publication that is both eye-catching and carefully curated. Although this is a shorter issue, were were still able to uphold our effort toward selectivity, ensuring that this magazine has published the very best that Manhattanville has to offer. Another change that we are introducing this year is a new location for our magazine launch - the Barat House, which was recently rededicated as the Dowd-O’Gorman Center for Creative Writing. As this is the new home for both the undergraduate and graduate creative writing programs on campus, we thought it would be fitting to officially induct Graffiti into this space as well. I would like to thank our advisor Professor Hartmann for finding time in his rapidly filling schedule to regularly meet with us to discuss all things Graffiti. For sticking with me through each and every deadline, I would like to thank my editorial staff. I would also like to thank the English department, as well as the College’s M.F.A. in Creative Writing Program, for both housing us and making us a priority. Lastly, I would like to thank not only those who submitted their wonderful poetry, fiction, and art, but our readers as well. This magazine would not be possible without you all. I have been incredibly lucky to serve as Graffiti’s editor-in-chief this year. Katherine and I are excited to see what next year brings. With that, I am pleased to introduce to you the Spring 2017 issue of Graffiti. Happy reading! Emily Behnke ‘18

NAVIGATION Fiction

12 ........ The Fox and the Rat - Morgan Ericson 28 ........ Blind Date - Samantha Theusen 33 ........ In November - Amanda Cirocco 36 ........ Captive Mornings - Lauren Lodato 44 ........ Did You Know? - Allison Stacy Malaluan*

Poetry

54 ........ Antique Dealer and Daughter - Lauren Lodato 55 ........ A Toy For Your Dream House - Shannon Gaffney 56 ........ Against the Tide - Alexis Garcia 57 ........ Atlantis Boy - Morgan Ericson 60 ........ Hospital - Michaela Muckell 61 ........ Cupboard of 1937 - Morgan Ericson 63 ........ Collectible Hair - Allison Stacy Malaluan 64 ........ Nostalgia - Lauren Lodato 65 ........ Return - Sasha Pavlova 66 ........ Off the Road - Morgan Ericson 68 ........ Scarring You - Waad Hassan 69 ........ The Taught - Cindy Virello 70 ........ The XL Wish List - Shannon Gaffney 73 ........ Color Me Amused - Allison Stacy Malaluan 77 ........ Raise My Hand - Sasha Pavlova 78 ........ Variations - Raquel Lesser 79 ........ Tunnel Vision - Liam Dalton 80 ........ Elastic Heart - Waad Hassan 81 ........ A Poem to Prove You Snore - Michaela Muckell 84 ........ In Spring - Waad Hassan 85 ........ The Gremlin - Lauren Lodato 86 ........ Breaking - Alexis Garcia

NAVIGATION 87 ........ A Human Nature Walk - Shannon Gaffney 88 ........ Alzheimer’s - Lauren Lodato 89 ........ It - Cindy Virello 91 ........ Cancer Stick - Sasha Pavlova 93 ........ Grammy - Shannon May 94 ........ Backseat - Lauren Lodato 95 ........ I HOLD - Shanice Peters* 96 ........ Melody - Shanice Peters* 97 ........ Pieces - Shanice Peters*

Abtracts & Essays

99 ........ A Yellow Cottage For Three Sisters - Nicholas Pashoian* 100 ........ Using Beauty as Preservation from Decay in Visconti’s Death in Venice - Danaleigh Reilly* 101 ........ Nurse of Novelists: Rearing Neurotics Into Artists Melissa Rodgers*

Photography

28 ........ Where Land Meets - Katherine Matuszek 33 ........ Untitled - Lia Garcia 36 ........ Upstream Color - Rebecca Rebeiro 44 ........ Warm - MRMVN 51 ........ Open Gate - MRMVN 59 ........ Cold - MRMVN 67 ........ Teardop Waterfall - Gil Seda 83 ........ Untitled - Kelsey Gaulin 92 ........ Symphony with Maria C - Yara Haddad 104 ........ Contributors List

NAVIGATION On the Cover: Wire Sculpture- Christina Modica * Winners of departmental English awards

FICTION

The Fox and the Rat Morgan Ericson The sky, heavy with the weight of the clouds, seemed to sink with every step I took. I remember standing with my neck bent, my eyes transfixed above me, watching them before I heard the snap of a stick behind me, which alerted me to how close he was. I took off at a run into the tall, sun-bleached grass. He chased me around the small field; we were both so glee-filled and drunk on our youth; as though nothing could touch us. We played like this for a while. Dodging each other and crouching down to hide in the tall stalks. As soon as he would get close enough to make a grab at me I would zag to one side, throwing him off course. As I ran I could hear him sigh or grumble in some peevish way as he doubled back in search of me again. These games we played to kill time seemed to have neither a beginning nor an end to them. This was mostly how our summer days were spent. As I turned sharp, yet again, I heard the thump as he fell down behind me.I stopped running and went back, where I saw him on the ground, his shirt dirtied and his pant leg ripped revealing a bloodied knee. “Oh!” I gasped and sunk down to the ground beside him. He looked at me then, through his dirty blond hair which tickled his forehead and the back of his neck. His ashen eyes peeked out at me and his lips were parted the tiniest bit. If I weren’t as close as I was in that moment I doubt I would’ve have been able to notice such a small detail. “Something’s not right.” he told me. His voice, so airy, it felt like it could have been swallowed up by the wind. Then we both looked up into the sky. Through the branches, outstretched like boney fingers, we could see it—this huge black machine hovering in the sky. We stared at it, hypnotized by its magnitude and beauty wondering what it was and why it was here. Suddenly, I felt the pressure of his hand as he reached out and enveloped my hand in his. I looked over at him and he looked back at me with such a terrified and boyish expression that I swear I can still see it when I

Graffiti close my eyes. “We’ve got to get out of here,” he told me. “Before it sees us.” With him leaning heavily on my shoulder we hobbled out of the field and under the cover of the trees. We popped down so close to each other that there was no space left between us. We glanced up through the rare spaces in the branches watching until the bird-like thing passed. “We’ll be safe now,” he’d said, his voice calm and reassuring. I trusted him because, back then, I’d never had a reason not to. His palm, though sweaty against mine, still grasped my hand protectively. There was no way that he was going to let go. I knew then that, for as long as we were both together, he would never let anything happen to me. So that night I crawled out through my window and lay on the sloping roof under the watchful eyes of thousands of stars. I whispered a silent prayer to the sky that I would be able to do the same for him; for Rat. Then I crossed my heart and lay there a while longer just staring up into the heavens. ____________ As we grew older Rat and I never really drifted apart the way that others often do. We didn’t have much of a say in it; we were too tangled up in each other to let go. But the truth is that I probably needed him a lot more than he needed me. Though the crops in the field where we’d once played dead and flattened the way so much around us did, we would still go out there the way that we had when we were kids. There’s one day that sticks out in my memory more than any others. We were off to the side, hidden in the gray shadows. I had my legs stretched out and my feet gently propped up on his knees. He didn’t seem to mind so I didn’t move them. Rat was lying on his back with his hands behind his head and his chin tipped up. His eyes were closed but I could tell that he wasn’t sleeping. Looking at him from the side where I sat made it look like he was smoking a cigarette. The thought made me smile, because, he reminded me of my grandfather who I’d only ever seen pictures in a photo album that my mother kept in her room, and in nearly every picture he had a cigarette. Unconsciously, I started moving my feet to the beat of a song that

The Fox and the Rat was playing out in my head, the soft melody and the haunting voice of the singers, echoing in my ears as I recalled the lovely image of my mother twirling around the living room as the song played, as careless as I’d ever seen her. I’d barely even started when Rat grumbled, “There’s no way I’m going to get any sleep with you doing that.” He turned his face, eyes opened but groggy with sleep, and looked at me. “Sorry,” I stopped. “I didn’t know you were trying to sleep.” “Well, I’m not anymore.” he said turning his body halfway to face me and resting his chin on his arm. “What song was that?” “Did you like it?” I asked. He nodded, the vague wisp of a smile appearing on his face, “Where’d you hear it?” I shrugged. “My mom was singing it the other day. It’s a really old song.” “What was it called?” he’d asked. “Yesterday by The Ladybugs or the Centipedes or something disgusting like that.” He made a face and said, “I’ve never heard of them.” “You probably wouldn’t-” I mumbled. As the silence again settled, Rat shifted so he was once again on his back. His eyes closed as his breathing leveled and he fell asleep. I couldn’t help myself from glancing at him over top of my knees, carefully mapped out the details of his face that I’d come to know: his matted blonde hair, the pale translucency of his eyelashes, the way he never seemed to stop smiling even when he was sleeping. I don’t know exactly when I first realized that I was in love with him. It was such an unconscious thing that I doubt I would have tried to stop even if I had a say in it. It was the sort of thing that was always there; since it was always there I never really thought much of it. But that day in the field I started thinking—I started to wonder if I could live without him. People died all the time, so why not him? The thought tangled my stomach into tight knots. In the seconds that followed that moment I acted without think-

Graffiti ing. I moved toward him, slowly, dragging my knees and pressing my fingers into the cool, dewy ground. I didn’t stop until I was next to him. My body, stiff and unsure, fit perfectly against his side where I curled up like a cat, content with our closeness. I let my head rest comfortably on his shoulder, in a space that seemed like it was made just for me. The idea made me smile and only then did the knots in my stomach begin to loosen. He shifted beside me. “Fox?” he mumbled, his voice heavy with the lethargy of sleep. He turned his face toward me and I looked up at him. “Sorry,” I whispered. “Did I wake you?” “No,” he said, then paused for a moment. “It’s okay.” Then he settled back down and went back to sleep. There was something about that day that left me feeling such absolute possibility that things could be real between us in a world that was fragmented by lies and betrayal. It was the start of something that, even in that moment, I didn’t fully understand. It was such a serendipitous feeling. It was like the possibility of anything and everything was dancing at my fingertips. __________ We decided to call ourselves Fox and Rat for a number of reasons; the top one being that our real names were no longer safe to use. They would draw attention to us. But, more than that, using those names just reminded us of all that we had lost because of who we were. We felt that ditching every last part of our old lives would help us forget what we were. Choosing the names was easy because they seemed to always belong to us. My hair is vibrantly red like that of a fox; that’s what everyone used to tell me. We decided on Rat’s name because of his narrowed and jutting nose and eye so dark it was hard to believe they weren’t black. We never told anyone about the “bird” that we saw. We kept it a secret, something just between the two of us. It was Rat’s idea. As we were finding our way back through the woods that day, a obsidian veil of darkness resting over our heads Rat first suggested it. “Why not?” I’d asked, not understanding why he’d want to keep something like that a secret.

The Fox and the Rat “It means something.” He explained hastily, like he was afraid that someone would overhear him. “A thing like that doesn’t just show up for no good reason. Besides, if we tell them about it they’re only going to see the bad in it…They’ll make us leave.” We had come to stop in front of my house with its worn paint, dirty front steps from countless muddy trips up and down, and white shutters perpetually shut. I was going to go inside and just leave him there—and I would have if he hasn’t taken my moment of silence as answer enough. Before I could step up onto the porch he’d moved to stand in front of me. He looked me square in the eyes, his own were dead and his jaw was set, and made me promise. Maybe it was the hopelessness in his eyes, the way that he anxiously bit the skin at one corner of his mouth, or the shakiness of his hand. Or maybe it was that, as I tried to move past him, he took another step to the side, closing me in and bridging whatever space there was between us so close I smacked right into his chest. While I stood there a little dazed, he whispered to me in a voice completely swallowed up in desperation: “Please, I don’t want to have to leave again, I’m tired of all of this running.” Whatever the reason, I stuck out my hand to him and snaked my pinky around his. I don’t know what made me decide to trust what Rat told me that night, but at dinner, when my parents asked me to entertain them with stories of my latest adventures, I made something up. They nodded at me the way that they always did—thin lipped and eyebrows raised impressively high—and accepted my lie as the truth. After that day in the field, Rat and I started to keep more secrets— hoarding them between us like gems. Our secrets were sacred and they were one of the few things that we could entirely call our own. I liked our secrets. I considered them just another thing that linked us together.

There was one day when Rat and I went for a walk. We weren’t gone all that long, but as we neared our small village we realized that there were bigger fears than the monsters that we had once imaged under our beds.

Graffiti Our town, so delicate and feeble, fabricated of glass, lay in shambles in front of us. The laughter and hope that had once filled the streets and houses also shattered. As was the allusion of our safety. When we had come here, seeking shelter away from those who wanted to hurt us we fabricated this false reality; that if we hid well enough and stayed quiet enough they wouldn’t find us and we would be safe. We were wrong. A chilling quietness surrounded us; silence screaming at us from all sides. A chill clung to our bones and curled up in our stomachs like a feral animal as we began to look around. We had to see if anyone was still alive—if any of them had made it. Houses loomed at us from both sides, each staring at us through blackened, smashed-in windows that resembled, pitted eyes. We stepped gingerly around the remains of cups and dishes, and books and clothes which laid shattered in the streets. As we walked our eyes kept flickering and moving, glancing off to the side, searching for any movement. Our own houses, the ones that we grew up in, were also a wreck. As we walked into my house, I reached out and ran my fingers over the rough wood of the door with its chipped white paint, flecks of it came off on my fingers. This was the same door that I had seen my mother stand at, in her flour-dirtied apron, more times than I could count. We kept moving. Cups my parents had used for their morning coffee were left broken on the kitchen floor. Cupboards and drawers thrown open. Pictures of me and my family cast down from their place on the walls and showered glass down on the stairs. Upstairs dolls that had sat watchfully at the end of my sister’s bed were thrown around the room, their porcelain heads cracked and their perfect red lips split down the middle. I picked one up, her favorite, with a red pleated skirt and a hood to match. A decent chunk of her head was missing and there was dirtied with the mark of a boot imprinted on her dress as though someone had carelessly stepped on her. I cradled her to my chest—my last connection to my lost sister. Rat came up behind me and hugged me to his chest, not saying a word,

The Fox and the Rat knowing that nothing he could say would fix any of this. We walked around the entire town and never saw anything, not a single person, friend—nothing. Though we didn’t find their bodies we both knew what had happened to our families. We didn’t have to saying anything. They, the same way as everyone else like us, had been killed. ________ Rat and I knew that we couldn’t stay there anymore. It was too risky not knowing if they were going to come back. We had to leave and find somewhere else to go. Somewhere we could stay safe. We went through our houses and grabbed anything that we could. I grabbed clothes and he took food and then we were gone. As we walked deeper into the woods we were lucky enough to come across an old hunting lodge. It was camouflaged perfectly and hidden well by the low hanging branches and tall trees. We decided this was as good a place as any and took refuge here. “We won’t be able to stay here forever,” he whispered into the dark that night as we curled ourselves into blankets trying to shake off the cold of the night. “We’ll have to keep going, keep moving or they’ll find us.” I nodded my head into my blanket even though I knew that he couldn’t see. “We’ll worry about it in the morning, okay?” I whispered. “Okay...Hey Fox?” “Mhm?” I mumbled, already beginning to fall asleep. “Are you still cold?” He asked. “A little bit,” I answered and then, before I could fall asleep, I heard him get up and come over to me. He laid down next to me and wrapped one arm around my shoulder. I fell asleep to the sound of his heart beating in my ear and the remains of the song my mother had once danced to. ________ I wake up in the morning with my back turned toward the wall and the covers tossed off me. Through the shutters the sun streams in, light like threaded gold, sending shadows to play on the walls. I still find it amazing that could survive this long on our own, especially with stealthy trips into the city to gather food and supplies as

Graffiti as possible. I’m surprised that no one hasn’t noticed us yet. I roll out of bed and slip on my only pair of jeans and a clean t-shirt both of which were my mom’s. The shirt is soft to the touch and worn thin to the point that I feel like I’m hardly wearing anything at all. As I open my door and walk down the hallway and downstairs, I try not to think of what I must look like. I find Rat at the table in the kitchen hunched over a book. His hair, though messy, is shimmering wet and dripping water onto the back of his shirt. I have the strange urge to take the towel from beside the sink and wipe off the water drenching his neck. “You know, these things really aren’t that bad,” he comments, closing the book but keeping his thumb wedged between the pages to hold his place. “I know,” I say. “I’ve been telling you that for how long?” He ignores this. “So what are you going to do today?” I take a pear from a basket of fruit on the counter and turn it over in my hands. I shrug. “Just sit around I guess.” He nods like this is as good a plan as any. “Sometimes,” he says unexpectedly, “I imagine what it must be like to be normal; to know that you fit in with everyone around you.” He spits all of this out like he can’t wait to get the words out of his mouth and i have the distinct feeling that he’s been thinking about this for a while. “Rat, there’s nothing wrong with us,” I reassure him; a failing attempt. He shakes his head, his lips curling up like he’s got some something disgusting in his head, “You can’t honestly believe that can you? If there’s nothing wrong with us then we would be able to live down there,” he points a finger to the wall, out toward the direction of the city. “Instead of having to hide out in the woods like monsters.” “Maybe it’s not us,” I think aloud. “Maybe they’re the screwed up ones and we’re normal.” “Right,” He scoffs, After that, Rat goes upstairs. I try to busy myself with reading but I can’t focus on the words, which keep seeming to fly out of my grasp. The silence that fills the house whenever he’s not around is bursting at the

The Fox and the Rat seams and strangling me with its intensity. I creep up the steps and to his door, hardly making a sound as I walk, then ease the door opened without so much as a knock. I’m about to say his name, the sound of it balancing on the tip of my lip, my teeth already grinding on the sound of the R of his name. But then I see him stretched out on his bed, with his face buried in a pillow and sheets wrapped around his feet; the book discarded on a nearby table. I can’t remember the last time I’d been in his room. The single narrow bookshelf pushed against one wall is lined with old paperbacks, their covers nowhere near perfect condition, many of them even missing covers all together. He’s acquired many of them from our trips into the city under the allusive cover of night; so often representing of his name he digs through the trash cans and dumpsters to find to books. Anything to distract us from thinking about all that can go wrong the longer that we stay here. I can’t wake him so I sneak back down the stairs and head outside. I don’t know why but I need to get out. I know Rat doesn’t like me being outside alone but at least I can breathe outside. As I walk out, I’m careful not to let the screen door bang shut. I say a silent prayer that he doesn’t wake up before I get back. After only walking for a couple of minutes I stop and look around me. I’m taking it all in when I hear a rustling behind me. It sees me first. One look, one solitary glance is all that it takes for it to know that I am nothing like what it is; that I am different. Cowering in the shadows, scared and trembling, is the thing that’s responsible for everything Rat and I have dealt with. It may look the same as me on the outside but on the inside it’s running on steam-power and electric wiring instead of blood and tissue. It’s alive, but not in the same way that Rat and I are. On the inside we are nothing alike. It stares at me with steely eyes and a mangy smile but doesn’t dare come any closer. It just stays right where it is, inspecting me like I’m some kind of grotesque beast—a monster. I want to tell it that it’s got it all wrong: I’m not the monster—it is. But all I see when I look at it is the resonating fear reflected

Graffiti in its eyes. It’s then that I realize how wrong I was. Swiftly, before I have a chance of changing its mind, it turns away from me and dashes out of sight. “No, please!” I shout even though I know it’s no use. I stare at the space where it disappeared to; hoping to catch another glimpse, but it’s already too late. I run my fingers back through my hair. “Dammit,” I breathe and then I run back to the house. By the time I return I’m out of breathe and my clothes are sticking to my body with a thin veil of perspiration. My heart is beating erratically in my chest and my skin is buzzing with an electric charge I cannot see. What am I going to do? I hear Rat before I see him, as he comes down the steps, each step making a groaning sound of disapproval. “Hey,” he says to me through a yawn. “Nice nap?” I ask, not turning to look at him, feigning causality as best I can. Hoping that my voice sounds somewhat normal. He nods and then we hear it, outside. The shouts of people, yelling and swearing and hissing. They don’t sound far away. Rat looks at me with pure terror in his eyes. “How did they find out we were here?” he asks tersely. He must be able to read the answer all over my face because he doesn’t ask a second time. He swears under his breath then grabs my arm and drags me up the stairs taking me with him, He pauses for a second in the hallway before deciding to take me into his room. “I’m going to lead them away from here,” he tells me. I start to protest but he won’t hear it. “I won’t let them hurt you.” He takes my hand in his and walks me over to his closet. “I’ll be back soon, I promise. Until then, stay here and don’t let them find you.” Then, quickly realizing we don’t have a lot of time, he takes me in his arms. I’m not used to being so close to him. He holds me there for longer than he should but a breath shorter than what I desperately want. He flings the door open revealing the old coats and shirts hung up inside. He pushes me inside and everything smells so much like him. He kisses my

The Fox and the Rat hand, clasped in his, his lips are cracked and quivering against the back of my hand. “I’ll be back.” he says, then he leaves. It isn’t long after the sound of his footsteps fade away. But not long after they do I hear the sound of them invading the house and coming up the steps. I sink down to my knees and bury myself in the back of the closet trying to make myself seem as small as humanly possible. I pull clothes and jackets over to shield me. I stuff the sleeve of one of his jackets into my mouth to quiet my breathing. I can hear them getting close. I shut my eyes. I start to think about what it was like to be a child and having to live through this; all of this hiding and fighting for our lives. I used to wonder what made us so different from everyone else. What was it about us that made them want us gone? But a question, above all others, screamed loud like a siren: Why do they hate us? I first realized that not only I, but everyone in my small town was different from other people. They might not have looked too different from us on the outside, but on the inside they were far more advanced, like robots with malleable skin. They’re nothing more than a bunch of colorful wires with prudently painted on disguises. While, we on the other hand, are only one thing…we’re only human. When these “new breeds” started coming around, invading our space, they wanted us gone. All of us. They didn’t think that we, so weak, could survive, so they killed us off. Or, at least, they tried to. But not all of us died as easily as they’d hoped. Some of us managed to get away, sneak off somewhere undetected and start new lives, hidden lives. Soon their feet retreat, someone calling them away and I’m left alone in the house again, with its silence swelling in the walls like a tumor. Then, as I’m drowning in my own thoughts I hear it; sharp and quick like the stab of a needle, a single sound in the quiet mid-day—a gunshot. I struggle to get out of the closet and out of the house. I call his name over and over again— allowing for the sound of it to swell and sneak

Graffiti into the cracks of the foundation. Then I take off running. I run to the one place that we always seem to come back to. I run until it feels like my lungs are going to give out but I keep going. I no longer care about being spotted—all I care about is getting to Rat. I can’t even hear myself shouting his name anymore because of the buzzing in my ears, the rushing of blood in my head, the erratic beating of my fragile heart mutes everything around me. I finally reached it—the field. I’m on the opposite side but I can see him clearly crumpled in a heap on the ground like an injured animal. I think I call his name, but I can’t be sure, before I start running again. I only see him. I don’t see anything else. Not the gentle swaying of leaves on branches, of the overflowing white clouds. I don’t see the girl standing on the edge of the clearing with a gun held up to her face, one eyes closed in concentration and a finger posed over the trigger, aiming the gun at me. All I see is Rat. He’s the only thing that matters. As soon as the bullet hit me I knew exactly where. My thigh burned like flames are licking it. I stumbled but didn’t fall; there’s some small part of me that still won’t let go. It keeps me upright. This piece, though so small, was also strong and so I clung to it and I kept on fighting. I make it a couple more feet, slowly bridging the space between Rat and I, before I feel the second shot. This one hit me in my abdomen, just below my ribs. With this shot I drop, hard to the ground. My hands reach out for him but only catch air. With my head rested on the ground and the smell of soil filling my nose, it instantly reminds me of that day so many years ago. When we, so young and dumb in our innocence, had played out here for hours. When we were here, together, there was no trace of time, time no longer existed between us. Instead it was just a thing that affected the people outside of our circle. I needed to get to Rat. I look up and see him there, so close, but so far away. I reach out, trying to touch him but can’t. I know what I have to do. Even with the bullet wound radiating heat painfully in my side I crawl on the ground, my fingers pressing into the cold soil and

The Fox and the Rat digging dirt up under my fingernails. I dig the toes of my shoes into the ground, propelling me forward toward him. All I see is him, looking the same as he did that day so many years ago. Except instead of relaxed breathing, his breaths are coming hard and fast and labored. His hair is overly disheveled instead of its usual disarray. When I get close enough I see that even though his face still carries the same smooth boyish features, it also bares the scars of a person who has seen so much in such a short amount of time. I’d never noticed how much his face had changed. Finally, I stop beside him. “Rat…” I whisper, reaching out and pressing a palm against his chest. Underneath his shirt I feel his heart, beating wildly. “Rat, I’m here, just keep breathing. You’ll make it out of this. Both of us will. We’ll be fine.” It’s the most bold faced lie I’d ever told him and it comes out tasting like acid. He tries to shake his head but stopped, his face pinched and eyes closed. I curl my body against his, tucking my head under his chin and twisting one of my legs around his. I see the bullet wound in his chest, oozing blood onto his shirt with each forced breath, and I know that he won’t make it. The thought shatters my heart. We didn’t say anything and it’s in that silence that reverberates between us that I hear everything that both of us have been too terrified to say to each other. It speaks volumes. I take a moment to memorize his face. There’s blood staining his lips, streaked halfway across his face. I reach up and wipe some of it away, the stubble hidden underneath scratching my fingertips before they reach the soft skin of his lips, where they linger. His eyes flicker to mine, the skin wrinkling around them like cracks in ice, full of questions. My hands moved up to his head, stroking his hair, pushing it back away from his face. “Fox...What are you doing?” He asked. “Something that I’ve wanted to do forever.” I whisper, my head already coming closer to his.

Graffiti I paused, waiting for some kind of sign or indicator that what I was about to do was okay. When I saw his eyes start to close in anticipation of what is to come I smiled, taking that as a yes. Kissing him is everything I could have hoped for—I only wish that, like everything else, it hadn’t come so late. Too late. I can feel him dying beside me, his breaths becoming shallower and the sloshing in his lungs bubbling until there is more blood in there than air. His fingers go slack around mine as I slowly pull my face away from his, resting it on his chest. “Everything is going to be okay.” He whispers against my hair. This time, same as last time and every time in between, for whatever reason I believe him. ________ I didn’t expect to wake up. The sky, once alive with the mid-day blue, is now streaked with shredded pastel hues; our own personal watercolor painting. Looking up at it make me think that it looked too cheerful after what had just happened. I extract my twisted limbs from Rat’s and roll onto my back. Immediately a pain like being prodded with a hot-poker stabs me in the side. Red stained my pant leg and my t-shirt—their dampness keeping the usually baggy clothing pressed tight against my skin. “Rat,” his name sits on my dry lips and as I say it, finally breaking the spell of quietness around us I realized why it was so quiet. Rat hasn’t woken up yet. “Rat.” I say again, turning to look at him. I wish that I could say that he looks like he is sleeping. But the giant red splotch of crimson, staining his shirt to the point where it almost looks black, refuses to let me believe that false reality for more than a second. The only part of him that looks untouched was by the trauma he had endured is his face; other than the dried blood smeared over his mouth and chin he looks just like the boy that I have always known. “Please, wake up…” I whisper into his neck. “Don’t leave me alone here. I can’t go through this without you. Come back to me, Rat.” I’m begging now.

The Fox and the Rat I can’t lose Rat; he’s my best friend and quite possibly the love of my life and I can’t lose him; not ever. But especially not now, crouched and bleeding to death in the woods. Realizing he isn’t going to wake up I rest my head back down on his chest and come to the ultimatum that if I am going to die, what better way than in the arms of the only boy I had ever loved, in the one place that had always been just ours? But, just as I am beginning to feel myself being pulled to elsewhere I feel him shift beside me. Just a little bit, but enough to let me know that he is still alive. “Rat?” I ask. I turn and at the sight of him peering back at me through tired eyes. I can’t stop myself from wrapping my arms around him, pressing my face into his chest. I feel the sharp inhalation of breath and immediately lessen my hold. “Sorry,” I say sheepishly. He smiles limply at me. “It’s all good.” “I thought that you were dead,” I admit, feeling the pain once again in my chest, realizing how close I was to losing him. “You couldn’t get rid of me that easily if you tried.” As we lay there, the air becoming colder and the sky darker I knew we weren’t safe yet. But we were alive, and for now that was enough for me.

Where Land Meets - Katherine Matuszek 28

Blind Date Samantha Theusen “It’s lovely, isn’t it?” Stanley watched Ada as she picked up the ceramic plate. It looked like an antique, but the vibrant, hand painted rooster standing in the center commanded attention. She ran her delicate finger tips across the creature, pausing over every intricate feature: the rose-colored comb, the pine green wings, and the black and white sickle feathers. She stopped at the feet, where the glaze was beginning to fade, and lightly scratched at a stain. “It’s dirty,” she said, disappointed. “I’m about to wash some dishes, would you like to help? It’ll be a date.” He held out a pair of rubber gloves, and she accepted them with a smile. Stanley, a weathered old man wearing suspenders and worn down slacks, stood tall in front of the kitchen sink. The bags under his eyes were hidden behind his wrinkles, and he wore a content smile. Ada was a petite old woman, and positioned herself beside Stanley. She was a few years younger, and wore a floor length light blue cotton dress. Large circular glasses framed her sweet wrinkled face. She looked exhausted, but still managed to laugh at the big yellow gloves now consuming her small arms. “I think they go well with your outfit.” Stanley chuckled as he turned on the rickety faucet and retrieved a bottle of soap from the cabinet. “Quite the comedian, are you? Or maybe you’re just flirting with me.” Ada smirked, and Stanley handed her a sponge. He pulled a coffee-stained teacup out of the sink and began rinsing it with warm water. Ada poured a dollop of soap on the plate. Their kitchen sink sat below a small window, overlooking a golden field of wilting straw. The Arkansas sun sat low on the horizon, brewing darkness. Two chairs sat across from each other on the porch, their wood bleached from decades in the sun. “So, how are you?” Stanley kept his eyes on the teacup. Ada looked up at him, surprised. “Is that the best you can do? I thought this was a date!”

Graffiti Stanley smiled. “You’re right. You look very beautiful today.” “That’s better.” She looked up at him with eyes that were falling in love for the first time. Then she turned her attention back to the plate, and squinted. “This spot is being awfully difficult.” She continued to scrub the rooster’s feet in circular motions. Stanley placed the stained tea cup onto a cloth mat to dry. “Would you like something to eat?” he asked. “A man who cooks! I must’ve gotten lucky.” Ada laughed. Stanley pulled two microwave dinners out of the freezer. “Don’t get your hopes up.” He prepared the table with the two plates of chicken pot pie, and gathered clean utensils from the sink. While he warmed some rolls in the oven, Ada put her plate down and wandered over to the cassette radio. Stanley glanced back at her, and after folding some napkins walked to her side. “We should play some music. It’ll really set the mood.” She playfully wiggled her shoulders. Stanley pulled a tape from the drawer, and placed it into the slot. He pressed play, and Ada’s eyes lit up to the sound of Elvis Presley’s “Can’t Help Falling in Love.” “I love this song!” She grabbed Stanley’s hand and wrapped her arm around his shoulder. “I know.” Stanley pulled her close to his chest, and swayed her back and forth. He looked down at her face, her eyes closed but dreamy, and her big smile looking just like it did so long ago. He closed his eyes and saw her again, in her white lace dress, gracefully spinning around the room, her face framed in sheer fabric, complimenting her silky brunette hair. The touch of her delicate finger tips on his palm made his heart beat faster, and he knew their souls would never divide. She looked at him, and he was safe. He was home. In that moment, he knew he’d be happy forever. He gently squeezed her hand, and kissed it softly. They ate in comfortable silence, in the low light of their tiny kitchen. The crickets began chirping outside the open window, and a few coyotes howled in the distance. Stanley gazed fondly at Ada, who had finished

Blind Date her food and was now staring impassively outside. “Shall we get back to it?” he asked quickly. She looked slightly startled. “Yes, I’m determined to get that plate clean.” An hour passed by, and Ada was still scrubbing the rooster’s feet, a little more rigorously now; she was getting frustrated. There were no more dishes in the sink, and Stanley was going through a few envelopes on the counter. He unfolded a letter that had already been opened a few days ago, reminding himself that tomorrow was coming. At precisely 8 a.m. they would wake up. Stanley would make Ada a cup of tea, with three sugars and a tablespoon of skim milk. They would drive two hours in their small beige Lincoln Town Car, and arrive at the front steps of the Montgomery County Nursing Home. “You don’t have to worry about the plate, Ada. I don’t want you to get tired.” “It’s no problem. Though it would be easier with some stronger soap, do you have anything?” “No.” “Are you sure? I can go look.” “Yes, I’m sure.” “That’s okay. Can you turn on another light? It’s gotten so dark.” Stanley opened another cabinet, grabbed two large candles, and positioned them on the windowsill above the sink. He dug his hand into his back pocket and pulled out a lighter. “That’s my favorite.” Ada closed her eyes and breathed in the lavender scent. “I know.” Stanley turned so she wouldn’t see the tear running down his face. “You know, I think I have some baking soda in the car that’ll get this stain out. I’ll be right back.” Ada set the plate down on the counter and took the gloves off. Stanley watched her leave, knowing she wouldn’t come back. A gust of wind killed the candles’ flames. He stood there for a moment, not moving, then cleaned off the kitchen table, and placed the dishes

Graffiti in the sink. A few minutes later, Ada slowly walked back into the room, empty-handed. “Who are you?” she asked hesitantly. “My name’s Stanley. We have a date tonight, remember?” He smiled. Ada paused for a moment, then grinned. “That’s right! I remember.” She walked over to the counter and picked up the ceramic plate, running her delicate finger tips across its smooth design. Stanley picked up the coffee-stained teacup, and began washing it again. “It’s lovely, isn’t it?”

Untitled - Lia Garcia 33

In November Amanda Cirocco I love the beach in November. There isn’t a soul in sight, except for the old man. He comes down around three with his metal detector hoping something has washed upon the shore that wasn’t already there yesterday. His gold-trimmed glasses are always tilted down over his nose and his sparse gray hair sways with the wind. His skin looks like brown worn leather and it compliments his dark charcoal eyes. He searches endlessly, pacing in each direction possible but he never gets too close to the water, close enough to feel what is possible too. I think he’s afraid, but doesn’t want me to know. I think he knows that there is something beyond the miles of soggy sand that I have walked on. I can’t help but imagine him sinking into the unknown and quickly running away to reach solid gravel. Ultimately, his hope of finding something is out there, but once he finds it, it’ll be too late just as it always has been. I think he finds an unusual comfort in the song she sings. It’s a beautiful melody, faint, but the closer that he walks towards her she picks up the volume of the swishing sounds of water colliding against one another. It creates this sharp, and yet peaceful tune, that urges to continue listening, but that means surrendering to your fear. I think he knows I watch him and write down snippets of his movements when I am able to steadily hold the fountain pen onto stationary. I know he is lonely, for he never comes with a companion. I want to say hello and warn him that his search will only lead him towards a path he can’t leave from, but I never leave my balcony. I can see everything I need to from up here. I haven’t found a reason to go near her again, and truthfully, I’m not allowed. I can see the tips of the shark’s heads peeping out, looking for a prey. I can see the white hue foam touch the surface of the sand then sneak back into the dark depths of the Atlantic. I can see the same young couple who arrive right before the sun sets. They finish their bottle of Pinot Noir on the faded Cape Cod blanket. He wraps his arm around her shoulder and kisses her forehead. I smile and want to take a photo to capture the moment of this blissful and lively love but by the time I make it back

Graffiti they’ve ran off and dusk has approached. I loved the beach, but she is a dangerous mess. I haven’t stepped onto the sand in months, for fear that I may try running straight into a tragic death once again. I’ve never been able to swim, but I’ve learned how to drown. The water is like half-melted ice, not nearly as cold as it is in January; but I would be incapable of surviving in the middle of November. It was a long time ago, when failed efforts locked me into this room with glass doors that won’t seem to shatter. I’m able to see my death, but I can’t go to her. I remember now, what it felt like to have my body escape into a numb sensation. The feeling of immunity struck me, but wasn’t something I could have for long. The powerless fight to feel my feet sliding up and down, trying to touch what had felt like a buoy, was only a signal of how far I really was from death. I called her, but she ignored my cry. The waves picked up, and soon I became one of the miscellaneous pieces that washed upon shore. Yet, I wasn’t worth a penny more than the next thing that came along. I remember the voices of those who surrounded me and the salt water that spilled out from my pale blue lips. I loved the beach when I was a young girl. Building castles that we eventually watched fall and sink away into the depths of damp sand. I used to collect sea shells, broken ones too. I used to collect anything I could find. I thought there was a purpose for it all. I thought like the older man. I used to balance along the algae-covered rocks that set out towards the dark blue waters. There was a sign that suggested I shouldn’t do so, but I wanted to see what it was like to mess with her. You don’t mess with the ocean. I wasn’t able to get too far, until I fell off and became part of the current. I almost slipped away. Almost like a whirlpool, I could have been gone. The ocean works in peculiar ways. She’ll suck you in and spit you back out. You can’t see all of her from where you’re standing. You never know which part of her you are actually looking at. Is this the beginning, the end, or the in-between that stretches out for miles that no one can swim? It’s the one thing I can’t tell from where I’m looking and she knows it too.

Upstream Color - Rebecca Ribeiro 36

Captive Mornings Lauren Lodato

Do I really have to say it again? I do. I do have to say it again. I always have to say it again. Mario thought as he put down the Sunday paper, Antiques and Arts Weekly, and took a large gulp out of his

maroon thermos. The coffee was still hot and it burned as it made its way down his throat. Walking over to the Keurig, Mario yelled in the direction of the stairs, “Lori, will you please come down! Your coffee’s ready!” Listening for a response, he walked out of the kitchen and placed the green mug on a TV tray in the den, “It’s getting cold!” “I’m coming! Will you stop!” He could hear she was still at the top of the stairs. He walked around the corner and looked up at her. “C’mon Lor. The step is right there. Do you want help?” Lori clung to the railing with both hands as if it had a secret she needed to know. She had refused to let him dress her. Her pink pajama top from the night before never came off and her jean shorts were unbuttoned exposing her backwards underwear. On her planted foot was a grey slipper and her other foot was bare. Her bare foot hovered above the step, pointing and flexing. It was searching. The way she was facing the railing and pointing her toes like that, reminded Mario very much of a ballerina. A very sick and stubborn

ballerina.

“No! You always do this! Leave me alone you’re, you, you…” Mario clenched his jaw and braced himself for the insult he had grown to expect, but the words wouldn’t come. She looked down at him, temporarily halted her foot and said, “It doesn’t work, okay? It doesn’t work!” Mario clenched his jaw and braced himself for the insult he had grown to expect, but the words wouldn’t come. She looked down at him,

Graffiti temporarily halted her foot and said, “It doesn’t work, okay? It doesn’t work!” Don’t be insensitive. She needs your help. “Just put your foot down Lori. The step is right there, bend your other knee and put your foot down.” That’s too many directions. I know that’s too many directions. Mario put his foot on the bottom step, “Can I please help you?” “No! I said no!” He could see Lori was shaking with anger. Somehow he was still capable of telling the difference between her sick shakes and the angry ones. He walked back into the kitchen and saw the smiling face of his golden-doodle on the other side of the sliding door. Her nose was pressed against the glass leaving smudges each time she moved. He felt the corners of his mouth rise into smile and grabbed the large white bucket of bird feed as he joined Cassidy outside. “Damn it. I forgot to buy more bird seed, Cass. I shouldn’t leave her, but it couldn’t take more than twenty minutes right? That’s not so bad. It’ll take her twenty minutes just to get halfway down the stairs.”What if she fell? What if she needed to use the bathroom? Mario poured what was left of the bucket into the tall, blue, five-holed bird feeder. It swung as he let it go and he could see doves and chickadees already gathering on the bushes nearby. The dew was still clinging to the wild grass, the sun was a mix of pink and yellow and the crisp air brought vitality to his lungs. He sat down on the concrete step in front of the doorway. The droplets, left there that morning, dampened his jeans as the dog hopped up beside him. “I could really use a ride. Cassie you wanna go for a ride? Keep me company? Wanna go bye-bye car?” Cassidy barked and the birds scattered. Mario stood up to go inside and she ran circles around his legs. “I know, I know! You wanna see our friends down at Dunkin’? You miss the girls don’t you?” Mario bent down to pet the dog’s head, the fur between his fingers was coarse. When she licked his hand, the smell it left on his fingers reminded him of fish bait. “Mar!” Oh no. He heard the cry through the thick glass door and froze. Maybe she doesn’t really need me. “Mar!” Jeez. He shook his head and headed inside trailed by Cassi-

Captive Mornings dy. Lori had made it to the bottom of the stairs and was standing facing the front door as she yelled. “Where are you? Go away!” “I’m right here,” the glass doors slammed behind him and Lori turned around shocked. Cassidy had run up to greet Lori and while running circles around her ankles, the dog stepped multiple times on her feet, “Jesus Mario! She’s a brat! Get her off!” “She’s just a dog Lor, doesn’t know what she’s doing. Cassie come here.” The dog trotted over to him and his wife stood completely still, glaring as if she wouldn’t enter the kitchen if you paid her to. Mario reached out for her hand, “Come sit down, I’ll heat your coffee up again.” Lori slapped his hand away and shuffled into the den. Mario walked around her, picked up the mug and brought it back to the microwave. Sitting next to the microwave was an array of pill bottles. He picked up the bottle of Namenda and shook it but there was no sound. He turned the bottle around in his hands looking for the pharmacy number. No more

refills, of course.

Always has to be something. Mario pushed the stop button before

the microwave could let out a ding and placed the mug onto the counter. He turned and opened the fridge. There was almost nothing in there. God, I need to get groceries, maybe my sister will come over

so I can go? Nope, don’t ask that again. Alright, what’s here? Eggs? No, she didn’t touch those last time. English muffin? Oh great, mold. What am I going to feed this woman?

“Hey Lor? What do you think you want to eat for breakfast? I could make you some yummy eggs? You loved them the last time!” His tone was saturated with the hope that sheer dumb luck would make her say okay. “No. I’m not eating.” Oh God, it’s this again. He picked up her coffee, and blew into it as he walked into the den. Lori was sitting on the couch with her arms crossed. She had pushed the wooden tray halfway across the room and as he pulled it toward her, she slapped his hand repeatedly.

Graffiti “Damn it Lorraine! I’m holding hot coffee!” He could feel his jaw tightening and he quickly put the mug down and adjusted his tone. Take a deep breath. Start over. “I’m just pulling it closer so you don’t spill. The coffee is hot. Don’t drink it yet. You have to eat something. What about toast?” Mario walked back into the kitchen and pushed Cassidy aside as he grabbed a cloth napkin from the counter. He placed it on his wife’s lap and she snorted and smacked at his hand again. “Lori, toast?” “I told you I’m not hungry. I don’t eat that anymore.” “All of a sudden, you don’t eat toast?” Mario couldn’t hold back his defeated laugh as he turned his back to her. I’m going to lose my mind. “Okay. You don’t eat toast.” He walked back to the fridge and opened it again, with an aggression he wasn’t proud of. “The only other thing in here is a grapefruit. Do you still eat grapefruits Lorraine?” “No, those are for Hannah. Hannah eats them.” “Hannah doesn’t live with us anymore remember?” Oh jeez Mario, don’t ask her if she remembers. “We rented her that new apartment. I bought these for us to eat. Look.” Mario palmed one of the yellow spheres and held it in Lori’s view, “Look! This one is special for you!” Lori’s attention didn’t follow the sound of his voice. She was still looking out the window at the birds when she yelled, “No! They aren’t there! She ate them! I always tell you she…the…grapefruit.”

I’ve made her too angry. The words are going. I’m going to have to spend the whole day with this. Mario walked back into the den and turned on the television, “Hallmark channel? News 12? Or look, Big Bang Theory is on.” “This one.” Lori grabbed the remote out of his hand and stared at it with intent and confusion, shaking it in front of his face and pointing to it with her free hand.

Captive Mornings “That’s the remote. I need that to change the channel ya know. Otherwise we’re watching ESPN all day.” Mario forced a smile and jaunty tone as he gently took it back from her. “Ah no! Yuck!” Lori was making faces and he could tell that, at least for the moment, she was feeling silly. “Chhhcka chhhcka chhcka” she made odd noises as she shook his arm. At least it’s affection. “Ya you need it!” Lori was smiling and laughing and she began pinching Mario’s arm as he changed the channel. “You’re always right! You know me! I need it!” Mario left the remote on her tray, picked her napkin up off the floor and placed it back on her lap. He couldn’t tell if it was the rapid change of mood or the stubbornness, but something about his wife that morning made him wonder if that was how his children acted all the mornings he was at work. He couldn’t help but think maybe this was punishment for only being home one morning a week. No sooner did the thought cross his mind, he shook it off. Poor me. No one wants to hear poor

me. No use complaining. If she won’t eat the grapefruit, I will.

As the knife slid into the fruit’s yellow skin, a squirt of juice splashed onto Mario’s face. Mario chuckled and wiped the stinging liquid from the corner of his eye. He put half the grapefruit in a bowl and began to rummage around in the silverware drawer. “Wherrrrre is it?” he mumbled to himself. “What?” Lori yelled back. “Just looking for the grapefruit spoon. The one with the bamboo handle, remember? I think Hannah used to hide it in the back of the drawer.” Mario pulled the drawer so far that the brakes of the catch caused it to buck and all of the silverware to clang together. Resting behind the organizing tray was the small spoon with minuscule fork like tines at its ridge. There it is. He brought the bowl into the den and placed it on Lori’s tray.

Graffiti “I told you! I. Don’t. Want. It.” Lori pushed the tray away from her again. “Lori there’s hot coffee on the tray. Please don’t push it like that. I’m getting myself a tray but I needed to put the food down. Is that okay with you? Oh look! Sheldon is being funny!” He pointed at the television as he moved the tray closer to his wife. Mario slowly folded open a tray in front of the black, leather recliner as a decoy. When he turned around, Lori was holding the spoon and tapping it onto the tray and then repetitively inside the bowl. She can’t eat it like that. Walking back in the kitchen, he grabbed a knife and the sugar bowl. Lori sat in silence as he picked her red napkin off the floor again. With the precision of a surgeon, he used three planned incisions. For each segment, he used the knife to release the soft pink flesh from the white inner skin. Lori continued to tap the spoon on the table and the repetitive sound only enhanced the almost mechanical way Mario prepared her breakfast. It was as if he had done it a million times before and would do it a million times more before he would realize the motions had any significance. As he took the spoon from her and sprinkled sugar over the top of the fruit, he wondered if Lori had ever done this for Hannah or the boys. He wasn’t left to wonder for long. Lori jabbed at his wrist with the sharp spoon and he pulled his hand back. Her napkin is on the floor again. Cautiously, he knelt down under the tray and placed it on his wife’s lap. Looking at the bowl, he saw that she had mutilated the perfect triangular prisms and pink pulp had fallen all over the tray. At least she is eating. Mario sat down in the arm chair and tried for a moment to picture his wife doting over the children’s breakfasts, but all he could visualize was a plate of frozen waffles in her hands. Rubbing both his palms hard into his eyes, he kicked up the footrest, and pulled his hands down over his mouth as he said into them, “So whad’ya wanna do today Lor?”

Captive Mornings “Nothing with you!” Lori laughed and stuck out her tongue. “You stinker! If you don’t be nice I’ll make you come out on the boat!” he teased halfheartedly. The remark lit up a feeling in his chest and he had a sudden urge to text his daughter Hannah. ‘How about spending some time with your Pop today?’ he typed into his phone, but as he added the emoji of the mustached man to the end, he decided to delete it. It’s only nine am. She’s either asleep or grumpy that she is awake. Don’t be a pestering, selfish “morning person.” You’re gonna be stuck here today, just accept it now and it will be easier.

Lori dropped a spoonful of pink grapefruit to the napkin on her lap. She picked it up with her bare hand and fed it to Cassidy lying patiently next to her. Lori cheered and clapped. Cassidy walked over next to the armchair and Mario petted her head, “What a good girl you are. Such a good companion, Cassie girl,” he smiled and closed his eyes to the sounds of the spoon tapping on the glass bowl.

Warm - MRMVN 44

Did You Know? Allison Stacey Malaluan

Winner of the Sister Eileen O’Gorman Prize for Short Fiction

Did you know that more suicides occur after midnight than any other time of the day - that what the mind thinks, the body follows - that Ava is laughing in every photo I have ever taken of her? -- I want to know. I want to know, Ava, why people smoke - why constellations seem to vanish when you’re trying to look at them head-on? I remember. I remember her saying, “Pain. Pain can make a person do wonders.” “What about constellations?” “Stop searching for what’s no longer there.” “What do you mean?” “Stars align for a certain amount of time. If constellations were permanent, you wouldn’t care.” “You don’t know that.” -- Last night I dreamt of Ava. “Fill me in on the living.” Ava with her sun-kissed locks. Iridescent would be a modest adjective. “What do you want to know?” “Has Trump been impeached?” “ Not for the time being.” “I’m still cutting myself off from anyone that ever supported Trump.”

Graffiti “How’s that going?” “You’d think on the other side, you could see everything. You can’t.” “That is unfortunate.” “Indeed. The souls of beings – entities whatever – still do things to keep face. It’s tiresome & repulsive. We’re dead.” “Fill me in on the dead.” The sun was slipping away. Ava was fading away. “Ask away,” she whispered. It was as if she were a mere figment of my imagination. “Why did you do it?” “Why does anyone?” Somehow, her eyes were glistening in the darkness. “Ava, I need to know.” “We all die. I just chose how.” “You can’t play God.” -- Did you know that being healthy means it will kill you slower that I’m deathly afraid of a stranger claiming my pre-paid pizza or someone harvesting my kidneys against my wishes -whether or not I am alive? Did you know that a person doesn’t need to be alive to circulate their blood? January was the last month I had seen her, the last month she had been abiding by gravity’s rules. January: the first month of the year. January: the month of resolutions to be better, to be better. “Does ‘enjoy getting killed on Super Smash Bros. make me a masochist?’ ”Ava half-smiled, giggled a tad. Somehow, she always managed to have a phone in-hand as if it were her bible. “It depends. What’s the context?” My blank stare to her jovial gaze. “There is none.” “There always is.” “This guy from Tinder asked about my bio. The part where I mention how much I enjoy “killing and getting killed on Super Smash Bros.”

Did You Know? “How old are you?” “Twenty-three. Don’t you know that?” Her face is still. Her teeth are pearlescent. “No, and yes. No, how old are you on Tinder? And, yes, I know obviously.” “Oh, twenty-eight.” “Why do you have to play the pretend game?” “Because I feel twenty-eight.” “How can you feel what you don’t know?” I stare into her green eyes. She shrugs. I sigh. The TV switches on – on to the Carbonaro Effect, her fave. This is a repeat – one we’ve seen too many times to count. We sit laying on the ground, crouched in our Snuggies, as though we are seeing it for the first time. -- Did you know that the part of the body that processes physical pain is similar to the one that processes emotional pain – that is, if you feel enough? Did you know that some people are born without the ability to feel pain? That they have shorter life spans than the rest of us – muggles? I remember Ava joking that she was one of them. “I’m immune,” she uttered, continuing, “I am immortal.” Only the ones who felt pain were just as susceptible to dying early like the ones that couldn’t. Flashback to when we were eleven. Playgrounds were our only playing ground. We didn’t need to play pretend. So she did it – she let go. Her arms off the monkey bars midway in as if she no longer believed holding on was necessary. I remember Ava’s shirt: how it read “To Infinity and Beyond” with red and black infinity signs, how it glistened in the daytime, how it glowed in the dark. I remember her deathless laughter – the kind that resonated with you long after it ended. I remember her talking about “Tinder guy” – how he made her forget everything she was, how he made her want to be something better – something she was not. He was a firm Gandhi-believer eternally taking

Graffiti a stab at wrapping himself up in hunger strikes. She wanted in. He was his own form of spiritual, she would say. -- Did you know there’s a test that analyzes a person’s perceptions of images? Translation: one perception of an image can potentially mark you as a deranged psychopath, the troubled child of divorced parents, a PeterPan-kind-of-man et cetera et cetera. The Rorschach test is, yes, a test. We made it into a game. “Tell me what you see in this inkblot,” I utter to Ava. “A drowning man,” she giggles, “that no one will save.” “Come on. You don’t see that.” “No one saves him because he doesn’t want to be saved.” Ava laughs. “Answer it for real.” “God eating seagulls or gargoyles.” Once again, she laughs. I stare into the image, thinking, Ambiguity at its finest. “I see lilies,” I mumble. We photograph the inkblot game. I say candid. She poses. We take turns. We could never forget ourselves. -- Did you know that sitting will kill you even if you exercise – that those who smoke on the regular can still outlive those that have never – that sometimes the non-lonely die faster than the lonely? In pieces, I remember Ava. In any kind of cigarette, I see her tired face laughing. Memory: Once she came into a smoke shop, pointed to the cigarette section, and asked the cashier, “Which one of these will kill me faster?” as if hauling a cab in New York and saying, “Destination: New York.” This was Ava: deathlessly joking about death as if it were how she practiced her own religion. The cashier laughed, systematically took one cigarette out of nineteen different-branded cigarette boxes, and added all nineteen to a pack of Marlboro Red’s that held one cigarette. “On the house,” he cackled, winking. She didn’t question anything. She simply walked away laughing. I wondered why oxygen wasn’t

Did You Know? enough to choose to want to inhale, why the term cancer sticks did not prompt some kind of warning jingle – how smoking is the number one cause of preventable death. I didn’t ask because I had seen her pin that read “If you make me sick, don’t make me better.” -- Did you know that it is easy to hate people that kill people, but it is not the case if they do it to themselves – that when a fire spreads over a savanna in Senegal, chimpanzees dance – that dolphins have to be awake to remember to breathe? I remember her carrying a photograph – one with Braille embossed. In Braille, it read “Do Not Touch.” She and Tinder man would get a real kick out of showing it to people, asking them to read it and then flip it. On the other side, it read “Kill, or be killed.” The Braille was colored in red, black, and yellow as if it were forming a collective textured flame. They would joke about killing each other, dying together, and being alone. To die together was their ultimate goal. They would joke. Oh, they would joke. “It is dark and twisted to want to die together to be together forever,” I would say. Now I say, “It is dark and twisted to die together to be together forever.” Now I ask, “Which is worse? Not recognizing the signs or being in denial of a person’s mental state, fall from grace?” -- Did you know that when a person dies, you don’t focus on their death – that wearing black in funerals makes it all the more depressing – that a person’s death only takes on as much meaning as you want, or that you are willing to put into it? Did you know that Ava and Tinder man were found together – hands over each other’s hearts, surrounded by cigarette butts, assorted tablets and a half glass of water – on her Tempur-Pedic? Did you know that the person that found them thought they were stuck in fixed expressions of laughter, thought they were very much alive? Did you know the only tablet I ever remember her taking is Oxycodone because she borrowed mine – even though borrowing implies a return date? Did you know that she never revealed Tinder man’s name – that his body was shipped away at sea sailing onto an unknown desti-

Graffiti nation? Did you know that her parents gave away her organs like candy on Halloween – that she was sprinkled into the air like pixie dust on a constellation-gazing-cigarette-smoking-kind-of-night? Did you know that I still do not know, understand, or fully comprehend? Did you know that I want to know? -- Did you know that what you can’t say in-person, you say in writing: an eviction notice, a break-up letter, a suicide note? Did you know that her suicide note was written entirely in Braille, saying “Do Not Read”?

Open Gate - MRMVN 51

POETRY

Antique Dealer and Daughter Lauren Lodato

My father and I walked from his office to the exit. We passed newly arrived weathervanes, a case full of costume jewelry, and a rocking chair seated by the door. My eyes danced across the curves of the high-back, dark blue and black, scuffed up and slender chair.

I said I loved it. He said I had enough. Things were crowded in his home. His tone was knowing, accusing that I am always wanting and getting and hoarding the things in life I love. My frown of offense left no lasting mark. Not one on him, or myself when I realized, I couldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t say that he was wrong.

A Toy For Your Dream House Shannon Gaffney I didn’t know true terror, until I saw the Russian nesting dolls, Their painted smiles too familiar, Their shapes, carved, to fit together, In a nauseating cycle; No matter how small the Russian doll, The face shows all the same. And the biggest doll, who reproduces, wields power to keep the others captive. What a torture--to fear the very thing that bears your face. I saw these dolls when I was young, and I knew that painted smiles and repetition and enclosed boxes are worse than the nightmares under your bed. I dreamt of them, and I saw them everywhere-As a child, at the dinner table, my stomach flipping fiercely, if I fumbled with a fork. Feeling a sting, and falling backwards in my chair. In cars, parked outside pretty white houses, while I wiped the eyeliner off of my chin, revering the voice from the driver’s seat, who told me to stop it, stop it, stop it, and don’t let your red eyes show.

Graffiti In mirrors, when I sucked in my stomach, wore sweatshirts I knew would leave me shapeless, and invisible. When I check the alarm seventeen times, When I sit here, still, unable to drive, the thought of utter control still a terror, the sight of myself in the driverâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s seat, leaving me paralyzed. I hear the words as the slice of the saw, You are not enough for me, from a face I ache to live up to. The thought of my own smaller woman, choking on insecurity, from my own womb, from my own image, my flesh, my blood, the carving of my shape, with the same painted, silent smile. I feel sympathy then, I feel horror then, For those imprisoned wooden women. Oh little Russian doll, I hope that if you fall, off the bedside table, that you are never found. That your carver never looks for you, for if she does you will always live in darkness.

Against the Tide Alexis Garcia Once or twice in life you find a woman You’d swim the ocean for. So I spend my days drowning in her tears And running my fingers through her wavy hair She falls into my arms. All I can do is support her While she goes against the tide Trying to hide the rippling in her eyes. I can only pray that in turn She will extend a life preserver grasping it, one thing holding on, another. I can’t swim, but Once or twice in life She struggles to meet me halfway I have a feeling she can’t swim either But she’d never admit to that. This life preserver can’t carry both our burdens If she doesn’t hold on Life just doesn’t seem worth living If her arms give out Then this ocean isn’t worth swimming.

Atlantis Boy Morgan Ericson I cannot see what flowers are at my feet, as the tide comes in again; white sea foam and salty air, that clings to me again. Hold me, kick me, drown me still-tie rocks unto my arms and feet, and drag me down below the waves and sidewalks with their pounding feet. As white-wash water fills my ears, black water fills my mouth-the chorus of people above me mill, but do not hear me shout. As I settle on the ground with broken shells at my feet, the fine sand settles in my shoes sent up by my kicking feet. Donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t worry, donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t fret, just let me be, Gaze down at the statue boy, kept immortal by the sea.

Cold - MRMVN 59

Hospital Michaela Muckell I almost forgot your face, staring at you. You blurred like a rock in the lakeâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;chilled, slippery, farâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;drifting somewhere outside my gaze, my lashes a net to catch you, hold you, here.

Cupboard of 1937 Morgan Ericson I’ll keep the love that you had for me in a jar. I’ll keep keep it safe on the top shelf in the cupboard; Where the children cannot reach up And smudge the glass with their sticky fingers. I will not take the jar Stained with years of collected dust, Down from its shelf at all throughout that day— For fear that eyes between the blinds will judge me. I will wait until my children are tucked into bed, With stuffed animals clasped in their tiny hands. I will wait until my husband heads to our room, Where he keeps everyone awake with his snoring. I will then go to the cupboard in the kitchen, And I will step up on the stool to reach into the back, Behind the spinach and canned radishes, To where I have kept you hidden all of these years. I will smooth my trembling fingers over the lid and sides, brushing away all the dust that has gathered over the years; I will hold you up and press you to my chest, And I will mourn a love forgotten and left behind to rot. When my children ask me if I’ve ever loved another man I will look into their innocent eyes and I will lie; I will say no even as your face flashes in my head And my heart constricts at the thought of your name.

Graffiti Sometimes, in the dead of the night, I find myself thinking about your last words: “I’ll come back to you” and I wonder if Asking you to stay would have changed anything. As the echo of that fateful gunshot Ripples through the house — Jarring the cabinets and jostling the mason jars, I sit in my chair, in the dark, and I try not to think. I don’t even know if you could recognize me now, The years spent apart have changed me so much; My skin is no longer my own; wrinkles and graying hair Have taken away the innocent girl you once knew. I wonder sometimes if you had made it back home Would we have stayed the same people we were Before you left, even with so much time spent apart; Or would the demons in your head have made it too hard to love again. Sometimes when I’m sitting alone in the kitchen I think that I hear your voice — your laugh, But then I hear the echo of the gunshot And you’re taken away from me all over again. But even after all the years I’ve spent without you, I still carry your memory, lodged in the bottom of the jar. This dog tag necklace you once wore Is the only thing that I have left of you— kept tucked away in a jar on the top shelf in the cupboard.

Collectible Hair Allison Stacy Malaluan Salon-sealed hair on bare, biological baldness. Prim-straight roots extending. Wavy, thick as uncut grass mass. Buzz-cut style beat down in rhythmic anthem. Androgynous hair arched back to rough elegance Lean-framed â&#x20AC;&#x201C; too cropped to fit in.

Nostalgia Lauren Lodato Nostalgia lurks behind me, like the rooster did when I was ten, right before it dug its talons into my shoulders. Wings weaved with memories beating on both sides of my face. My ears, battered by feathers, start to ring with the sounds of conversations I canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t shake. No matter how fast I run, the rooster stays on my back enjoying the rush of the wind flowing through his steady feathers and reveling in the panic radiating off my skin. His wings do enough damage to let him keep his beak free. Free, so I can hear him clucking all of my regrets, with a bottomless supply of oxygen.

Return Sasha Pavlova Experiences pass me by. There is no & “now.” I’m wandering amidst The supernova Remnants of my past. I’m questioning If anything was Ever real. So I’ve returned – And I am breathing dust, Dark matter in The place of my Creation. In desperation, I’m browsing emptiness That scared me until Realization cast That I’m myself a ghost Of my imagination.

Off the Road Morgan Ericson The morning air had a bite to it as we climbed into the car but it was nothing as bad as the impact; as he reached down and the wheel turned the wrong way sending the tires grinding against the gravel, searching blindly for stability. The tree, once so far away, so off in the distance, is now so close as it reaches out for us right before we hit it. He screams for me through the white smoke that fills the compartment, I can’t see as I reach over and open the door, With numb and shaky hands. It all happened so fast. Stumbling, crying, I’m out the door. Grass up to my waist as I stumble blind up the embankment and onto the pavement. The sound of us coughing fills the air, trying to dislodge the powder from our lungs, clinging to our insides. Suddenly I’m on the ground, crouched like a shameful child; my hands are on my knees, and my head on my hands, as I sit and wait, so innocent and helpless. When I get up I go over to his side, where he drapes an arm over my shoulder resting his weight on me and we stay together, steady.

Teardrop Waterfall - Gil Seda 67

Scarring You Waad Hassan You purged alphabets to cover holes in my sky. I tried to mold over the In-explicit generosity. But Your smile on anotherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s lips is not enchanting. You tried hard, I wanted less. Just, My gravestone on your bones. Bare and mine.

The Taught Cindy Virello Brother, You may lay your head on the white pillow As you dream in black Tasting the bittersweet Merlot That has stained your pale lips purple While you dream of a comforting symphony That slowly drains your fragile body Of its color. Brother, With eyes like melted gold Trying to teach yourself a foreign language That does not exist So that you can hear the beauty Through the thickening air As you walk into the night Listening to the music Speak.

The XL Wish List Shannon Gaffney Any prom dress I want. Any. Give me white, give me yellow, give me cut-outs on the side, Adorn the sharp outline of my ribs. I want knees that touch my ears, Feet that touch my head, Legs that speak in strappy heels. I want to know what it’s like to jump, To be a work of art, a complete, marble woman. I want to be liftable, huggable, fuckable. Give me breasts who rise to the occasion, Who defy gravity without a harness, Who never seek aid from buckles and wires that draw blood. Give me breasts that listen, that coo, that entice, that laugh, that bounce only when told. That are huge but humble, Swelling, But confined. I’m enslaved to the beige, to the gray. Hide them, put them away. I’m a walking contradiction, a failing feminist. I disgust myself with my own thoughts. Give me cringe-worthy catcalls, Says the devil on my shoulder. Have trouble looking in my eyes, Send me terrible pick-up lines, that make me roll my eyes.

Graffiti Tell me that my existence, gave you a nasty thought today, because I am Woman, and you are Man, and this is what landlords of perfect, symmetrical female anatomy, must endure. When you say your breasts are small, I cling to mine, My only salvation, My feeble grasp for sexuality, for womanhood, for the pleasure of lips somewhere, Because feeling them on my stomach, Makes my gag reflex quiver: And that’s no good for sex, I’m afraid. My affliction is not with my soul, It is with the vessel that carries it. I want to rip it off, claw it out of me, like wisdom teeth, A crutch my starving ancestors needed to survive, But is a complete disservice now. Crooked and rotting, always lurking near the pearly white gems, The values of my character. Fat girls don’t fall in love, but here I am. (Sorry). Fat girls are funny, they’re loud, they’re brassy. A very bright purse, for their skinny companion. They’re surprised when they’re loved. Thank you for the favor, The service in your honor, will be held tomorrow morning. Without you, the charity of fucking a fat girl would never be donated to. I don’t want to just burn fat, That would be too civil.

I want to see every moment of it, Of flames on my stomach,

The XL Wish List My arms, my neck, I want to meld myself into the truth, Into the box, into the role. I want to know what it’s like to live without resentment, To love without envying, To make love, without wishing I was a woman of fantasy. To breathe heavily without feeling selfish. I don’t want my sisters to say no to love, To hide and shrug, To never wear gold. I want them to eat breakfast, To dance, without feeling like a monkey under observation. When I stand on my wedding day, I will wear white, and I won’t wear sleeves.

Color Me Amused Allison Stacy Malaluan I. When I die, donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t sprinkle me with white lilies or scarlet poppies â&#x20AC;&#x201C; flowers as much dead as alive. Rather, bring me a poem. A haiku about dreaming deathless winter blues silencing again. A tanka about the irregularity of breath when we sigh on a cold window and see blue temporary pining. An Epic about (Dory) finding Waldo, Waldo (finding Dory), Waldo finding Waldo. A free verse on existence or just existing, the swift, microscopic lives of red-white fruit flies metallically buzzing for an extension, deathlessly pining for a destination. The style of a cinquain

Graffiti about Cancer â&#x20AC;&#x201C; (not that one) â&#x20AC;&#x201C; the one with signs that posit one wise. An ode to running water in showers that cleanse from the inside-out. To tap water in tall glasses that come in free refills (ice included). Kudos to clear water fused with colored, fruity goodness huddled under the mingling of changeable, shady umbrellas shielding us from us. II. When I die, donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t cover me in a (breathless) white dress worn once. Rather, knit me a kimono. Dye it: green as the world I have seeded my wisdom, yellow as the world primed for caution, pressed for time, (wait for me in your mind) black as the world I am leaving behind. In (between) time, tell me all the things I will never know.

Why everything is pregnant with meaning whether you like it or not.

Color Me Amused Why some spend their lives searching for meaning. Why some spend their lives searching for the â&#x20AC;&#x153;other half â&#x20AC;? when they are already whole. Why the art of living is the art of dying even if you do not like me saying it like that. Why we cannot equally pepper someone with questions and take their answers with a grain of salt. Why we spend part of our lives yearning to be older, and the other half yearning to be younger â&#x20AC;&#x201C; yearning for something else, something more. III. Before you die, practice the art of saying no to things you do not want to do, questions you do not want to answer. Rather, master the art. Pray even if you are not the praying sort. I do not believe I know which god (if any).

Graffiti Tell me all the ways to get over the dead. Tell me all the ways to get over dying. In your last breath, do you scream, do you whisper? Tell me, what will scatter, what will remain?

Raise My Hand Sasha Pavlova You didn’t call on me today when I was raising my hand. Your eyes glided away, my gaze was dripping on my lap. Remember, we are candles – not lamps – swirling whirlpools of fire. Chemical flaws don’t follow any laws, but gravity. You burn free, and others see your blaze, blind to the timid flickering reflected in your blushing face, as your melting feet take a powerful stance. Fiery wings tend to wear down, the faster, if they’re battling repressive winds. At times, you may feel bleak; you need another taper to ignite your flames. I struggle to collect my thoughts, and raise my hand while your lips enlighten people’s minds. Strands of my soul’s web extend to touch your glaring glance. Remember, we are candles – not lamps. December 2016

Variations Raquel Lesser Variations of constellations cloud certain cues of consent Constant reasons read rich unvalued rulers reaching their barriers Bombard these timeless rules breaking bombs of bogus promises Play petty parts piling pieces crowning stable parchments. These empty endless world contempt and compiled with the inevitable Grasping our consent with vivid depiction of tasteless reality Reaching robbed rich words revealed with riveting perspectives Unvalued an unwanted reflection both poor, rich or a whisk of air Promises are scooped and made to be broken. Deal or no deal momentous moments make makers dream Money makes makers scream Greed and filth creating war Protection is a stable as a ripped cable Protection is robbed straight off from the table We are unable to consider a new understanding Slivering selfless sanity selection Devouring empty shallow perplex obsessions Let go but hold on Be true to what is inside of you Money symbolizes the motivation for this brief obligation of a society.

Tunnel Vision Liam Dalton Bitter sweet on this mission, intuition got me wishing they tell me listen to your conscience and change is the only constant, think of the future not what youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re used to too much potential, do the right thing, donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t focus on all this darkness but the lighting if you got something I guess you can pursue it watch me do this but donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t ever do it after the laughter, and chatter turns into an incision the precision is now tunnel vision

Elastic Heart Waad Hassan I still watch my mother cut the lemons into tiny pieces, place them over the plate delicately, and smile. I watch her find herself in the small crack of a glass cup, so she stuffs it with lemon juice and leaves herself to drown. She curls over the shadows in our living room, stretching her disappearing belly wide enough to save me the residue of darkness. She picks up her shattering bones at the effort and smiles. I wonder if she thinks I don’t hear the sound of footsteps as she carries them, awake at night - if she thinks I do not smell the fragments of left over tears in the water I drink. And then Winter comes home to find my mother with awaiting embrace. He wraps his thunderstorms around her neck and she lingers in the cold. Maybe there she finds more warmth than in the timid memories of her bedroom. At moments, I want to rip her mask away to show her I see what she is not anymore, but then she sits absent-minded with her shrinking wrists and smiles at me like I am the bright tomorrow. I wonder if she even wants tomorrow to arrive. I still watch her smoke sorrow and then kick the bud like it would make things better. Then I watch her stumble over the ashes and clean them in defeat, knowing it will never be. It’s like she rolls herself in paper, hoping to hide life away, then chokes on the paper cuts and watches hope fade away. She never lets herself mingle with her thoughts long enough to realize how empty the cup she’s drinking from is. She’s standing in the rain, but she is forever dry.

Graffiti I wonder if she feels as though she is dead inside. I ask her questions and she avoids the certain truth implied. She flutters her eyelashes, dropping little drizzles of self-awareness all over her shaking hands and answers me with chained bits of sentences. I chew back my remarks. Chew back my worry. Chew back my tears. And swallow. And smile. I still watch my mother cut the lemons into tiny pieces, place them over the plate delicately, and smile. I wonder where she learned to smile. I still watch my mother. She taught me to smile.

A Poem to Prove You Snore Michaela Muckell You snore like a great honest tuba heaving and breathing, a small thunder in the harbor of this room. You fill this place ‘til I’m wrapped in the music of you, listening, knowing when you’ll turn over, change your tune with the movement. You snore and I hear your groggy feet in the morning, your razor on the sink, the whistle of the too early train. I hear your laugh when you tell stories in the office, the tick of frustration in the drum of the day, your quiet sigh if the train is late, the wrinkle of your shirt when I meet you at the door. This house is empty until you fill it. You told me I snore, too. I think what a magical symphony we must be to the quiet of the house. One chorus in two people, a different song each night.

Untitled - Kelsey Gaulin 83

In Spring Waad Hassan When I was young I watched my father bury a name under the oak tree where my mother laced her wedding ring with thorns. Now four boys are playing with each otherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s unclaimed shadows treading with splintered feet over the cold dirt. Their marbled bodies glisten in the sun as though they had visited the lake behind the house. When I walk out, the silhouette of their youth fills my hollow chest with the stench of mud where my mother tread once. I wonder why the lake never parted when she left. Why my father never plead guilty to the children, or the mud, or the lake.

The Gremlin Lauren Lodato It started by scratching at the nape of your neck. It wanted to get to your attention. It wanted to get to your spine. You felt it drag its nails down your back, but I couldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t see it. Instead when I looked, I found cut out t-shirt tags on the floor leaving hacked up shirts on hangers. When it worked its way to your throat, I watched your fingers prying at the collar of your clothes: something unwanted was burrowing and biting at your vocal cords. It stole words out of your sentences, but Dad couldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t see it either, so he just bought you v-neck tops. Next, it ate your hair. We saw it then, wrapping your frail and yellowing curls around its claws, slurping each strand like spaghetti. And we saw it when it grabbed, in each hand, the bags under your eyes and hung there gleefully. We watched the puffy skin slowly stretch down to the tip of your nose. I convince myself, it is being benevolent despite the pain. It is molding you into a gargoyle. Sculpting you into strong stone to scare away things that are far worse than a gremlin.

Breaking Alexis Garcia Lisa points to the boxes in the corner There’s a yo-yo, superman action figures The easy bake oven she swore in middle school Would upstart her culinary career The Barbie she planned to give her daughter With the speech of how not every girl gets a Ken, and that’s okay I help Joe put the rest of the boxes out front He wears a look of turmoil like no other No one could have played victim any better Corona clenched tightly, like the feel of a newborn’s first grasp He knocks over the hot wheels, the bibs, the pacifiers In his mind, its name was Chad He would’ve been groomed well enough to deny a woman’s obvious Signs of infidelity In Lisa’s mind, its name was Tracy She would’ve been taught that yes would always be implied And the ways of keeping a secret life, a secret For a while, at least Joe’s back in the house Sighing over the crib, the only thing that proved He was in fact good with his hands. He had put in the determination of a man trying to fix A broken marriage. Only to become That man 2 weeks later. The neighbors are swarming One’s asking why Joe’s getting rid of a perfectly good crib He mutters that it’s because he and Lisa got rid of a perfectly good son or daughter, we’ll never really know.

A Human Nature Walk Shannon Gaffney And then the roar of the airplane ate the birds, the cars rampaged as madmen do, and I remembered that the sunlight was borne of a clock turned backward on a human whim. I saw a man in a white apron and hat, his back stuck to a stoic stone wall, inhaling smoke, his break, I suppose. I shivered for his lungs, and for the birds, whose voices, previously ingested by machinery, kept trying to sing.

Alzheimerâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Lauren Lodato My father is a walking widow who shares the sheets on his bed with a wraith of a woman. She steals all the blankets, wrapped in their warmth, while he shivers on his side, sleeping assured that the next day will come sometimes hoping that it will not.

It Cindy Virello She lie alone in the dark Latching onto every breath Trying to scream silently To the Quiet Who lingers so innocently Like winter snow Iced on the pavement Glazing the dull sidewalks With astonishing technicolor Setting her wine glass Of water On the marble table beside her Tilting her head At the dead White roses On the mantle Of the mahogany fireplace Trying to forget the taste Of vinegar That she was being served Tablespoon by tablespoon Every night Before she went to bed Until the fog Grazed her cheeks Waking her slowly Coaxing her toward a narrow walk way A freshwater lake A red door and A cobblestone fence That traces the cemetery

Graffiti Perfectly As white wolves howl At the mosaic moon Their cries harmonizing With the whispers Of the wind Like the pipes of an organ In a Catholic Church Echoing off of the stained glass windows Sounding alarms Colored in Black and white Forcing her to hear the Language of The Monsters Hiding in her closet While she lie Paralyzed by the air Chained to the dark At the fault of the night

Cancer Stick Sasha Pavlova I feel her excitement as my own, bleak eyes smile at me with desire “It’s not good for me,” she moans as she inhales my mortal fire. I stroke her lungs, kiss her brain hard, pledging her a flash of high. Hiding from the wind, I long my burn to linger far longer than she’d planned, But as she takes her last hit, Her cold and heavy feet approach the dreadful garbage can, she rubs my face on its wet surface smothering, to toss me out with cold bare hands, replace my smolder with damp air “Last one,” she murmurs quietly, “I swear.”

Symphony with Maria C-Yara Haddad 92

Grammy Shannon May She’s old and she’s frail, But that’s just how she is. She’s a mother to three And a grandma to five. She’s starting to fail, She will surely be missed. We need to go see Her while she’s alive. She’s cold and she’s pale, In the kingdom that’s His. She’s freer than free, Freer than when she was alive.

Backseat Lauren Lodato Mom flicks her fifth cig butt out the window while she drives as if nothing that leaves her mouth is ever worth keeping

I HOLD Shanice Peters

Winner of the Robert Oâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;Clair Prize for Poetry

You To feel connected Under covers In a bed On a street corner In a parked car By the water On a beach In a shower In Brooklyn By Sunset Park Under a tree In a plane Under a night sky In a meadow Still keeping you close While our hearts Sync as one

Melody Shanice Peters One look, a word, a constant rhythm in the mind. It’s like a kind of sunshine bringing color into soul and mind. I see you in the world, buried everywhere I go. I see you in the tress, the sky and every time I close by eyes. There is one thing I can’t deny— The way your lips part with mine.

Pieces Shanice Peters We sway, turn, let go of our stress in between these four walls. In between the sheets that tie us together. Turning off the lights, you embrace me in your arms. We devour one another in a frenzy. We can’t get enough of this. The door closes. We keep ourselves attached to the place where desire runs through every nerve. We break just for a moment and you say “This is our place now.” Our breath was shaky. I believed you and we carried on. The room shakes. The mirror drops and it silences us. The lights turn on. We break and I begin to pick up the pieces.

ESSAYS & ABSTRACTS

A Yellow Cottage For Three Sisters Nicholas Pashoian

Winner of the Dan Masterson Prize for Screenwriting

A Yellow Cottage for Three Sisters tells the story of Marie Grace whose life is in shambles after the recent death of her mother and being trapped in an unhappy marriage. To escape from her misery, Marie travels with her son to their family cottage in Canada. There she meets up with her sisters Victoria and Katherine in hopes of saving their summer home from being sold. Reunited together, memories of their mother and childhood reveal hidden secrets theyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve kept from each other all this time.

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Using Beauty as Preservation from Decay in Visconti’s Death in Venice Danaleigh Reilly

Winner of the William K. Everson Prize for Writing on Film When analyzing the filmography of a given director, one may notice there are many similarities in visual style, common thematic elements, and even reoccurring cast and crew members. When considering Italian filmmaker Luchino Visconti, one can argue his films have an aesthetic. His films are certainly a spectacle, from the beauty found in his early black and white films to his use of vivid color in his later work. He offers his audiences traditionally handsome men to look at and stunning shots of the natural landscape of Italy, as well as the glamorous villas used in his Risorgimento films, to awe at. Visconti’s creation of visual spectacle works with his greater theme of beauty, often threaded into many of his films. Visconti also highlights the inevitable decay that comes once one ages in many of his films, especially his later works. In Death in Venice (1971), Visconti creates a relationship between themes of beauty and decay in a way that allows the protagonist, Gustav von Aschenbach, to use beauty as a method of preservation, or a mental distraction, from the unfortunate fate of decay and death. When analyzing a film from an auteurist approach, one should also consider the biographical history of a filmmaker because points from their biography tend to find their way into their films. Visconti identified as a homosexual, and one can certainly provide a queer analysis of several of Visconti’s films. He also was a man of the Opera and appreciated art of many mediums. When looking at Death in Venice, one will recognize Visconti’s homosexuality and Visconti’s appreciation of the arts, especially music. Both of these aspects of Visconti’s biography emphasize the idea of

beauty as a means of distraction from death and decay.

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Nurse of Novelists: Rearing Neurotics Into Artists Melissa Rodgers

Winner of the Sister Margaret Williams Prize for Literary Criticism

In an interview with George Plimpton of The Paris Review in 1958, Ernest Hemingway was asked the following question: “What about the influences of [your contemporaries] on your work? What was Gertrude Stein’s contribution, if any? Or Ezra Pound’s? Or Max Perkins’s?” Regarding Maxwell Perkins, Hemingway’s longterm editor at Charles Scribner’s Sons Publishing, Hemingway responded, “...I cared so much for Max Perkins that I have never been able to accept that he is dead. He never asked me to change anything I wrote except to remove certain words which were not then publishable. Blanks were left, and anyone who knew the words would know what they were. For me, he was not an editor. He was a wise friend and a wonderful companion. I liked the way he wore his hat and the strange way his lips moved” (7). Over the course of their 21-year long relationship, Perkins sent over 700 letters to Hemingway, Hemingway sent over 500 letters to Perkins, and the two men only spent 50-60 days together (Fenstermaker, John; 31). This relationship lasted longer than any of Hemingway’s romantic relationships did. It is clear that Hemingway loved Perkins as a friend above all else, but is it clear that that friendship was Perkins’s biggest contribution to Hemingway’s career, as Hemingway suggests? Given that Perkins marketed Hemingway’s books, vouched for him at Scribner’s Publishing House, and offered endless encouragement and support, I find that Hemingway underestimated the various professional roles and activities Perkins

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Graffiti fulfilled for him. In this paper, I will argue that while Ernest Hemingway recalled Maxwell Perkins primarily as a friend, it appears that Perkins regarded Hemingway primarily as a client, contributing to Hemingwayâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s career in several categories, including: editing, negotiating, and encouragement. While Perkins entertained Hemingway on a personal level and served as a confidant, his main concern always remained with the work at hand.

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THE CONTRIBUTORS Liam Dalton is a freshman from Queens New York, with a passion for poetry, and songwriter, as he is a hip-hop artist that loves nothing more than his craft. Morgan Ericson is a sophomore and a double major in English with a concentration in Creative Writing and English Literature. She is the marketing board member for the Daughters for Life Club and a mentor. Her favorite book (so far) is the Night Circus by Erin Morgenstern. Shannon Gaffney is a junior, studying for a BFA in musical theatre and a BA in creative writing. In the fall, she won Second Prize for Best Short Story by an Upperclassmen in the Tales of Supernatural Contest. She is thrilled to be published in Graffiti for a third time. Alexis Garcia is wrapping up her senior year at Manhattanville. Writing has always been her ultimate passion. She plans to one day be as rich as she would be if she had a dollar for every time someone asked what sheâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d be doing after graduation. Lia Garcia is 19 years old. She was born and raised in the Dominican Republic. She is currently majoring in Secondary Education and Studio Art. Raquel Lesser Raquel Lesser is a junior at Manhattanville College. She is majoring in digital media and minoring in creative writing. She has two self-published books, A Heart Full of Whiskey and If I Could Fly Musings on Life. Raquel usually likes writing poetry or fiction. She is editor-in-chief of Uloop News. Lauren Lodato is a Manhattanville senior graduating with a degree in Early Childhood Education and English Creative Writing. She spends a lot of time hunting for bargain books (to expand her already apartment-engulfing collection), figuring out the best ways to bring creativity to the lessons she teaches (who wants to dance while we do a little math?), and trying to help the world be a little more loving towards all.

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THE CONTRIBUTORS Allison Stacey Malaluan likes to piece together words, get drunk on tea, and occasionally secondhand smoke. As a Psychology & Creative Writing Major, she digs indie rock, therapeutic dog walks, conversations about existence, and learning as she goes. Laughter, water, listening, and nature are the cures to virtually everything; a career that incorporates all is her future plan. Katherine Matuszek is a sophomore and the co-editor of Graffiti. I her spare time, she enjoys reading, reading, and film photography. She is always on the hunt for good bookstores and coffee. Shannon May is in her third year at Manhattanville. She has always enjoyed creating stories and putting them in writing. In recent years, she has branched out into poetry, in an attempt to express herself. Her inspiration for her latest piece Grammy came from the death of her grandmother in January 2017. MRMVN is a digital artist and musician from Spain. He has been hugely influenced by videogames, Japanese art and the digital era; his visual art focuses on digital collage, glitch art and lofi art methods. Michaela Muckell is a senior graduating with majors in English and Education and a minor in Studio Art. In her spare time, she enjoys reading, writing, drawing, cooking-- namely anything creative. She hopes to teach middle school English after she finishes her Masterâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Degree in 2018. Nicholas Pashoian is an English major with a concentration in Creative and Professional Writing and minoring in Theatre. Currently in his senior year of college, he hopes to pursue a career in screenwriting in the foreseeable future. Sasha Pavolova Some of the things Sasha enjoys doing include listening to music, playing piano, reading, spending time with her friends, doing things that frighten her, and being outdoors. In her poetry Sasha writes about her biggest passions - her love for women, social justice, and deliberations about

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THE CONTRIBUTORS the meaning and nature of existence. She plans to become the first female austronaut from Turkmenistan to go into space. Shanice Peters is a senior at Manhattanville majoring in Creative Writing and minoring in Marketing and Communications. Sheâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s the Editor-in-Chief of Her Campus Manhattanville, VP of Student Affairs for SGA and involved in many other on campus activities. She enjoys writing fiction, but also has a strong passion for fashion and beauty journalism. Danaleigh Reilly is a senior and self-proclaimed film geek from the Bronx, NY. She has a penchant for black and white horror films, which she often marathons with her dog, Sonny. Rebecca Ribeiro is a sophomore and is currently majoring in Creative Writing and Art History. She is passionate about astronomy, philosophy, and existentialism. Gil Seda is a Communication Studies major with a minor in Sports Studies. He has a strong passion for photography whether heâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s behind a DSLR or his iPhone. Samantha Thuesen is a sophomore, double majoring in Creative and Professional Writing and Digital Media Production. She strives to make people smile, whether it be through language or visual art, and hopes to find a career in writing for film and television. Cindy Virello is currently a junior studying to be a secondary education teacher with a concentration in Social Studies. She began dabbling in poetry during high school, but had never consistently pursued my interest in form and content until quite recently. Thanks to many good friends and their heeding ears she has managed to push herself to great lengths both creatively and emotionally to pursue something that she loves.

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