Dӕdalus, the ancient Athenian, created the Minotaur's famed labyrinth and invented wings so that he and his son could escape from King Minos. Dӕdalus reminds us that we are all creators and all inventors. Editors-in-Chief Laura Kapp, Megan Meyerson, Laurel Pitts Art Editors Sutton Mock, Rachel Ong, Cate Spaulding Associate Editor Madison Farello Keaton Abbott Ava Aguiar Ashley Aufderheide Elysée Barakett Meena Behringer Kate Boer Sam Cannon Laetitia Cartellieri Whitney Carmichael Natalie Chang Ying-chu Chen Kaia Close Val Cuccolo Carina Daruwala* Sydney Dweck Else Esmond* Scarlet Fishkind
Staff Manasi Garg Kaitlin Ganshaw Mia Garvey Sofia Giannuzzi* Ellie Harris Maya Hurst* Saskia Jakubcin Ellie Johnson Olivia Jonokuchi Sachi Laumas** Sarah Li Sydney Liu Abby Lonnegren Clodagh McEvoyJohnston Cassidy McKee Kathy Mintchev
Katie Nichols Sara Raghavan Clea Ramos* Noor Rekhi* Sanah Rekhi Haylee Ressa Mackenzie Reynolds Tara Salli Evie Scinto Karthika Siva Maddy Sweet Elena Tan* Zoe Tulchinsky Caroline Walsh Kate Wilson Anna Wright Emma Wu* *Junior Editor **Web Editor
Over the last 32 years, Daedalus has earned more than 50 national awards from CSPA and NCTE. We continue to be inspired by the community of writers and artists at Greenwich Academy. Five times a year, Dӕdalus sponsors a Writer-of-the-Month contest. All submissions are sent by email and read anonymously by the entire staff. Throughout the year, the art editors select from 1000s of original pieces. In March, editors narrow the selections and begin production, which continues through April with graphics and layout using InDesign. In May, the editors collaborate with our printer through weekly stages until our final assembly, where we read from the issue, show slides of all art, and celebrate! Faculty Advisor Jeffrey Schwartz
Visual Arts Advisor Sherry Tamalonis
Printer Graphic Management Partners, Port Chester, NY Colophon 800 copies of Dӕdalus have been printed on 80 pound Euro Gloss stock with 120 pound Euro Gloss for the cover. The text is set in Avenir Next, designed by Adrian Frutiger in 1988.
CONTENTS
Cover and Inside Front Cover: Twenty Twenty Section Dividers Inside Back Cover: An Artist’s Mask
WINGS
Real Eyes Realize Real Lies We Never Talked About It The Everlake Chasing Sleep Syn–Aesthetic Whirlpool in Time Portrait of Cyrus Portrait of a Black Lab The Beetles Vines Radiance of Youth The Bee Flies at Midnight Madrid, 1922 Father Loving your Alveoli I Am Alive Seasons Going By There are Crickets Chirping Bialy Bagel Man Nero Ugolino’s Sons from Dante’s Inferno
LABYRINTH
When I Grow Up Shared Anxiety Suitcase Shopping Memory Market Mustard Covered Drawings Holding Hands in Three Parts Wandering Mind Switchblade The Bendy Bag Skateboards Out of the Ashes July, 2007 Courage on the Streets of Caracas Faded Out Wild Tumble All the Words I Left Unsaid Touch Beauty Honey and Lemons
Sutton Mock Rachel Ong Isabel Allard
Charlotte Sorbaro Laura Kapp Megan Meyerson Gracie Solomon Aiyanna Ojukwu Sage Haroche Anna Wright Anna Wright Sachi Laumas Isabel Allard Cate Spaulding Emily Fernandez Laurel Pitts Serena Wecker Sofia Giannuzzi Sutton Mock Nolan Morris Keaton Abbott Isabel Allard Julia Sulkowski Noor Rekhi Rachel Ong
Rachel Ong Cate Spaulding Ying-chu Chen Angela Dai Katie Asness Laura Kapp Kaitlin Ganshaw Kathy Mintchev Sutton Mock Cate Spaulding Lily Sorensen Maya Hurst Sanah Rekhi Alison Sun Sarah Li Jessie Ong Tara Salli Rachel Ong Madison Farello Sydney Liu
10 11 12 14, 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 36, 37
40 41 42 43 44 46 47 48 52 53 54 55 56 59 60 61 62 63 64 65
MORTALS AND IMMORTALS
Train Ride Waiting Trains The Mikhelsons Compassion Disengagement The Passage of Loneliness Joy Whiskey Cake There They Sit Portrait of Roy The Unknown Twas The Night Before Christmas Continuum Rent Eats First Yellow Submarine The World According to the Saleswoman at LuluLemon Broken Mirror Masked City of Angels Dollar Tree Into the Storm Maybe Being Nice is Overrated Damaged Creation
Aiyanna Ojukwu 68 Elena Tan 68, 69 Cécilia Lux 70 Charlotte Sorbaro 71, 74, 77 Emma Wu 78 Cate Spaulding 79 Kaitlyn Ganshaw 80 Sara Raghavan 81 Celeste Batres 82 Sutton Mock 83 Rachel Ong 84 Sammy Doniger 86 Ava Slocum and Ashton Winegardner 86 Madison Singleton 87 Honors Independent Film Production 87 Sophie Threadgill Sutton Mock Charlotte Gillis Sam Cannon Ellie Harris Angela Dai Madison Farello Cate Spaulding
BUT THE AIR AND THE SKY ARE FREE
Floral Garden Apple Seeds Contain Cyanide Dixie Cups and Yellow Gatorade Lepore Day Dreamin’ Minimum Wage The Pearly Gates Two of a Kind Virtually An Excerpt on Growing Up With Indian Parents Observations in the Mos Eisley Cantina Space Duet, Solo Cello Quartet A Minute Passing Moon and Sea The Surrealist’s Seaside Ocean Eyes Atticus On Eternity
Lianna Seeley Noor Rekhi Charlotte Duty Serena Wecker Charlotte Sorbaro Maya Hurst Megan Meyerson Jack Sparks Roma Desai Carina Daruwala Holland Ferguson Sydney Pittignano Sydney Liu Else Esmond Sofia Giannuzzi Lindsay Hasapis Kate Wilson Charlotte Gillis Carlos Flores Laurel Pitts
88 91 92 93 94 95 96 97
100 101 102 103 104 105 106 109 110 111 112 114 116 117 119 118 120 121 122 123
A Letter from the Editors The Greenwich Academy literary and art community is unquestionably special, not only in size (we have about fifty people at an average Friday afternoon meeting), but also in camaraderie, supportiveness, and enthusiasm for the crafts of art and writing. The Daedalus experience has added so much joy and richness to our high school careers, that as we leave GA, the Daedalus community is one of the aspects of the school we will miss most. To collect submissions, Daedalus hosts monthly manuscript meetings at which staff members discuss and vote on Writers-of-the-Month. From the pool of excellent and diverse submissions, the three of us chose forty pieces for the final magazine, including as many authors and styles as possible. As the production process continued, our art editors selected from hundreds of unique pieces in a variety of media, from painting to drawing, photography, ceramics, and digital design, ultimately matching each piece to the writing. Their beautiful artwork and page design create a careful unity from cover to cover. This year, in addition to weekly student-run workshops, guest mystery and opera writers, and the annual Writers Festival, we organized a special literary week that we dubbed “Windows and Words”; we facilitated three school-wide stories written collaboratively, sentence-by-sentence, on the large Upper School glass walls. We also enjoyed two visiting authors, Courtney Maum, a GA alum, and Pulitzer Prize-winner Jennifer Egan. By the end of the week, every member of the GA English department shared a favorite poem or prose excerpt, and student writers read at an open mic Coffee House. It was a memorable week in which we all felt, even more than usual, the literary vibrancy of the community. This year was exceptional in many ways for Daedalus. First, we received the most recorded writing submissions to date, numbering 212 in total. We also revamped the style of the magazine with a new font and artistic vision. Though not part of our revamping plan, COVID-19 struck Connecticut at the very beginning of the production process and Greenwich Academy, like many schools globally, was shut down and shifted to remote learning for the remainder of the academic year. Under typical circumstances, the assembly process involves countless on-campus meetings to discuss revisions with authors, determine the order and style of the magazine, and discuss art selection and placement. We’re especially proud of our magazine this year because we managed to continue production at the highest quality despite the unique challenges that we faced. Zoom became one of our greatest tools and the face-to-face time we spent working on Daedalus, even from our own separate homes, brought us closer together as a team and made us more effective communicators. This process reminded us that closeness and community can be found even through physical distance, and of how lucky the three of us have been to have been shaped by our four years of high school as a part of this incredible Daedalus community. We are now living in a time of uncertainty, and the new normal can make life as we once knew it seem distant. We hope that all of the wonderful writers and artists will take pride in having a tangible object displaying their work, especially in this time when so much of life has been brought online. We hope that you, too, will find solace and human connection in these pages. Thank you to Mr. Schwartz and Mrs. Tamalonis, our faculty advisors, to the Daedalus community, and, of course, to you, for taking the time to read this magazine—it means so much to us. Happy reading! Laura Kapp, Laurel Pitts, and Megan Meyerson
10
We Never Talked About It
Laura Kapp
We never talked about it, but when I talked to you I saw a wooden ladder with one loose step. I saw a bouquet of wildflowers and pinecones tied together with twine. I saw a kitchen table crowded with all the chairs we could find around the house, from the plastic ones on the back porch to the good armchair in the living room to the stool at the easel upstairs. I saw a spiral notebook with graying edges from years of on–and–off use and upside down writing in the corners of the pages. I’ve never sat around that table with you, I’ve never watched you climb that ladder, I’ve never held that bouquet. We never talked about any of it, but when I looked at you, I smelled ink and electricity. I smelled woodsmoke and sawdust from four or five nights ago (but it might have been last night, for all I know). I heard the splash of a rock hitting the lake and your laughter as it skipped one, two, three, four, five times. I felt snow wedged in between my pants and my boots, biting my ankles but slowly melting away and leaving only a damp reminder. I smelled white bread right out of the bag on your fingertips. I felt your jacket on my wrist—I’ve never touched your jacket; I’ve never even touched you. The vibration of the guitar strings as your fingers don’t tangle around them. The heat of the coffee you never handed me. The flickering reflection I didn’t see in your eyes (I think they’re brown) after I didn’t strike a match and hold it up between us just to watch it burn and shrivel up in the darkness. The relief I didn’t feel after you didn’t catch me after I never tripped over that nonexistent tree root. We’ve never had any of these experiences, but I associate every one of them with you. What do you see when you see me?
Charlotte Sorbaro
Real Eyes Realize Real Lies 11
The Everlake
Megan Meyerson
They call me the Songless One. I was born without a First Note on my lips, the only Singer ever so cursed. Without a place to start, I can learn no music and weave no magic. The water of the Everlake is nearly always the same: gently lukewarm, unless the Lake is grieving, when it turns to ice, or angry, when it boils. This has not happened since the Massacre, but my unholy feet were never allowed to touch the sacred waters of the Everlake for fear that it might be offended. I have lived on the mountain for nearly seven years, since the day my sister was born and my parents abandoned all pretense of caring for me. Each night as I fall asleep, I hear the last notes of Songs as the Singers leave the Everlake and magic behind until the next day. I hear the reigning silence of the Lake, the silence that is louder and more piercing than any Song. I am entirely alone: a Singer without a Song, a person without her people, a daughter without her parents. Some mornings are easier than others, and on that most important one, I could only crawl to the cliff’s edge and stare listlessly out, unable to summon the energy to begin the day. Singers were already beginning to wade into the Everlake and celebrate the new day with magic. Songs taught children of respect and kindness, painted fireworks in the sky, and healed all manner of wounds and ailments. And then I saw them. My parents and a little girl I supposed must be my sister. My mother held her left hand and my father her right. She sang a note, soft and gentle; my parents joined her, and together they sang a bird into existence. My sister ran after it through the Everlake, squealing with delight. My parents watched her with adoring eyes, their hands and Songs intertwined. My tears trickled strangely down the cliffside, not absorbing into the soil as they should, and slid into the Lake. As I watched, a school of blood–red fish appeared, clearly visible through the Everlake’s crystal surface. Even after my family left the water, I continued to lie in a kind of agonized trance, unable to convince my body to exert the effort to get food or move out of the sun. 12
Seven more schools of blood–red fish appeared before I surrendered to sleep. The screams woke me before the sun could. I stumbled, still half–asleep, to the cliff’s edge and stared out to the horizon. The Everlake never ripples, never moves, even when the Singers walk through it or the fish move beneath its surface. But the stillness was different today—deeper, more chilling. The Everlake was frozen. Staring out at the death–like landscape, I felt a tug from deep within me, like that when I heard Song that I could not make, and an inexplicable, but unshakable, feeling came over me that the Everlake was grieving with me. I looked down on the Singers gathering in horror at the Lake’s edge. Some tried to sing, but without the Everlake’s water, it was only song: pretty, but lifeless. “A mother is only as happy as her bluest child,” I whispered to myself. The unending sheet of ice whispered to me silently. Perhaps the Everlake had not rejected me. Perhaps I could fix this. The stupor that had slowly smothered me over the past seven years lightened, and a conviction cleared my head in a way I had never felt. I must find out, I thought, what is my curse, really? Are you afraid? The ice seemed to whisper back. Yes. But I am not alone. For the first time since my sister’s birth, I descended the mountain, to do what no Singer would dare to do: enter the Everlake by night. Since the Massacre, when a family feud led to a midnight slaughter of nearly two dozen Singers, and the blood tainted the sacred waters of the Everlake, the island is dark and silent each night. It is a way of remembering that the Everlake is alive and grieves for us, rejoices with us, and punishes us for our transgressions. And yet, tonight, I felt a special permission to enter. A deep breath of the still night air, and then I took my first step into the Lake. As I entered the water, I gasped. The Everlake had always been silent to my ears; now, I felt its invisible symphony thunder through my body. The water embraced my feet and climbed up to my ankles in an unmistakable gesture of affection. The ice melted away in a circle around me, and when I moved, the ice melted to make way for me. 13
When Singers are happy, they sing. I could not, but I threw my hands in the air and leapt and twirled, the power that swirled in the water around my ankles giving me a grace and strength I had never known. The current inside of me leapt up and with relief I felt it escape in my movements. Fish of all colors danced about my ankles, and the wind, usually shy and elusive, roared with joy in my ears. My lips were as silent and Songless as always, but I felt, for the first time in my life, what all Singers live for: magic. I felt, for the first time, the sacred power of the Everlake coursing through my body, one moment tingling, the next electrifying, its gentle fire showing me, as nothing else ever has, what it means to be fully and completely alive. I would have kept dancing in the Lake forever, perhaps, but Dawn’s pink light shone in warning of the coming day. My reluctant feet waded back towards shore, the water of the Everlake somehow thicker, as though it were as loath to see me leave as I. But too late. As I raised my head from the water, my feet still comfortingly submerged, I saw silhouetted against the rising sun a crowd of Singers with expressions of uniform horror. “The Silent One….” “The Cursed….” “The Songless One…” “Why is she not dead by now?” “How dare she touch the water?” “She must have frozen the Lake!” The whispers floated from the crowd like mist, unmistakable but strangely distant. I still felt the Everlake thrumming in my head, protecting me from their words. A figure, shorter in stature than the other outlines, broke off from the group and approached me. As she stepped reverently into the water, I recognized her tread; it was mine, but softened by the lightness of her frame. I knelt and gazed into her face. She had my father’s hair and my mother’s ears, but when she spoke, her voice was entirely her own. “Are you my sister?” I nodded, too afraid to speak, that my voice would be too hideous for her to bear. “Sandi.” She spoke my name like a Song in itself, without fear or sadness, but with grace and kindness, and, perhaps, love. She took my hands, and I felt tears come to my eyes for the second time in as many days. 16
My sister wrapped her small arms around my neck and leaned her head against my shoulder. I hugged her back and let the tears fall to the water. A school of sunrise–pink fish circled us like a halo. “Can you heal the Everlake?” She murmured in my ear. I felt the Everlake pulse its answer and my sister release me as she heard it, too. I turned my back to the Singers and breathed in the melody of the water encircling my ankles. I had hardly any say in the explosion of movement that took hold of my limbs as I spun magic for the first time. The Everlake my orchestra, I painted its vision through the air with my body, the unperformed Dance of seventeen years rejoicing in release. At the Everlake’s cue, I lay down and for the first time in my life, I felt a mother’s embrace.
Gracie Solomon
Chasing Sleep
17
Syn–Aesthetic One is dark tar, like the sticky spots of blackened goo baked into tough creases and sandy wrinkles of sidewalk tans, their gummy skeletons dripping, gripping my shoe bottom, causing me to stumble stubbornly, stupidly stubbing my feet on the pavement, and the gunk desperate to catch a ride into town or something because no matter how much I try to scrape it off, it refuses to pry away from my sole. Two is a lemon bar, melting, no drooping, balanced between my thumb and index finger, like the mix I get from the warm aisle that smells like bread except that Rachel’s mom bakes them the best, she adds zest, or maybe she doesn't, but I sit on her porch anyway, teeth sinking into the pillowy sour while I time how long it will be until the sun scorches my nose and the graham cracker crumbs fall, no plummet from my mouth and onto my yellow printed dress. 18
Aiyanna Ojukwu
Three is a forest of waxy evergreens swaying gently as I grab a tuft of glowing grass, ripping its roots, splitting the ends of its long tangled mess, staining my white sleeves with dusty crumbles of soil, invading colonies of trickling, tickling ants who insist on crawling along the rubber bases of my torn–up sneakers which have been soaked all the way up to my ankles with murky algae, water still sloshing and squishing from when I stepped in that rocky creek what seems like forever ago. Sage Haroche
Whirlpool in Time
Anna Wright 20
Portrait of Cyrus
Anna Wright
Portrait of a Black Lab 21
The Beetles (NOT the Beatles)
Sachi Laumas
Before there were the Beatles, there were the Beetles. Before Lennon, McCartney, Ringo, and George could walk, the Beetles would suit up and jump on stage, playing sold–out concerts all year round and releasing much–awaited annual albums that included classics, such as “Here Comes the Bug,” “Hey Dew(de),” and “Let it Be(etle).” Their shells glistening in the lights of show business, they were the talk of the producing industry. Painting their signature gold initials onto the backs of their rounded thoraxes before each show, they branded themselves into a household name. Their songs echoed through high school hallways and nursing homes, in cribs and dance clubs. Then, in 1957, everything changed. Four inexperienced musicians decided to join together and form a band. Their name: a rip–off. They decided changing one vowel was original enough, and because they were human and not beetle, they quickly overshadowed the legacy the Beetles created. John Beetle sighed and sank into the sofa. He imagined waves lapping against hot sand as he lounged back to relax his six legs and turn on the radio. Immediately greeted by the sound of “Here Comes the Sun,” he felt frustration build inside him. With the rise of the Beatles, the Beetles’ manager told them the recording studio couldn’t represent two bands with the same name. They would have to pick. Seven years later, John was relegated to his childhood home, filled only with long–lost memories of Mama Beetle and Papa Beetle. Now, John spends all of his days in a similar fashion, keeping his abdomen glued to the musty couch and his eyes fixated on the TV. He awaits the day his name will flash across the screen. That day hasn’t come yet. The hammering of drums reached the soundproofed basement walls only to bounce back into Ringo Beetle’s ears. He continued beating on the drums, producing the familiar sounds of the Beetles’ tunes once again. He thought of the long days spent in court, the millions wasted on high–class lawyers from Beetle, Beetle, and Beetle. Crawling up the stairs for some leaves, his pinchers gripped the railing tightly. After the fated breakup of the Beetles, he no longer had the heart to continue his music career. What had once been a money–making passion had turned into 22
a vent for his pent–up resentment; the sound of his frustration– laden clanging never made it past the cellar walls. Now, if you google “the Be—”, Google will autofill the bar with the Beatles. No mention of the Beetles or their legacy appears anywhere online. The popularity of their hits is clouded over with the ripped–off names of copied songs with slightly altered titles. In fact, even when spell–checking this article, Google Docs thought that every single mention of the Beetles should have been the Beatles. Our world has forgotten about the bugs that rocked out on our radios for decades. Join me in remembering the Beetles for all their glory.
Isabel Allard Vines
Cate Spaulding 24
Radiance of Youth
The Bee Flies at Midnight
Emily Fernandez
The bee flies at midnight In the sky Feelin high Pastrami on rye Ride like Bill Nye Tesla on the fly Be that science guy My hips don't lie Shakira says comply Shift enter reply Can't find the red wine Dressed up but can't drive Pizza sliced into five Dragon hit the rewind Bing bang bop the South Side Pick a place high and dry All Diet Coke and no Sprite Cupid shuffle cha cha slide Pack of pudding tryin to hide The camels cry The deserts dry They need two ply But none provide And there they lie Under the sky Exchanging memes to pass the time
25
Madrid, 1922
Laurel Pitts
In the mornings I wake up early and go to the bakery, and perhaps the fishmonger or the butcher. Nobody is awake then, except the baker and the birds, because people sleep late here. Sometimes I go into the empty church. As I walk back to my apartment, people begin to wake up, to stand on their balconies and smoke, to sip coffee in cafés, to walk or bicycle to work. Before eating I practice violin for half of an hour, timed. I’m very bad at it because of my hand, but also quiet because of my hand. I figure only my neighbors on either side can hear it, and they do not complain because they’re savvy enough to know my doctor advises it for my health. Usually it is tedious and vaguely painful, but occasionally I can imagine that I might sound like I’m creating actual music. Of course the point isn’t music, but I wish I could feel more like a musician. Besides, my doctor says it has improved my ability to grip, though I think I still sound shaky. After I play, the opera singer next door practices scales for some time. We’ve reached this schedule, as well as others, naturally, to avoid distracting each other with our different rhythms. She sings loudly and well. I do busywork while she sings, but if she moves from scales to certain songs, arias, choruses, I cannot concentrate, and instead sit with my head tipped back and my eyes closed, letting the song into me, impossible to resist. When she is finished I go to the café on the block and drink a coffee and eat something. Often the Opera singer joins me a while later, if she is not doing a matinée, and drinks tea. We talk or read the paper. We have a good relationship; I bring women home and she brings men home occasionally at night, and we accept these facts silently as well as the fact that we are likely in love with each other. I doubt we will ever marry. It’s fine this way. When it’s pleasant out I bring my lunch and work to El Retiro or to the palace or the zoo, to observe the animals. Animal stories are popular now. After the war, the whole business changed. Parents no longer want to see anything that reminds them of it. No more soldiers, knights, or kings. No violence, no tricks, no despair. Keep it light—no allegories or parables or religion. Instead: fairies. Far off lands. Distant times. Simple people with simple emotions. Wealth, sometimes. Mermaids. Nature. Wizards. Animals. Animals over everything. 26
It’s difficult to navigate, but I can write a good story. I work on the stories meticulously now, perfecting them. They are very good, I think, much better than before the war, because I have to compensate for the illustrations. I've gotten rather passable with left–handed writing, but my drawing and painting are still rotten (though improving), and I can’t bear to hire an illustrator who wouldn’t do what I wanted. My doctor says soon enough I’ll be able to hold a pencil or brush with my right hand, but I worry. He always says “soon enough”, but never gives a time frame. I get nervous if I think about it too much. Because I can hold a pencil with my left hand just fine still, but my left handed drawing is a mess; who’s to say my right hand, when I get it back, will be the same as it was before? Who’s to say I’ll ever really get it back? My doctor says not to worry. Just play the violin and do the exercises and think about it later. So I put more words on each page and I mix colors like a surgeon to distract from the not–so–good artwork. I don’t get as much for each book as I did before, but I sell a lot because of the demand and I get by fine. After work I go out for tapas and a drink at a cerveceria two blocks away from my apartment, usually with the attorney on the floor above mine and the journalist in the building next door. The attorney is tender–hearted but dull and the journalist is amusing and harsh; they balance each other. I suppose my role is to be interesting, or intelligent, unless I flatter myself. All three of us have a good enough time together, though I can’t be with just one of them for too long. We drink and sometimes go out to dinner together, but I like to eat early and sleep early, because I am an American after all, so I often cook and dine alone. They are both Spaniards, of course, as are all of the other people in my building, except the opera singer, who is French. I do my hand exercises, I take a short walk, and I go to bed. Frequently my day ends later than that. More often than not, I wake up and have trouble falling back asleep, start getting jittery, thinking about the war or my hand or wondering what I’m doing here. Luckily this is usually around the time the opera singer arrives home. More often she hears me open my window or I hear her pacing and one of us knocks on the other’s door. When she comes to my apartment, I pour us just a bit of sherry, and when she hosts, she makes a fragrant tea, and we calm our nerves together until we are ready to fall back asleep in either bed. Of course, if we have guests it is different, but it has nearly become routine now. 27
Serena Wecker Father
28
People ask me why I live in Madrid and I have no answer for them. I tell them I don’t know and they laugh; they think I’m joking. They also ask why I make children’s books now that I’ve got a wounded hand. I don’t have an answer for that question either. I suppose things just ended up this way. Before the war this is what I did, so I do it now. When I was younger I wanted to be a poet and an artist, and I was obsessed with France, pretending to be one of those existentialists, walking along the Seine with a cigarette and a prostitute, disillusioned, yet somehow also living what I saw as the perfect life. The war placed me in Spain, and I never left. I’ve always made children’s books, so I’ve never stopped. I end up in a Cerveceria with two men I have nothing in common with, and I let the current of life take me. It takes me to El Retiro, to the violin, to the café, to the room of a French opera singer, and I let it. But at the end of the day, sipping fragrant tea in the nighttime next to a French opera singer, looking at her in the gas light, feeling her fluffy cat rubbing against my legs, growing tired, I can imagine I am an artist and a poet, I am a Frenchman in Paris. In the morning, I am doubtlessly an American in Madrid again, but it’s all right. I am sometimes a bit disappointed, then, but never truly sad, which means I must be happy enough.
29
Loving Your Alveoli
Sofia Giannuzzi
I find that humans, in general, forget to love their alveoli. This may be due to a lack of education if you, unlike me, do not have the entire contents of mandatory freshman biology class seared into your memory. In short, alveoli are these tiny sac–like structures in your lungs that allow you to exchange carbon dioxide in your bloodstream for oxygen. They are remarkably handy in, well, breathing and surviving, if you’re into that. Alveoli play a small part in the big, complex blood bag each person lives in, where more goes on then I could ever understand. So, I feel a need to applaud alveoli. And not because I’m a biology whiz planning to spend the rest of my life studying the human body and respiratory system—if anything, years of health class have convinced me I know too much about the human body, and I would be quite happy knowing a bit less. The reason I love alveoli is because they are a small part of something much bigger—namely, myself—that I can actually understand. I am a teenage girl, and to be completely honest, there are very few things I truly comprehend. I know how to listen and be quiet, and, when it really comes down to it, I think that’s as accomplished as anyone gets at sixteen. But the big things, the things I read about and the realities of life that I am beginning to stumble into (either purposefully or entirely against my will), I admit, I have no idea how to handle. You can’t give me something, like the human body, and expect me to understand it in a day. You have to live it, breathe it (pardon the pun), and spend years actually being human to know an infinitesimal amount about a body. And that’s just one body, not the other eight billion roaming around outside you. I can’t understand who I am—again, I’m a sixteen–year–old girl. Half the time I can’t even decide whether I’m thirsty or hungry, and it takes me half a box of Cheerios to realize I actually just need a glass of water. So, in the face of everything I don’t know, I can focus on my alveoli. When I inhale, I take in oxygen through the mouth and down the trachea, leading to my lungs, down the bronchus, and eventually, the bronchioles. There, my trusty alveoli kick in to absorb those oxygen particles, while sending off some carbon dioxide. 30
This is routine information that may belong on the PowerPoint of a middle school science teacher, but nonetheless, this is perhaps the most helpful thing I have ever learned. Because a lot of times I don’t understand what I want or may even need to. But when those times come, I can focus on what I do know—my alveoli, working to keep me alive in that very second. When you’re thinking about the oxygen through the trachea, lungs, bronchus, bronchioles, and finally to the alveoli, life seems simpler. I don’t think in terms of the big picture, because I find that’s often overwhelming and a waste of time. Reading a novel for the first time, you don’t always pick up on every symbol and life–altering concept the author makes. But that’s okay, because perhaps the author didn’t intend for you to. Instead, take one line of the book, take the alveoli. I find that understanding the alveoli can always give you more. Sutton Mock
I Am Alive
31
There Are Crickets Chirping
Keaton Abbott
There are crickets chirping, And for a second, You can trick your mind into thinking it is June. But it’s mid–October, And there is a cricket chirping, Mocking, Reminding you of what is gone. But now the weather is getting colder. You are back to your old routines, And soon the ground will be frozen, The branches heavy with snow, And your mind will be too weighed down with dates And chemical formulas, To appreciate it. Every day is so similar to the last That you have déjà vu just waking up in the morning. And now when you finally finish your homework, you can go to bed. The clock strikes one, And the crickets start chirping.
Nolan Morris
Seasons Going By 33
Bagel Man
Julia Sulkowski
It had been too many weeks to ask his name, but she preferred it that way. In her head, she always referred to him as the bagel man, as predictable as his location in the middle of the row of tarp stalls hosting vendors eagerly smiling as they tried to push upon her their overly colorful displays promising organic, grass–fed, farm–raised, no GMO products. But not the bagel man. His bagels sat in old Tupperware containers, a foggy white scratched with the sharp blade he used to slice the bagels in half, a secret for the customers that knew about the cream cheese he kept beneath the table. He didn’t know her name either, but he always gave her a knowing smile when she came his way. His teeth transformed his face in a way that a younger version of herself would have pronounced as Santa Claus. In some ways, though, his stand was magic; that brief exchange transforming her week each Saturday. She would save the extra dollars that she peeled from the bottom of the cavernous tip jar and place them in her sock drawer until Saturday morning. She wasn’t used to the homemade touch that made the imperfections of the bread so necessary. These twisted pieces of dough were paid for with the tips of tourists, a concept she hadn’t considered before she met him and his “artisan” bagels. She hadn’t ever met an artist like him before. And he trusted her. After a month of reliable transactions, he began to hand the wooden tongs to her. She would pick her own bagels with loving contemplation and place them gently into the slightly damp brown paper bag he would hand her as she made her decisions: two plain, three everything, and two pumpernickel. Enough to last until next week. It would make her excited to wake up in the morning. To pop the bagel into her old toaster and use her dull butter knives to spread on the cream cheese. But as the summer ended, she prepared for her goodbye to the bagel man. To thank him for the attention he gave her that she so desperately wanted. For the trust and momentary exchange. That last weekend, she felt butterflies in her stomach as she brushed her teeth and picked out her outfit for the humid, sticky weather. As she approached the booth with a smile, she paused. Another woman stood in his spot, holding out a mushy spotted tomato. Isabel Allard Bialy 35
Nero
Noor Rekhi
Crazed fiddler on the roof, Why do you shout in glee? Come down, act, and move; Your people mourn in misery. Where is that grand old empire? The one they spoke of in history. Now Rome has fallen to the fire— Its fate, a fractured mystery. Poison flows through the Tiber; It makes its way to stain the sea, Cursed at its very fibre; Ashes become of the olive tree.
Rachel Ong 36
Ugolino’s Sons from Dante’s Inferno
When I Grow Up
Rachel Ong
In my mind adolescence meant lacing fingers with strangers feeling the electricity of a room thronged with people or making sure that no swath of land or vast ocean could equal my love for living I did not know that instead life sped up and slowed down when I didn’t want it to that excitement is best measured in small doses and that oftentimes there are only wastelands uprooting you until you’re left with bones and the skin of your teeth Growing up I learned the difference between home and country infatuation and a handshake sacrifice and abandonment No one tells you that being at the cusp of adulthood means feeling like an afterthought finding a way to cradle the most jagged edges and breathing when it burns It took time to dismantle the barricade to unearth and dissect my fears to feel my heart swell again after years of memorizing its steady hum to know death without ever seeing it I learned how to drink in my life without swallowing too fast to become emptied again and again until I am reminded that a new day can be born from yesterday’s last breaths
Cate Spaulding
Shared Anxiety 41
Suitcase Shopping
Ying-chu Chen
“How much for this suitcase?” “700 yuan,” the store owner responds, not even looking up at my mom. I finger through the handbags crammed into the shelves, overfilling the tiny store. My sister and I shuffle our way through the aisles—a generous term for the tiny space between the bags. I hear my mother sigh and continue to speak in Cantonese, her tone sharper now. “No, 600,” she bargains. “It’s just a kid’s suitcase.” The store owner frowns. “It’s very good quality and sturdy—I’m not lowering the price...fine. Maybe 650.” I’ve glossed over all the bags by now, twice. My interest has turned to boredom, and now, impatience. Yawning, I turn to my sister. “Do you really want that suitcase?” I say, naturally in English. Before my sister’s response, my mom and the store owner turn around at the same time. The store owner’s face is still expressionless, but my mother frowns. Walking briskly to me, she whispers,“Don’t speak English here—they’ll know you’re American!” Confused, I step back, as my mother goes back to the owner. Why was she so angry? I just asked my sister a question.. A few moments later, my mother comes back to me.“If you speak English, they won’t let you bargain or lower the price. They put unreasonable costs for these things and claim the quality and all,” she explains, sighing. “But if they know you’re a foreigner, they’ll raise the price even higher—” “Why, Mom—” “It’s the culture; you need to speak Chinese,” she says dismissively, her mind already wandering to her endless to—do list she has whenever we visit China. “Zhī dào le.” I nod and start to wonder. At home, I eat Chinese food, speak Chinese languages, celebrate Chinese holidays... but here in China, I am a foreigner? I follow my mom to the store owner and begin speaking my rusty Chinese. “I like that suitcase better with the compartment on the side….” My limited vocabulary creates an awkward silence. “Uh...I think my sister will like the plain–colored ones, the patterned is too busy.” I continue to blabber on, trying to hide the mistake I Angela Dai 42
Memory Market
made minutes ago. My mom gives me a curt nod of her approval. Finally, my mother is satisfied with the price of the suitcase, and my sister joyously grabs it, clambering down the store steps. I follow my family out the door and onto the wide and gloomy streets. Little mopeds whiz by as fast as the cars, making splashes as the puddles on the sidewalk grow. I walk a few steps behind my family, contemplating what just happened. My mother senses my discomfort and slows down. “Look, people can tell you are American just by looking at you...and your sister,” she says, searching for my eyes. “But how? I don’t understand.” I finally look from the puddles and frown back at her, my mood matching the sky’s. “Because of the way you walk, the way you smile and act. Greeting people. It’s all slightly different from the culture here... you know, who you are...and obviously, when you speak English like that... people act completely different when they realize you’re not from here.” She pauses. “So was I acting Chinese enough?” I raise my eyebrows. She laughs, shaking her head at me. “It’s not like that, you know.”
43
Mustard–Covered Drawings
Katie Asness
It’s a rainy day, but it’s one of those cozy rainy days where most people like to snuggle up with a book, like on TV. Not one of those rainy days where people get all sad and mad at everything and each other. Molly’s ready for the first kind of rainy day when she walks into the kitchen. First, she looks at the window and the droplets painting over the glass. Then, she heads towards her mother and father sitting in the corner silently. They’d been fighting. Molly could hear them from the bathroom. All of them know how tiny the apartment is, so Molly’s parents couldn’t have cared about their daughter listening on the toilet seat, trying not to join in with the shouting. Molly’s drawings from Ms. Green’s second–grade class are hung all around her, flooding the beige walls with color, but they are hung low, as if she’s the only one who should be looking at them. Her father sips at his coffee cup. Molly is sure he couldn’t have been the one to hang her pictures so low. “Hey, Mols,” he says, not looking up from the plate of eggs Mom made him. “Hi,” Molly replies. What could the fighting have been about? Usually they try harder to hide it. “Want some food?” Molly’s mother says. “Yeah.” “Cereal?” “Sure.” Molly sits down next to her father. “Hmmm.” Molly’s mother groans. “We’re out of milk.” “I can go get some,” her father says. Molly’s mom turns sharply. “You’ve done enough.” Her voice is melodic, yet taunting. It reminds her of the voice of Billy, the boy down the street, who makes her cry every once in a while when he “flirts” too hard. At least that’s what Mom calls it. “I told you not to bring this up in front of her,” Molly’s father replies. “It seems to have become a family affair now, Bill,” her mother spits out his name like it's been stuck in her teeth. “Sweetie” Molly’s mother looks down at her, the corners of her mouth wrinkling in a contorted smile. “Have you seen someone other than Mommy around here lately?” 44
“Don’t ask her that! She has no part in this, Christine. This is between you and me,” her father says. Molly remembers the black–haired woman who hung out with her father last week in her parents’ bedroom. He said they were working on some stuff for their job and put Loony Toons on for Molly in the living room. It almost drowned out the noises coming from under the door. She doesn’t dare mention this to her mother, though, as Molly knows she’s bound to get upset. Even Molly knows that whatever went on in there was supposed to be done with Mom, and definitely not with the black–haired girl from the office. “Well you know what…” Molly’s mother purses her lips together and her father clamps his hands over Molly’s ears. “Fuh kew!” her mother screams, sounding almost like something Jenny B. got yelled at for saying in kindergarten. Her mom throws her sandwich that she’d been eating on the floor and the mustard splatters, but only on the lower half of the walls. Onto her drawings. “I’m done,” Molly’s father mutters. No emotion in his voice at all. Not like when he was welcoming his friend from work into their home through the side door last week. Molly’s mother gets up and walks to the cabinet in the corner with the special drinks and pours herself a glass of the brown, strong–smelling liquid Molly’s been banned from tasting. “Done with what?” Molly’s mother asks. Her father doesn’t answer and gets up and heads into the bedroom. Her mother follows close behind. They don’t shut the door like usual, though. After a few minutes of Molly staring at an open door, her father reappears with a suitcase, and his wife following closer to him than before, not saying anything, just trailing behind him. “Fine. Just go. You’ll be back soon, begging me to take you back,” Molly’s mother says. “Bye, Daddy.” Molly sighs, knowing this could happen just as it has many times before. He turns and looks at Molly from the doorway. Then he winks his usual little wink that releases a single tear. A tear? The door slams and Molly watches her mother pound her fists against the window, screaming no—no words at her father as he walks down the street towards Billy’s house. He’ll be back, Molly thinks. He always comes back. 45
Holding Hands in Three Parts
Laura Kapp
I. The Human Knot We first held hands About 10 minutes After we met. And we held hands for About 10 minutes, About 10 minutes After we met. The haze of tangled arms and legs And choir of unfamiliar voices Obscured him to only a presence That filtered through the chaos But I could feel this stranger’s fingers, barely gripping Onto mine And if I peered beneath Marco’s arm gripping Jessi’s And above Amy’s leg stepping over Santiago’s wrist I could almost See his face. And if I focused And closed my eyes And pretended there was no one else Just him and the musty Philadelphia heat Rising to the top of the atrium I could, just barely, detect his heartbeat. II. On the Subway Tracks In October we held hands For about 10 minutes About 10 minutes After we met on the subway tracks By the 7 train. Fingers laced, not hooked A squeeze as the rush of the tunnel Cracked our eye contact With a hot sting. 46
But then my phone rang And there was a certain melancholy In letting go. Even though I took it again just a moment later. III. Across the Sound Today we held hands across the Long Island Sound. It wasn’t warm, and it wasn’t tight But the 6–mile expanse between our shores Didn’t make it Any less real. Today we held hands again And there was contentedness in knowing That as I stared across the greyness of the water My hand gripping only the rail He gazed straight back at me. Kaitlyn Ganshaw
Wandering Mind
Switchblade
Kathy Mintchev
Alice Sweeney was six years old the first time she committed murder. In the years that followed, the details of the event crept along her brain and firmly embedded themselves there, their lethal tendrils lengthening to sink wicked claws into the darkest, safest corners of a child’s mind. Anytime those claws drove even deeper, tightening the network of contagion, the pressure forced her mundane anxieties to fall away. It replaced Alice’s thoughts with a vast, maddening sort of emptiness that rendered her inert. In times like these, familiar images crept into her mind—the coarse, mahogany coat of her childhood dog; the bitter scent of smoke coming from the house; the switchblade’s soft click as she flicked her wrist to unsheathe it; the damp, cherry–colored wetness that stained the dog’s fur moments after she slit its throat. She’d carried the wretched creature from the grass clearing behind her family’s manor to the wooden shed in the corner of the property. Though her thin arms quivered under the weight, she rounded the back of the shed and gently laid the animal down. Using a fluorescent, plastic shovel from her sandbox, Alice dug a shallow grave in the soil and rolled the dog inside. After sealing the wretched cleft in the earth, she sat on her heels for hours until night fell and her lips turned blue in the October chill. Later, Alice nearly convinced herself that she’d cried throughout the incident, but she knew this was not the case. In all of those hours crouched in front of that makeshift necropolis, the claws in her mind had not allowed her to shed even a drop. ~ Considering all that Alice underwent prior to and following that fateful day in 1976, it is evident that neither she nor her family had the slightest ounce of luck in their blood. The manor in which the Sweeney’s lived on the outskirts of Western Pennsylvania petrified everyone but Alice. Its sloping roof and domineering turrets were fixed with haphazardly placed windows of all different builds and sizes; those in the turrets were a weathered stained glass that Alice’s great–grandfather had installed himself when he constructed the home. To Alice, the desolate limestone structure was delightfully solemn, and the mahogany–lined hallways zipping through it provided an ideal setting for Alice and Clarke’s antics—Clarke, who Alice regarded 48
as merely a sister, but who, in the end, was really her twin in all the ways that mattered. “Mama, Mama, can’t Clarke get her own room? She’s tired of sleeping in the shed!” Five–year–old Alice posed this question to her mother, Patty Sweeney, in the car one day after school. Patty glanced quickly at Alice’s father, Kane, who sat in the seat beside her, and exchanged an amused smile with him. “That’s up to Clarke, Hun. Maybe you should ask her.” Doing so had never dawned on Alice, for it was usually Clarke who came and went, and who whispered in Alice’s ear or occasionally demanded something from her. “Clarke, wanna have a sleepover? You can sleep on one of those squishy blow–up beds. It’ll be fun.” As if on command, Clarke materialized in the leather seat beside Alice. Two pairs of eyes, both the same shade of light–grey, stared at each other. “I quite like the shed.” She leaned forward and grabbed a cigarette from Patty’s open case in the cupholder. “Clarke likes the shed.” “Well, that’s where she’ll stay then. Maybe get her a pillow and blanket from now on so she’s nice and warm through the night.” Clarke pulled a lighter out from her khaki shorts—Alice’s khaki shorts—and set the stick ablaze. The young girl, merely five years old, inhaled deeply then disappeared from the seat without exhaling. In the moments following, the cigarette container appeared untouched and the air revealed nothing of moments past. Patty drove wordlessly for the rest of the ride, only once taking her hand off the wheel to grab a cigarette—Clarke’s—and light it. She took several drags before flicking it out the window. ~ When Alice was ten years old, she cracked her skull open on the concrete floor in the manor’s basement. Clarke played a murderer chasing Alice, her frantic victim, down a system of dimly–lit hallways on the left side of the house (she’d memorized these, unlike Alice, who usually steered clear of this wing). Alice scurried all the way down one hall and yanked open the metal door which led into the basement. Alice hesitated for a moment and whipped her head around, but Clarke’s game wasn’t over yet. She whipped her arm out and sent Alice tumbling down the steep, unforgiving steps. In the weeks that followed, Patty hoped that Norman Loughty—a wise old shaman whom she’d contacted after finding Alice unconscious in the basement—could save her daughter. 49
Even after Alice recovered from her immediate wounds, her mental decline alarmed Patty and Kane (for weeks, she called out for that imaginary girl, Clarke, enough times that they contacted Norman for help). Norman toiled over Alice Sweeney for weeks, pushing against the spirit he sensed within her until it writhed and recoiled inside her, where it had wrapped itself around her heart. But, for all of his efforts, Norman Loughty could not save the little girl from the apparition that ravaged her inside and out. After three weeks, Norman walked out of the manor without offering Patty and Kane comfort or collecting any payment. ~ Kane truly loathed his daughter. Her rather strange imaginary friend had always made him uneasy, and he’d always wondered if he was to blame for the way she turned out, but something in him finally threatened to snap. He harbored resentment for everything about Alice—how she hurled stones at birds from the back veranda; how she’d carelessly let loose each animal Patty gifted her; how she’d never made a friend at school; how she drove him livid whenever she stole his switchblade (because she always found his hiding spot for it and he never found hers). Patty always blamed all of Alice’s terrible attributes on their unfortunate luck, but Kane suspected there was something more. ~ Any luck the Sweeneys enjoyed ran dry when Alice turned eighteen. It began with Kane’s mysterious disappearance in mid– August. For the rest of the month, Patty desperately organized fruitless town–wide searches for her husband. Alice had matured into a callous young woman who declined to attend the majority of these searches. Alice had never developed a bond with her father and in fact, harbored resentment toward him for his insulting and misplaced comments about Clarke. And yet, Alice found that she was now plagued by nightmares in his absence. In slumber, her mind often forced her to recount the first time she committed murder through a series of vivid flashes: a single drop of blood sliding down a blade of grass; a pair of pale hands plunging into the rich earth; her reflection in the yellow shovel she’d used. As the dreams became increasingly vivid, Alice found herself developing a bloodlust she had not felt in years. A familiar set of claws sunk into the core of Alice’s being, and she thought of nothing but Clarke, whose voice followed her down hallways and 50
whose smile burned behind her eyes when she closed them. One night, driven by Clarke’s voice in her ear, Alice trembled from a need to use her father’s switchblade. As Alice slid out of bed and rummaged through her dresser for it, a new sound filled her brain a melodic thumping from the only other beating heart in the manor: her mother’s. An awful pressure developed in her head and squeezed tighter than ever before. It only subsided when Alice crept soundlessly into Patty’s bedroom and slit her mother’s vulnerable throat. Patty’s eyes flew open as blood beaded at the wound. Alice sighed, and the claws receded from her consciousness as Patty’s heart slowed. Alice carried the body, wrapped in white sheets, behind the shed where she’d buried her childhood dog all those years ago. She grabbed a shovel and began to dig and dig in the darkness until she hit a soft mass. Horrified, Alice knelt down and sunk her hands into the ground, only to pull something ghastly out of the ground: it was a human carcass. She released it and jumped out of the grave in utter horror, but as it fell back into the earth, Alice noticed a slender gash around its neck. The wound was identical to the one Alice had inflicted on Patty, and on her dog long ago. As Alice considered everything before her, a new vision entered her mind: She was kneeling in the soil, but this time Alice turned her head and Clarke was beside her, shoveling dirt onto Kane’s dead body. Alice screamed. It couldn’t be possible—she remembered nothing. But then, Clarke appeared, sitting on the edge of the grave with the cold smile that was identical to Alice’s. “How could you forget?” Clarke asked, and disappeared. And then it was just Alice, kneeling over the family she’d destroyed with her father’s switchblade. She tipped her head to the sky and wailed as, finally, her own luck ran out too.
51
Sutton Mock The Bendy Bag
52
Cate Spaulding Skateboards
July, 2007
Maya Hurst
It is the summer of 2007 and I am nearly six years old. My mother is young and pregnant, her hair still a silky jet black and her eyes aglow. She is content. My father works in a glossy new building downtown. We surprise him during his lunch breaks, showing up with skinned knees and faded cut–offs a stark contrast to his starched suit and tie. We are new to Life in the Wealthy, White Suburbs. My brother and I take swimming lessons in our new pool, chlorine–filled eyes tearing as reflections of sunlight bounce off the water. We bicker meaninglessly loving each other, loving summer, in love with life and the way the sun sets so that the last rays are barely visible over the treetops if we climb to the roof of our play house. Despite getting out of the water hours ago, I wear my now–dry purple bikini, brand new and embellished with small pink flowers. Our mother is obsessed with her garden in the corner of our backyard, and each day at dusk we dirty the soles of our feet by stepping through the mud to snatch the misshapen, green–hued tomatoes and spiky cucumbers. In my mind, this life will never end.
Lily Sorensen
Out of the Ashes 55
Courage on the Streets of Caracas
Sanah Rekhi
“Esto no es una vida. ¿Por qué tenemos que luchar tanto?” My mother murmurs this under her breath quietly as she sweeps the dusty floors of our bakery. I gently close the door, forgetting that we have placed bells on it. They ring loudly and she looks over, startled. “Mija, why are you here? You should be with your father collecting the food.” My heart spirals down into my stomach as I will the tears in my eyes to go away. I must be strong. I must be strong. She watches me anxiously. “Daniela, what happened?” “We don’t have enough money to pay for the groceries; the prices of everything are too high. Papa is going right now to see if Abuela can lend us some money.” My mother drops the broom, and it clatters on the floor, blowing the dust particles everywhere. I know what she is thinking. This is not possible; the prices of food could not have risen higher. She, too, is trying to be strong in front of me. She doesn’t know all the late nights I have heard her and Papa talking about the bakery and if we will have enough money as the prices of even the most basic necessities get higher and higher. She takes a deep breath. “I will go see Abuela as well. Stay here and lock the doors when I leave.” Without making eye contact, she gives me a swift hug and rushes out the door, but I can still see the tears glistening in her eyes. Grabbing a pencil from the back of the shop and a piece of paper from the notebook which Mama used to write the bakery orders, I sit down at one of the tables and start to draw. I am trying to replicate the photo that is stored away carefully in one of the shelves in the back room; it is a picture of my family and me smiling. A couple of hours later, I hear a knock on the door. Peering out of the window, I see Mama and Papa outside the bakery with a big white bag. As I open the door, I notice that the bag is filled a quarter of the way with food; Abuela must have lent them some money. My father greets me with a kiss on the head and a pat on the back. Although he cannot say it in front of Mama, his eyes thank me for telling her about the inflated prices of food today. Although he knows that I want to protect her, the truth is like the sun; it may not always be visible, but it can never be hidden. 56
The air that night is quiet and filled with tension. Ever since the government ceased delivering flour to us, our bakery has not been able to function and we have been running dangerously low on supplies. The silence is interrupted by a knock on the door. It is our neighbor, who has come to tell us about a protest that is happening near our neighborhood. She pleads with my parents to come with her, saying that Venezuela needs to be changed and Nicolás Maduro must leave office. Looking at each other hesitantly, my parents quietly talk amongst themselves and end up agreeing to come to the protest. I look at them questioningly, my lips on the verge of asking whether they will let me come with them. Before the words even leave my mouth, Papa says that I can accompany them to the protest if I would like. Within minutes, we have left home and are traveling by foot in the worn–out streets of Caracas. The smallest of sounds makes my heart jump. It is not safe here anymore, especially at night. Sensing my worry, my father places a reassuring hand on my back. Sounds from the protest echo in the air as we draw closer. The shouting is almost deafening, but I listen to every word of it attentively. ¡Libra Venezuela! Free Venezuela! ¡Sólo apoyamos Juan Guaidó! We only support Juan Guaidó! We join in, our voices syncing in harmony with hundreds of people who are fighting for change. Although the protest carries on late into the night, Papa insists that we leave before it gets dark. As we walk back, I ask Papa what will become of our business. He has a solemn expression on his face and says, “I don’t know, mija. Unless we get the supplies soon, Mama and I may have to find other work.” The look of pain on his face is unbearable. Although I know that our situation is better than most people living in Venezuela, circumstances change; we, too, may soon be facing more hardship than we have ever faced before. One month later, our bakery closes and we move in with Abuela. Food and space are scarce, but we are grateful to have a roof over our heads and at least one meal a day. Mama and Papa still have not found new jobs, and they spend their days on the streets looking for work. Lines of worry have replaced the youth in their faces. I spend my days keeping Abuela company. She is getting older now and sicker every day. There is no medicine to help her—only our prayers. 57
There is another protest that night, but I volunteer to stay home with Abuela. In her old age and with her deteriorating memory, she drank water from the tap, forgetting that it is not safe to do so. For the next couple of days, she was extremely sick, and even though she tells me to go to the protest, I could never leave her alone. She needs someone to stay with her now more than ever. As Mama and Papa leave the house that night, I feel a pit of worry start to creep up in my stomach. Worry is is not unfamiliar, but this time it feels different. As I say goodbye to them, the feeling of anguish only increases. Abuela goes to sleep early that night and I sit with my math papers in the other room. I don’t attend school anymore; many of the teachers have left and even the parents have stopped volunteering to teach our classes. In my spare time, I review the few papers I have kept. Mama and Papa always told me that an education is the most important gift one can ever receive. I am getting older and my chances of going back to school are diminishing, so I savor every minute that I get to learn. Finding a pencil stub lying on the table, I scratch out some answers to old math problems to pass the time. And as the hours go by, I slowly start to drift off into a deep sleep. The sound of the house door being frantically thrown open is jarring and startles me awake. I leap away from the door, afraid that someone has broken in, but it is only Mama standing outside. She stands alone on the dark street, hunched over and shaking, as tears violently stream down her face. She begins to speak but her voice chokes up and she collapses. I rush to her side and put an arm around her, wiping the tears away from her face. In a voice that is barely audible, she whispers, “Mija...Papa got arrested.” My insides twist, as if wrapped up in an abundance of fear and disbelief. Violently shaking my head, every last part of me denies that this ever could have happened. “Mama,” I gasp. “How can this be possible?” I am not able to utter another word before hysterical sobs leave my mouth and turn to echoes in the room. All I want is for Papa to be back at home, putting an arm around me, and telling me that we are going to be all right. Mama shakes her head pitifully. Her eyes do not meet mine when she says, “The protest turned violent and many people, including your father, got arrested.” Taking a deep breath to steady herself, she croaks out, “I am so sorry, Mija. I’m sure we 58
will find a way to get him home soon....” But even as she says this, hopelessness drowns out her voice, as though even she, too, does not believe that Papa will be coming home any time soon. My thoughts are spinning too fast for me to think and Mama’s voice has drifted too far away for me to hear what she is saying now. Mama’s arms close around me, as if to shield me from what happened, but the only thing that I know now is that Papa is gone and I don’t know when I will see him again. I must be strong. I must be strong.
Alison Sun
Faded Out
59
Tumble
Jessie Ong
The fall has caught up to me—the fall that outlives my earliest friends, that chased the corners of my eyes in the basement and lingered in the talking–tos that smothered my elbows, my lips, my back in invisible rashes of shame, the dark grooves worn into my palms—finally reaching its engulfing crescendo in a hall not built for my orchestra. Ripping me from my kingdom hidden high in the shapeless clouds, from my cities built from stolen bricks and seized cement. Robbing me of breath while coming to collect its dues, reminding me of the dire interest rate that I owe for how I’ve lived, leaving me not to wonder how the scale will judge me against a feather but rather the severity of my sentence. The wind that once hunted me alongside the sick, addicting pull of gravity has now sewn cushions beneath my legs. It holds my shoulders in its pillowed arms and runs its fingers through my hair. It chooses to hold me tightly, for only one blink before I am alone. I am left with nothing but to gaze at the clouds I fell from, to stay curled in the nook that the wind has constructed for me. There will be no reckoning, no more lectures and rashes. No justice or punishment. My deeds will forever hold onto me, mine to carry and keep as the wind finally unfurls from me, placing my feet among the tall grass. It gifts me one last kiss, a gust of goodbye, and sends me on my way with my actions held tightly in my hands. My story is incomplete until the wind holds me once again and I am woven into the soil that I trod on.
Sarah Li Wild 61
All the Words I Left Unsaid
Tara Salli
We stood on the porch, the stench of wet paint stinging in our nostrils. It was six o'clock in the evening, and the sun had begun to set on our last day together. It cast a brilliant yellow–brown light on Hannah’s beaming face. She wrapped her arms around me and squeezed tightly. The strength of that girl never failed to astonish me. Her mom called to her from the black BMW parked at the end of the narrow driveway: “Hannah, let’s go already!” I sensed impatience in her tone. Hannah glanced at her mom, and then back at me. “See you in a week!” She winked at me. “Have fun in America! You have to tell me everything when you get back! Oh, and don’t forget to buy me one of those cheesy I heart NY shirts!” In a week, I thought. “In a week.” Her mom now started up the engine. Hannah rolled her eyes. ”Coming!” she yelled, then whispered: “If I come back with jean trousers, a straw hat, and a pet cow named Daisy, please hit me.” I laughed. Hannah always dreaded going to her grandparent’s farm during the summer. It was something about the stench of the pig pen and the poor internet connection that made her nauseosus at the very idea. Her mom honked twice and with that, Hannah smiled, said goodbye and spun around, her oversized sleepover bag hanging at her knees. I smiled. She always overpacked; you'd think she was smuggling a whole zoo into your house, only to realize she’d packed 15 t–shirts for one night. “Just in case” was always her justification upon my questioning. Whatever scenarios went through her head that resulted in packing 15 t–shirts, I did not know, nor did I exactly want to. I watched as she walked off the porch and down the driveway, vanishing into the brilliantly glimmering sunset. It looked like a scene taken straight from the ending of an old Wild West movie. The car drove off and only then did it hit me, what I had done, or to be more accurate, what I hadn’t done. I’d known since the beginning of summer. Nine weeks had gone by. Nine weeks and I kept my mouth shut. There had been plenty of opportunities for me to tell her, plenty. But no, the words never came out, they remained tightly sealed behind my lips. Sometimes I wondered Rachel Ong Touch 62
whether the words ever wanted to come out at all. I liked to tell myself that I was protecting her by not telling her, that I wanted the last days of our summer together to end with the memory of her slightly crooked smile and high–pitched laugh, instead of her painful glances and distraught expressions. But I knew better than to believe myself. The packed suitcase, containing the entirety of my life knew, the one–way flight ticket stuck between my passport knew, and even the bare fridge and emptied pantry knew, but my best friend did not. A thick, heavy curtain of denial separated me from the bitter truth, a curtain that would inevitably have to fall down, or be ripped down by time. I wasn't protecting Hannah; I was protecting myself, I knew that. I was living in a dream, built entirely off a foundation of false hope and denial. Often at night I’d think about Hannah’s obliviousness, her reaction if I told her, and found myself thinking: Would it be better to know everything, or nothing at all? The rest of the week following our goodbye seemed to move the way an old fashioned movie would: silent, confusing, and black and white. Before I knew it, I was on a plane, waving goodbye to the country I’d called home for fourteen years, not knowing when I’d see the all–too–familiar blue and white flag of Finland fluttering in the wind again. 12 hours, 2 flights and some serious back pain later; I now stood in a bare room all the way across the Atlantic Ocean. I sat on the hard bed, the only piece of furniture in the oddly shaped room. I looked up from the book I was reading, I glanced at my phone as the screen lit up: 2:00 a.m. She’d be waking up soon. Now the only question remaining was, when would I?
Beauty
Madison Farello
Just outside an almost abandoned mining town, Butte, Montana, are dozens of houses for corn farming acres apart from each other. One of these houses is built of nearly decaying wood, small, but enough for a little boy and parents shrunken by hard work. The porch that almost collapsed last year is the most important part of the house. This is where a pair of kitten heels from a thrift store sit on a rocking chair with women who travel for acres to taste cobbler, sip lemonade, and talk about the same people over and over. The father uses the porch to sit and teach his son how he’ll drink cheap beer while looking at the sky. The staircase is just as important. It’s a portal that glistens like the gates of heaven when every two years the father attempts to preserve the wood with thin lacquer. And then there are the guardians of the house that connect the stairs to the porch, soldiers who strain to prevent the staircase from drifting away from the porch, who connect the bridge between home and the less–liked but necessary outside. The line of nails was hastily put in by the wife’s father who was not by any means a builder. The parents do not notice them, but the little boy has far too much time on his hands not to be curious. One day, he noticed the nail second from the left that only had a small point left in the essential binding wood.
64
He looked long and hard at it. It had orange splattered across it, just a few shades darker than the soda his mother forbade him from drinking. Its small bumps were like grains of sand, which were something he had imagined at length, so he felt like enough of an authority to declare the similarity. It was welcoming, too, standing up in the only way it knew how to greet old ladies who wanted to talk about each other and little boys who came from acres away to play with his plastic trucks. He thought of how diligent the nail was: all it could see was a pair of kitten heels and two pairs of boots (one large and one small), which must not have had any benefit, yet it stayed in the staircase and porch for as long as it could, giving all of its effort to bridging what would otherwise be a gaping hole between the path home and home itself. The little boy had never thought of something so brave, so committed to its purpose for reasons he could not fathom. He had never seen something so tantalizing; he had to touch it. But it shot pain into his small index finger. So much so that he cried at the betrayal until he was in a white doctor’s office and was shot again, this time with a thin needle from a man in a large white jacket. A slow car ride back home. Then he was again on the staircase awaiting the relief that the almost rotten wood on the porch would give him. He looked down again at the unifier, still standing in a crooked welcome, and he smiled; all was forgiven. Sydney Liu
Honey and Lemons
65
train ride my head rests drowsily on the icy window teeming with racing tails of traveling water. a man fixes his keyboard with a questionable swiss–army knife he found in his jean pocket as the car rocks and jolts and the knife slips from his firm grip so the Y key tumbles to the dusty depths of the seat in front of him. the giggles of teenage girls nearly sober and on their way home from an annual weekend trip to the city bother a short lady trying to read who clutches her book, leans in the girls’ direction, then hisses that this is the quiet car and it's now time to hush up, please. the remains of a garlicky Grand Central deep dish on the laps of 68
Aiyanna Ojukwu
two boys in college gear who’d split it twenty minutes earlier but are now knocked out, leaning on each other, while the greased–up box stains their sweatshirts. on the red and ivory cushions of the metro–north, my eyelids weigh down fluttering, uttering I don’t wanna resign. the train jolts and rocks and soon the conductor is announcing the last stop so I slip on my backpack and rise up with the rest of the car.
Elena Tan
Waiting Trains 69
The Mikhelsons
Cécilia Lux
It would be said of the Mikhelsons, of Primorsky Row, Moscow, that they are quite the family. If urged to elaborate, one would purse their lips and smile thinly, an impressive family. If pressed even further, which would not be advisable, one would revert back to their original observation, quite the family. From here the conversation would end, the unsaid hanging between the two parties, the questioner and the questioned, like a thief from the gallows.
The Mikhelson’s Nanny’s Tale (as told by the Nanny to you)
I began working for the Mikhelsons in the fall of last year, when having an English nanny became particularly on trend—like bejeweled dresses for society ladies or e–cigarettes amongst teenagers. I knew almost nothing of the family when I entered their limestone townhouse eleven months ago and I know almost nothing now, officially. Unofficially, I know a great deal. I, Alice Marie Taylor, am nanny to the Mikhelsons’ eldest son exclusively. Viktor is fourteen years old, and short for his age, with a large, round face and neck that disappears into the raised collar of his dress shirts. He is of strong physique, the type capable of enduring Moscow’s harsh winters, but looks out of place relaxing by the pool, as if this type of soft comfort is foreign to him. He has a purposeful walk, made of hard steps that leave indents in the plush rugs and he does not swing his arms—a sure sign of a boy resigned to an unhappy life. The Mikhelson’s youngest son Alexander, with whom I am not very well acquainted, is eight years old and a very handsome young man. So often is this assertion made, that on the rare occasion of a new acquaintance failing to acknowledge his looks, Alexander takes to pouting for the rest of the day and cannot be coaxed into doing much of anything. Alexander, never Alex or Xander, is of pale complexion, possesses long eyelashes and has a halo of blond curls which are always parted flat across his head, as if a crown had been resting there and was only just removed. He is both the darling of society ladies and the bane of his father's existence. Unlike his brother, 70
Charlotte Sorbaro Compassion 71
who I’ve been told never cried, even as a baby, Alexander has the sensitivity of an unweaned piglet—a characteristic despised by his father who, like many men in this town, consider there to be only two worthy emotions: anger and pride. It was on the heels of one of Alexander’s outbursts that, in an effort to prevent his father’s wrath, Viktor told his brother the most heartbreaking tale I’ve ever heard. We, the children and nannies, were all waiting in the upstairs playroom as a lavish party went on downstairs. It was the celebration of their parents’ twentieth wedding anniversary and the social elite of Moscow had congregated in the Mikhelsons’ townhouse. Champagne flowed like water and Tchaikovsky concertos rang throughout the house. Meanwhile, Alexander, dressed in a tailored suit of blue velvet, was sobbing into the Turkish carpet. Natalie from school had broken his heart and he had been inconsolable for the past twenty minutes. The head butler would soon return to escort the children downstairs so they could make the rounds of the important guests, and I was debating whether to try (for the third time) to console the child, when Viktor decided he had had enough. He went over to his brother and kicked him hard and fast in the back. Alexander let out the beginning of what would have surely been a glass–shattering scream when, Viktor, always the quick thinker, shoved a pillow into his face, quelling the sound. As Alexander struggled, his brother hissed into his ear, “Stop crying. And really stop crying over a girl. Now, if you’d shut up, I’ll tell you a story. One Papa told me.” Alexander’s muffled screams ceased immediately and he went limp. Viktor retracted the pillow and stood staring down at his brother who was spread eagled on the carpet, unmoving. Alexander looked back up at his brother, eyes wide and mouth slightly agape—not daring to speak, lest his brother decide to revert back to his usual mode of speaking only to criticize. Satisfied with the return to silence, Viktor sank into the sofa and began to recount his father’s story.
72
Viktor’s Father’s Tale (as told to Viktor)
I was twenty–nine, and had been of marrying age for quite some time. From an impressive family, and possessing a small fortune, I was the most eligible bachelor in Moscow. And yet, no woman I met was right. Too dumb, too smart. Too fat, too skinny. Too blonde, not blonde enough. They all bored me. One September night, nearly twenty–one years ago, the whole of Moscow society was celebrating the return of a Russian diplomat. It was a grand celebration and I had been sent by my mother with one job: to return home with a wife. It was my greatest sorrow to disappoint my mother (as yours should be, Boy), and so I was determined to return home engaged. Mere minutes after entering the party, I laid eyes on a woman as fair as I was dark. She had thick, shining blonde hair, and heavily lidded eyes. Her clear, cold voice rang across the room, enthralling anyone who crossed her path. We spent that night talking of nothing; the renovations being made to the capitol, the impending winter, our shared disillusionment with the work of Pushkin. She was smart, but not smarter than I. Of an agreeable body and a natural blonde. For the first time in my life, I wasn’t bored. Just as I was about to ask her to dinner, I was reminded of the story my chauffeur had told me on the ride over. I resolved to recount my chauffeur's tale and depending on her reaction, I would either offer my thanks for a pleasant evening and leave, never speaking with her again, or I would ask for her hand in marriage on the spot.
Viktor’s Father’s Chauffeur's Tale (as told to Viktor’s Father)
Sir, I believe I owe you an apology. Heartbreak is to blame for my recent absences. You see, I have recently become a widower. I lost my wife, a mere month ago: August 26th. My identity, you see, was very much her and me. She was my partner in everything. The way I see it, there’s one layer of devastation which is losing your wife, but then you have to imagine your identity without half of you. The library books say you get smarter, learn to live without, learn to do for yourself. You know, every night she used to ask me, “What time do you 73
Charlotte Sorbaro Compassion 74
need to get up?” and she’d set the morning alarms. I had to learn how to do that, like my grandson learning to walk. I don’t know how to order at a restaurant. I can’t see the damn menu. I’m afraid to ask what some else is ordering, so I wait and listen carefully to what everyone else is ordering, “Tim what’d you like?” “No”, I wave them away. “You go first, what are you eating?” “That sounds good, I’ll have that, too.” I depended on her for so much. Something you’re not even aware of until it’s gone. You go two minutes without realizing... you wake up, turn off the alarm, go into the bathroom and bam it hits you. Like a ton of bricks. She ain’t here. Oh Mel, I’m so sorry Mel. They say the last enemy that shall be whipped is death. I want to be on that team when they do, because grief is hard. I smiled at a joke yesterday and I was smiling a lot and I said Damn, I'm so sorry Mel... and God said you’re going to smile, get over it. I had a dream, she’s in heaven. She’s watering the garden looking exactly the same. I used to sneak up on her, Boo, and she’d try to do the same but she’d never get me. She’d try almost every day though. And in this dream, I go Boo and she turns to me, with those same big eyes and a big grin on her face, and says, “What took you so long? Would I jump off a building? I'm afraid of heights—no. Can’t shoot myself in the head, maybe the chest? But then, what about that old Baptist shit? You kill yourself you go to hell? Well, sir, I can tell you, I’m not going to jump in front of a train—but I ain’t afraid to die no more. So, sir, I offer my apologies. My heartbreak distracted me from my work. But I will do my best to not let it conquer me anymore.
Viktor’s Father’s Tale (cont.) The beautiful blonde woman pursed her lips. “How horrible,'' she drawled, “My prayers are with him and his family.” I curled my fingers under her chin and lifted her eyes so they met mine. Her words were compassionate but her eyes didn’t match; instead they spoke of something closer to disgust. I felt her jaw tense in my hand, and she whispered, low and unwavering, “Your chauffeur is a weak man. Love made him weak and I have no interest in ever feeling the grief of that loss.”
75
And so it was agreed, that night, that we would be married. Not as lovers but as partners. We made the rational decision to dedicate ourselves to things other than one another. Insulated from any distraction, insulated from heartbreak.
The Mikhelson’s Nanny’s Tale (cont.) “And tonight, they celebrated twenty years of partnership. So Alexander, do not cry over girls like Papa’s chauffeur. Do not let love make you weak.” Viktor ended his story and promptly reopened his book, disappearing behind the pages without even bothering to gauge his brother’s reaction. Over the course of the tale, Alexander had made his way off the floor until he was sitting by Viktor’s feet. And then all at once I saw it happen. The handsome young man’s face contorted as he strained to understand his brother's story. He set his jaw and balled his hands into fists. “I won’t,'' he whispered with a quiet derision. Viktor peered over his book, and between the boys passed an acknowledgement of mutual respect that hadn’t existed before. “Good.” There was silence for a few minutes until the sounds of the head butler could be heard outside; they would be leaving the safety of the playroom soon. Then hurriedly, as if saying it faster would make it mean less, Alexander asked, "Viktor, what happened to the chauffeur?” “Papa fired him that very night.” The playroom doors swung open and the head butler ushered them into the party. When the boys exited the room, neither of their arms were swinging.
76
Charlotte Sorbaro Compassion 77
Disengagement Carly The security camera shows Faith leaving the driveway with the radio blasting and her finger in the air. Burnt rubber tracks mark her departure. On our kitchen counter I find a diamond ring identical to the one on my finger. Her toothbrush is missing— so is our car. Nova I walked into a bar, went home with a girl who forgot about the motion sensor camera facing her front door, lost my bra, woke up under her comforter, and broke two hearts. But what can I say? Carly was wearing rings on all ten fingers; I didn’t know she had a fiancÊe. Faith I wasted four years of my life loving that humiliating representation of humanity. The notification came up on my phone telling me the motion sensor had been triggered. I replayed the damn footage three times 78
Emma Wu
before leaving my father’s hospital bed and flying home two days early. The electric blue bra on the foyer floor isn’t mine and Carly only wears chest binders. A stranger’s bare body is on my side of the bed, entwined with the hungover love of my life. Another notification lights up my phone.
Cate Spaulding
The Passage of Loneliness
79
Whiskey Cake
Sara Raghavan
I once stumbled upon an old tin box all the way in the back of the cupboard that we use to store sewing materials. Embellished in a gold vintage font, it read “Whiskey Cake.” It was empty. I showed it to my dad and asked him why we kept the wrappings of a cake we finished, but he didn’t answer. He instead began to trace the edges of the whiskey cake box with his fingers with more delicacy than I’d ever seen from him. “Yeah,” he began. “I think I’m going to just hold on to this.” Much later, maybe two or three years after this, we were at the grocery store when my dad saw a display of Walkers products. He beamed at the sight. He furiously began searching the display, mumbling “whiskey cake, whiskey cake…” He slowly began to accept that they weren’t selling them. I went around the back of the display, and when I managed to find some, he laughed and said, “You don’t know how long I’ve been looking for one of these…” After we returned home, my dad, in true character, rushed off to do something else, leaving the task of putting away the groceries to me and my mother. As we unpacked, my mom took out the whiskey cake and chuckled to herself. “I guess your dad was feeling really sentimental today,” she said. I managed a confused look as she continued, “Your dad had fond memories of him coming home with it and spending lots of quality time together in those days, when they lived in that small Chennai apartment in India.” The same smile that had previously overtaken my dad now overtook me. That sweet reminiscent feeling, from a man who almost never wears his heart on his sleeve, spread through the house as a new tin box with gold font sat in our refrigerator.
Kaitlin Ganshaw Joy 81
There They Sit
Celeste Batres
In memory of George Stinney (October 21, 1929–June 15, 1944) and Kaleif Browder (May 25, 1993–June 6, 2015) There they sit in their unbreakable cage Waiting, wishing— Crying and praying. There they sit in their unbreakable cage Some, wrongfully convicted, From the depths of the South to the height of New York. There they sit in their unbreakable cage Victims of a broken system built around race And aspects of their identities that they can’t change. There they sit Suffering through a process that has been around for hundreds of years And without a change, will be there for hundreds more. There they sit Feeling the chains of prejudice holding them down, Burning the feeling of helplessness into their wrists. There they sit Cursing their country for making them believe they would be free And more importantly, treated equally. No. There he sits— For three years, anticipating trial at Rikers Island for an alleged accusation, Stuck in solitary confinement for two, the memory tormenting him from his release Till the day he can’t take it anymore.
82
There he sits— In South Carolina, a hundred years before, awaiting the jury’s decision Innocent or guilty? Life or death? There he sits— Charged for murders he didn’t commit. Strapped down in the chair—14 and afraid. “Why would they kill me for something I didn’t do?” There she sits Not knowing that his case would be overturned 70 years later, Witnessing this injustice, mourning her innocent son. And there he will sit— For all time. Sutton Mock
Portrait of Roy
83
The Unknown
Rachel Ong
There is an assault. Twelve hours later, news of it has reached the entire student body. On Monday, the headmaster announces over the loudspeaker that there will be an all–school assembly. Alex, president of the school, “devoted to unity and inclusion,” commended scholar, is told to give a speech. On the day of the assembly, Alex sits comfortably in the wings of the school theater. He holds a crisp white sheet inked with a speech he wrote the night before. He is thinking about lunch. “This is pointless,” a student says. “Let’s hope it goes by quickly,” says another. The student body appears swallowed up by the darkness of the theater; no one is recognizable. There is snickering and coughing in the crowd. Alex begins: “This is a pivotal moment...” “...reach out to each other...” “...we are here for you.” Suddenly, Alex hears a click. He looks out into the sea of students, but only receives silence. The sound—for some reason, he knows it. But from where? It is the click of a door lock, swift and deliberate. He remembers the muffled music of a nauseating memory, drained of its color. He tries to numb the unease; it nags at him. Alex tightens his grin underneath the stage lighting. A cold, unwelcome trickle of sweat has soaked into his school uniform. After the assembly, his life will move on. He will go to his classes, eat dinner with his family, and laugh with his friends. Many of these friends are sitting in the audience. Some listen to his words attentively, others can’t help but shift uncomfortably in their seat. But among the familiar, there are also strangers. More, in fact, than he realizes. 84
He will not think about the assembly, the nameless girl, or the memory—a forbidden dream—until he is in college, when the scene repeats itself in the grimy corner of a frat house. It will remind him of a fragmented, mostly blackened memory: the click of a door, thick air and the smell of warm booze, time feeling warped as music drones in the background. There will be bits and pieces that will still feel blurred (it happened in high school, after all), but the rest will sharpen. There are other parts of his life he does not know yet: when he is much older and anxiety begins to flood his thoughts, he will move to a house by the sea. He will watch the waves crash violently before him and notice how the froth of the ocean dissipates as quickly as it forms. It is at this moment that he will understand the importance of that one fateful night, and how afterwards his life was split into a before and after. The guilt will eventually rob him of a quiet mind. But for now, Alex, seventeen, with a crisp, useless sheet of paper in hand, stands in front of the school. He is moments away from the rest of his life. “Thank you for listening, and don’t forget—we are a community,” he says, the click’s echo finally subsiding. The muscles of his cheeks feel strained from smiling, his eyes nearly watering. Thunderous applause swells in the room. Its sound consumes the air, rippling through the audience. It almost drowns out something else: a voice, a girl’s voice. Her voice sounds lost; it is there for a moment, but gone the next. There is someone else in the memory with her, someone moving farther and farther away as Alex stays paralyzed. The boy moves towards the door, erasing himself from that night. She was slurring her words, Alex suddenly recalls as he walks off the stage, each step leading him further and further into the unknown.
85
Twas The Night Before Christmas
Continuum
86
Sammy Doniger
Ava Slocum and Ashton Winegardner
Rent Eats First
Yellow Submarine
Madison Singleton
Honors Independent Film Production
87
The World According to the Saleswoman at Lululemon
Sophie Threadgill
Lululemon: a wildly overpriced athleisure destination, located just above the cashmere store and just below the patterned tie store, is a safe haven among an anxiety–ridden world. I spend so much time here that it has begun to feel like home. As a retail sales associate, the floor to ceiling racks of athletic wear swaddle me in a sense of comfort; the smell of APL sneakers and yoga mats brings me solace in the face of distress. I enjoy a detachment of sorts within these walls. Here, I play pretend; I distract myself from the gloom that I face elsewhere. In this way, work has become a game. If each customer is worth one point, you must tell the customer exactly what she wants to hear in order to acquire the most points and win the game. Towards the back of the store is the leggings section, my domain. My task is quite simple: when I am not putting on a performance for a customer, I fold the leggings. When a customer looks at a pair of leggings and then puts them back, I refold the leggings. To practice this kind of origami, I must channel discipline and control; I must restore the order that has been ransacked by chaos. Before doing so, I will wait a respectable number of seconds, so as to not indicate to the customer that I am watching or following them. These are the basic rules of the game. Into my territory emerges a girl in a green kilt. She is holding a green juice. I recognize this kilt; it is a denizen of my domain in the rear end of Lululemon. I watch her for a moment, evaluating the scene. I am cautious, ensuring that the girl will not notice that she is being watched—a crucial part of the game. Walking with poise, the girl delicately tosses back her long hair with her left hand. The melodious clinking of her bracelets can be heard throughout the store. With her impeccable posture, flawless hair, and wide blue eyes, she is the picture of affability. She scans the mannequin legs on display, giving each one a cursory glance before moving on to the next. I already have a pair of leggings in mind, the pair that I will convince her to buy. I walk towards her. “Need any help?” I ask. She smiles at me, an outgoing smile. I smile back at her, challenging myself to match her unreserved charisma. “I’m looking for the perfect black legging.” 88
This request rings in my ears. What qualities would constitute the perfect black legging? “I have this pair already,” she continues, pulling out a pair of plain black leggings from the shelf. “But I’d love a pair that fits perfectly.” I watch her messily fold up the leggings and place them back on the shelf, distracted by her blatant request. What qualities would constitute the perfect girl who wears the perfect black legging? This particular girl in plaid has instilled in me a prickling nervousness. It takes me a moment to regain certainty and resume my game. “And I definitely don’t want to wear old pairs of leggings, if I don’t love them,” she continues. “That would be a crime,” I respond. My arm sweeps forward in a perfunctory motion. It feels as though I am outside my body, watching myself refold the plain black leggings that she had just pulled out. I tell her that I have just the thing. I turn to the cases of folded leggings and pretend to scrutinize various pairs, giving the impression that I might be deciding whether they would satisfy the girl in the green kilt. I pick up a pair of plain black leggings from the shelf and hold them up with my arm outstretched. I smear a pensive expression over my impassive face. I examine the leggings for a moment before folding them neatly and returning them to the shelf on the wall. I then pick out a different, almost identical, pair of plain black leggings; they are the pair that I have had in mind since her arrival. I tell her that these leggings are superior to the pair that she already owns because of their lightweight material and high– waisted fit. She looks convinced. “This combination maximizes comfort and mobility,” I add, as if I am disclosing a trade secret. I know that these leggings have the same fit as the pair that she didn’t like. She looks at me, her eyes betraying a sense of deep trust in my expertise. “I love them,” she says. I have just earned myself one point. After the girl in the green kilt purchases the leggings, I retreat to my lair, my eyes peeled for fresh prey. The need for another performance has arisen; a middle–aged woman now browses the leggings section. An extravagant fur coat rests pompously on her shoulders, and she parades a thick pair of tall, shiny, black boots. Atop her left arm, she bears the weight of a heaping selection of sportswear. 89
“Would you like me to start a fitting room?” I ask. She doesn’t turn to face me and continues to inspect the leggings on display. She provides a single hint of acknowledgement, lifting her left arm towards my face. I take the clothing from her arm, deducing that acquiring this particular point in the game will require some concerted effort. The word “specialist” crosses my mind. “Specialist” could be a persuasive tactic. “Specialist” could lend itself to one point in the game. But a specialist in what? She, finally, turns to look at me. Her nose crinkles as she smiles a thin, condescending smile. “I am a black legging specialist, so if you need any assistance I would be happy to answer any questions,” I inform her. She looks pleased. I, too, am pleased. I am a self–proclaimed black legging specialist. It appears as though I have secured her trust. She details to me her new gym membership, and her pressing need for new workout clothes. “I need daily motivation,” she says. “What better motivation than a good pair of leggings?” I say lightheartedly. “Or four!” The woman laughs. I make a mental note of this. She tells me she would like a pair of leggings that will “hug her in all the right places”. I tell her I know exactly what she means, and that I have just the thing. I am reminded of the girl in the green kilt, and of her search for the “perfect” black leggings. The memory I have of this girl is no longer coherent—the necessity to remember her face dissolved the moment I was sure of my retail success. To me, she is any girl in a green kilt. Yet, her words remain in my mind. I can’t determine what it is exactly that has me so fixed on her words. The woman tries on a first pair of black leggings, admiring herself in the mirror. I observe the placid expression on her face, and say nothing. I already know I have won this point. A moment later, she walks out of the dressing room in a different pair of plain black leggings. They are almost identical to the previous leggings. “Those look stunning on you,” I say, without looking up. “They’re perfect,” she says. “I’ll take both.” There’s that word again—it stings my ears. What is the distinction between perfection and imperfection? An entity can only be perfect if you believe that it is perfect, if you project perfection onto it. I ring up the woman’s items at the cash register, transferring each item one by one into a large red bag. Her total is more than 90
my monthly paycheck. My eyes trail behind the woman as she exits the store; they linger on the storefront long after she has gone. I am staring at the window that faces the street, displaying the store to the world like a diorama in a museum. I am inside of a dollhouse. I feel a looming presence—of what, I’m not certain—following me; it lingers in my teeth, in my hair. The malice of humanity teases me from behind a veil, the venom of mistrust courses through the racks like electricity. The gloom that I face elsewhere, it has followed me into the store. Today, the clock in my mind runs faster than the clock on the wall—I am ready to leave. But I know that I can’t; I have much of my shift left to work. I am trapped by what was once my safe haven. My head turns to face the leggings on display; the dismembered mannequin legs line the walls like trophies. This dollhouse feels like yet another reminder of the inescapable anxieties of the world. I gaze at the racks of 86% nylon and 14% lycra and am struck by a moment of sagacity. Being perfect must be a torturous burden. Sutton Mock
Broken Mirror
city of angels
Sam Cannon
the girl at the counter says she’s 23 and that’s too old to not have made it yet with her hair tied back you can see how pretty she could have been but the bags under her eyes, her hollow cheeks give away the years of heartbreak and rejection the girl at the counter says she’s been here five years without a role living on stale ramen and eight dollar coffees which she pays for with money she doesn’t have the girl at the counter is thin thin is good she says thin gets jobs thin stays pretty her hands shake as she hands over the last of the cash in her wallet and it’s only just enough the girl at the counter walks away and now she’s not the girl at the counter she’s just a face that i’ll never see again
Charlotte Gillis Masked 93
Dollar Tree
Ellie Harris
I can’t remember where my last clean shirt went, if I ever had one at all. It’s grim, really. I keep wandering the streets, when I suddenly wind up at the Dollar Tree again. I know the cashier that works this hour well. I consider him my only friend. “Jim,” he calls himself, but I’m not sure if I believe that’s his real name. I know how he likes to play hard to get. I ask him what time he gets off his shift, but he ignores me. I smile. As I shuffle through my pockets, Jim looks back at me knowingly. He says to take a can of Natural Light and to leave. I take a sip from the can, but it’s already empty, and I’m already back in the street. I wonder whether I should go back to the Dollar Tree for another, but desperate doesn’t look good on anyone. We’ll see each other again, soon. What time is it now? I look at my wrist to see if I still have the watch Jim gave me a few nights before to get me to leave the store. But, like most things in my life, it has vanished without a trace. Just before I feel the tears coming, I notice a hole in my Dollar General shoes. Don’t tell Jim, though, I don’t want him to think I’m being unfaithful. I leave them on the side of the curb. I’ll come back for them later. “Hey there, you,” says a woman with a keen smile. She must be talking to me. I see how she’s looking at me. I raise my hand to say hello, but she averts her eyes. She must be shy. I force down the tears again and go on my way. Maybe I should go back to Dollar Tree? I’m sure Jim would be happy to see me, but instead I head to the train station. They have the cleanest bathrooms I can find in the city. I rub the soap into my skin until I look sub–human. Before I can blink, the water is overflowing in the sink, so I go on my way and leave it as someone else’s problem. Just as I start walking, I pause. What is “my way?” Before I can let it sink in that my way doesn’t even really exist, I close my eyes. All I can do is mutter to myself, Jim, Jim, Jim…
Angela Dai 94
Into the Storm
Maybe Being Nice Is Overrated
Madison Farello
I think as he lounges across from me One hand holding a lazy cigarette Smoke floating like ink in water Marking the already stained couch The other is holding up his head Cheekbones like a pitchfork Pink cheeks like cherubs Eye bags of lavender He doesn’t care about me But maybe that’s the thrill of it I’m ready to break Like his chapped lips I’m ready to notice gum on city sidewalks Instead of looking up At a face looking at the sky A face that believes it fell from there Instead of just appearing one day In a Brooklyn coffee shop But that day is not today So I look at his face and his hands I let him stain my couch and The cigarette smoke finds its way Through the entire studio apartment It’s dirty and he scowls at his own smoke but Being nice is overrated All I want is to see his face Every time I smell nicotine
Cate Spaulding 96
Damaged Creation
Apple Seeds Contain Cyanide
Noor Rekhi
I heard that angels fall And thought, where do they go? So I went and found one Who lives way down below They called him Morningstar Said he would bring the light But I took another look And all I saw was night Yet I was deep in woe And thus we struck a deal I signed the dotted line And pressed the final seal Long, I roamed paradise Now I fear I am lost You see I sold my soul And here I bear the cost Heed my tale, hear my doom Of the worst pact to hatch Never go and venture In search of one Old Scratch
Lianna Seeley
Floral Garden 101
Dixie Cups and Yellow Gatorade
Charlotte Duty
Starting when I was four years old, I would sit next to my grandfather’s bed waiting for him to wake up. This may seem somewhat creepy, sitting next to his bed while he slept, but all I wanted was to watch cartoons while he ate his breakfast of Lays potato chips and yellow Gatorade. The cartoons we watched weren’t SpongeBob or Jimmy Neutron, but Looney Tunes, Tom and Jerry, and the Batman cartoons from the ‘60s. While we watched Daffy and Bugs take countless trips past Albuquerque, it became clear to me my grandpa was unlike any adult I knew. He had no wrinkles. What’s Walter’s secret? Simple: He never left the house. He ate potato chips, watched cartoons all day, and was someone I could always rely on to entertain me. He also only had one leg. He was my hero. As I grew up, I learned more about who he was. He was orphaned at ten, forcing him and his sister to move to Maine to live with his aunt. He served in the Air Force for twenty years and flew KC–135s in Vietnam. In his fifties, he got tissue cancer in his leg, resulting in amputation. My eyes widened when he explained the tropics of Guam and the jungles of Vietnam. And every time I had to leave we would exchange: “See you later alligator,” and “In a while crocodile.” Later came other stories. Ones that included the racial slurs he frequently used and the prejudice against Japanese people and Jews. Eventually I began to notice these comments. I realized he was fiercely stubborn, ornery, and close–minded. I tried to make excuses for him, and for myself. I knew that I could never forgive any ordinary person who said these things. How could I treat him differently just because he was my grandpa? The truth I couldn’t face was that the man who could be cruel and hateful was the same man who would sit with me for hours sharing his Gatorade in little Dixie cups. I guess you could say he was a product of his time, but I don’t know if I can believe that. I began to watch cartoons on my own. Dora the Explorer taught teamwork and friendship—themes less common in the shotgun–and–anvil filled Looney Tunes. Besides, milk and my dad’s fresh pancakes came to seem more appealing than Gatorade and stale potato chips. For a kid, time moves exponentially slowly, but Serena Wecker Lepore 102
when my grandpa moved into an assisted living facility, I found I couldn’t remember the last time I had set foot in his room. I hadn’t even had a chance to say goodbye. The villain can commit vicious acts, but the hero can make fatal mistakes too. Now, I visit my grandpa, and watch him eating the meals he is served. I watch his toothless smile as I make his desktop picture an image of a KC–135 on the new laptop that he refuses to learn how to use. I wonder if he still believes those things he said. I don’t know if those are the kinds of beliefs people let go. I want to spend time with him, I really do. But I don’t want to be disappointed. I pride myself on always trying to see things from the other person’s perspective, yet sometimes it’s more painful than I’d like to admit. Wouldn’t I want my grandchild to try for me? Part of me hopes he’s forgotten those moments we spent together watching cartoons, though I know he hasn’t. He won’t let me forget. My grandpa is undoubtedly a part of me. At the same time, no matter how much I long for a Dixie cup filled with yellow Gatorade, it will never taste as it once did. But I know he is neither villain nor hero; nothing is black or white. And from the tangled web of good and bad that make up my grandpa, I will try to accept the things I can’t change, and love the things I would never want to change.
103
Minimum Wage
Maya Hurst
My hands, cracking and dry, are exhausted from soaking in heavy–duty detergent. We attempt to leave by 9:30, denying passersby their precious sundaes even though (technically) the customer is always right. We are teenagers (noun; a synonym for invincible) and our manager has been gone for hours. My shirt is stained with chocolate freckles and waffle cone mix, stiff from the wash and scratchy against my tanned summer skin. I am tired and alive and content with my ten dollars of tips. My coworkers and I sit in my new car, I am sixteen, we are flirty and sleepy and energized by stolen gummy bears. We play loud music in the empty parking lot, they make fun of the SAT book in my backseat. Nearly everyone leaves, but for some reason, I am reluctant because here I am free. He and I are alone And though I have told him a million times that I have a boyfriend and that I am not interested, he says he knows that I secretly want him. I do not. And yet I do not go home because here I am someone different, someone who works, someone who is wanted, safe behind the sticky counter. I act as if I cannot tell when he flirts. That I don’t mind the unwanted grabs and hugs. Because I crave this freedom. I need messy. Here, I make minimum wage and flirt with customers for tips. Here, my life is ice cream scoops and dodging the towel snapped towards my ass. Here, I let myself let go. after Matthew Dickman
Charlotte Sorbaro
Day Dreamin’ 105
The Pearly Gates
Megan Meyerson
The Pearly Gates looked less…well…pearly than I had imagined. Sure, Saint Peter stood before them, there was a distant echo of angels singing, and a faint scent of flowers floated on a warm, gentle breeze. But atop the brilliant gold of the Gates twisted a menacing spiral of barbed wire. I stepped up to the pedestal as Saint Peter called out my name. He seemed to sense my confusion. “This is the back entrance. It’s for people who…might not make it in.” I didn’t like the sound of that. I felt like I had been pretty virtuous in my life and earned a spot in eternal paradise. Or maybe I just really didn’t want to take a spot in eternal damnation. “So basically, I’m still on the line?” “Oh, no—your place is secured. I merely need to ask you a question, and we don’t like causing traffic through the main entrance.” Saint Peter reached into his robes and withdrew a golden scroll. He unraveled it and began to read. “On the 24th of August, in the Year of our Lord 2019, Joseph Stephens departed his mortal life by means of an elevator malfunction.” I was a little annoyed at being reminded of the circumstances of my death, which were both less glorious and earlier than I had wished in life, but I kept my mouth shut. Saint Peter continued, “It has come to our Lord’s attention that this was the result of a mishap on the part of Joseph Stephens’ Guardian Angel, who was meant, but failed, to protect his charge from the accident.” Saint Peter looked up from his scroll into my somewhat baffled eyes. “Before you enter the Kingdom of Heaven, you must decide your Guardian Angel’s fate.” I stared at Saint Peter. “You’re joking.” He looked surprised. “I assure you, I am not.” I thought it unlikely that a saint in charge of admission to Heaven would lie, so I didn’t question him further. “What are my options?” I asked. “Whatever you wish. You can banish him to a mortal life, take away his status as a Guardian Angel, or force him into eternal poopy–scooping service in Hell.” Saint Peter paused, thinking. “You may also forgive him and grant him total exoneration of his sins. It has happened occasionally, that someone has chosen that path. Please, take your time.” 106
He dismissed me with a wave of his (I suppose) holy hand. An old woman stood behind me, so I stepped out of her way to let Saint Peter deal with her admittance. I sat down on a puff of cloud to consider my choices. I had very little experience in making decisions, but what little I did have told me to make a pros and cons list. On the one hand, the angel had hurt my family in not saving me. I could only shudder, thinking of the grief they must be suffering even now; I imagined my dad’s wretched tears, my mom’s shattered smile that would crumble at the news of my death, my wife’s life as she would try, and perhaps succeed, perhaps fail, to adjust to a life without me. And because of this angel, I would never know the joys of fatherhood, the quiet happiness of growing old with the woman I loved, or the simple moments in between that count for just as much. I would miss every Christmas morning of pancakes and carols played too enthusiastically, but still adorably, by my child on the piano. I would miss every Mother’s Day and Father’s Day, miss Easter picnics, miss… But on the other hand, I did not know for what reason he had missed the moment of my death; perhaps he had been saving another, destined to be more important than me, or perhaps preventing some cataclysmic war that would have killed millions. Who was I to judge? The greatest responsibility with which I had ever been entrusted was my dad’s twenty–five–year–old station wagon when I was, myself, twenty–five. I could not imagine holding the fate of a human—thousands of humans for all I knew—in my hands. I glanced at Saint Peter, but he was busy shuffling papers and sorting out the business of admission to Heaven for the old woman. I rose from my puff of cloud and approached him. It seemed the woman had gained entry, for she thanked Saint Peter heartily and practically skipped through the gates in a manner that seemed to defy the frailness of her frame. Saint Peter looked up from his papers as I approached. “What did you decide?” “Can I talk to him?” Saint Peter sighed. “It would require much paperwork, and it is rather busy today, so you’ll forgive me if I say no.” I glanced around. Now that the old woman had passed through the gates, there was no one to be seen. “Really?” I asked, trying hard to keep the sarcasm from my voice. “He is unavailable.” I raised my eyebrows. Saint Peter sighed 107
and continued in a more genuine tone, “It isn’t allowed; I’m sorry. You have to make this decision entirely on your own.” A memory crept suddenly into my mind of my grandfather telling me to forgive a second–grade bully. I remembered him wiping my tears and saying, “You can only judge a man after you’ve seen him lose to the turtle and beat the hare.” If that went for guardian angels as well, I had no business passing judgement on mine if I knew so little about him. I put my hands in my pockets and tried to look as casual as possible. “I think I’m going to forgive him. You know, no punishment, just a warning…a ‘don’t let it happen again,’ that sort of thing.” Saint Peter shook his head absentmindedly as he continued to sort through his papers. “Off to Hell, I’m afraid.” My stomach dropped. So many words of outrage tried to force themselves from my mouth at once that I stood mutely, staring in utter shock at the saint. Off to Hell? A half–growl, half–choke finally escaped my throat and Saint Peter looked up. His brow furrowed. “Wait. You decided on forgiveness?” I nodded. “Then you must forgive me, as well; it has been a long few centuries—I’m far overdue for a vacation. I must have misheard you. If you have chosen forgiveness, then it is with great pleasure that I can open the gates and welcome you into the Kingdom of Heaven.” My heart leapt as the barbed wire dissipated into mist and the gates swung open. The scent of flowers floated more pungently on the breeze and the angel choir sounded a little clearer. I turned, bemused, back to Saint Peter. “And if I hadn’t chosen forgiveness?” He winced. “You would have gone the other direction, but you would have gotten whatever revenge on your guardian angel you desired. From my view, you made the right choice, though; he’s really a lovely chap, your angel.” I bowed awkwardly (I was never taught the proper etiquette to use when speaking to a deceased saint) and walked through the gates. My grandad stood just inside, his arms outstretched. As I ran towards him, he winked, and I knew suddenly who had been my guardian angel all along. Jack Sparks 108
Two of a Kind
An Excerpt From Growing Up With Indian Parents
Carina Daruwala
The excitement Sanaya felt at opening her first saree was beyond anything she’d ever experienced. “Thank you! Thank you! Thank you SO much!” she screamed, nearly tackling her mother in her joy. “You are welcome,” Nandini said, adjusting her own saree to carefully smooth the wrinkles Sanaya had produced from her outburst and fixing the bangles that had also been upset by Sanaya’s excited grasp on her mother’s arm. Turning towards Sanaya, she waited expectantly. “Now, you must try it on.” Sanaya reached out to grasp the light material between the thumb and forefinger of her left hand but dropped it as if stung by the clothing. She turned back to look, with wide eyes, at her mother. Tentatively, Sanaya whispered, “It’s so beautiful. I’m afraid to touch it.” Nandini rolled her eyes. “That didn’t seem to stop you from making a mess of my saree two minutes ago. Go on now. You are turning sixteen tomorrow. Don’t you want to wear your saree like all the other sixteen–year–olds in Mumbai?” Now it was Sanaya’s turn to roll her eyes. “Of course, Mama. It’s just that...what if I rip it while trying it on right now? It’s so delicate—and… well… just look at it. It will never look good on me like it would on you. I have curves, Mama.” Nandini had heard this from her daughter many times. “What have I told you, Sanu? You are beautiful inside and out. Now go try on the saree.” She made a motion towards the door. At Sanaya’s reluctance, she gestured more emphatically towards the box and added firmly in her no–nonsense tone, that Sanaya knew better than to refuse. “Go!” Nandini watched as her daughter carefully picked up the box and exited the room holding a token of the future.
Roma Desai Virtually 111
Observations in the Mos Eisley Cantina
Holland Ferguson
When knowing not quite where to go upon that fateful day, I found myself walk into there much to my dismay. If you are looking for the place with the lowest of the low, Then to the Mos Eisley Cantina you should go. Described as a “wretched hive of scum and villainy,” I can remember those I met there quite vividly. The first to catch my eye was Figrin D’an, the band’s main man, And the Modal Nodes, the rest of his clan. All seven of them looked exactly the same And helped contribute to their fame. All their heads were large and round Which bobbed in time to the music’s upbeat sound. Their eyes were large pools of black darker than the night— The band really was quite a sight. Their fingers danced along the instruments so skillfully That I let the sound of the music entice me quite willfully. As I contently swayed along to the beat, I decided to plant myself down onto a bar seat. The bartender was a large man, I’d guess 300 pounds, His grumpy attitude was displayed through his plethora of frowns. When someone asked for a drink, he’d grumble and walk away, And wouldn’t serve it to them until they offered pay. Although I do suppose he had a reason for his ways, For he dealt with crooks and swindlers every single day. I wouldn’t trust his customers either, in his defense, So in a way his actions made perfect sense. However, I found he was no better than the rest, For with many other creatures’ lives he messed. Among all the crooks and thieves surrounding me, There was one that interested me to a higher degree. Muftak his name was, and he was coated from head to toe In thick and shaggy fur that was as white as winter snow. He drank from a pitcher of ice water, and holding it to his lips, Voraciously gulped it down instead of taking little sips. I soon discovered he had an affinity for all things shiny, And couldn't resist stealing them, no matter how tiny. 112
He’d choose a target and wait until they were distracted, And soon enough, their possessions he would have extracted Without raising even the slightest air of suspicion Because of his superficially harmless disposition. However, I found that not all who occupied the bar were bad, There was one whose reason for being here was rather sad. Momaw Nandon used to be the high priest on the planet Ithor, That was until he tried to prevent a war. So that there would be no violence, he revealed the national secrets, But instead of being exalted the Ithorian elders considered his humanity a weakness, And exiled him from the planet he had saved, Labeling him a traitor and calling him depraved. He settled on Tatooine and built a house among the dunes Which soon developed into a sort of commune Where he provided a safe house for rebels on the run. He kindly took in anyone he deemed true of heart, And in many rebel causes he would take part, For he wanted to leave the universe better than he found it. Conspiring with these men in ways he saw fit, He constantly toiled on the side of good, Fighting for justice in every way he could. The last creature I met that really stood out to me Was a little Jawa by the name of Het Nkik. A very small creature with yellow glowing eyes, He too was working against the empire he despised. For too long they had oppressed the Jawan race, Which is why he came to this very place, For he knew in the city of Mos Eisley he would find imperial stormtroopers, Although now he sat in a state of mental stupor, For even though he thought he had the ability to kill, He realized that murder went against his natural will. He decided purchasing stimulants would help him with this goal, Which is why he wandered into this eclectic watering hole. He settled on buying a small bottle of blue pills, For which he paid in many small bills. I saw him stare at the two pills nestled in his palm, He threw them back and suddenly began to feel calm. A surge of false confidence rapidly coursed through his veins And soon his wild thoughts could not be restrained. 113
He sanguinely marched out of the cantina with a sense of purpose Only a few minutes after making his special purchase. What became of him, I shall never know. But I certainly hope his yellow eyes are still aglow. Alas, that is all I can remember from those many years ago, And I really hope it goes to show, That even in the places that you’d least expect, Right–minded creatures can still collect, As demonstrated by the eclectic bunch I met that day, A crazy group of villains and hoodlums one may say, But also those who were full of vivacity and passion, That merely went about their lives in a different fashion. Sydney Pittignano Space
Duet, Solo
Sydney Liu
With one word, like the final note of a crescendo, you slipped a ring onto my slender pianist’s fingers; Sempre, you said, always the violin to my pianoforte, together in sweet harmony. A triumphant duet, performing our dreams: your striking suit and my red concert dress. Fortissimo! The standing ovation, the awe of the crowd, sempre piu... And then, no more. You can’t hold a fermata forever, you said. We have no money, no plans, and only a fiddle dream. So you locked away your violin, to get a job as a businessman, solo, And rent a grand apartment for both of us, you said, with chic green walls and red furniture, Where, on this cold, sickly city night, amid the discordant symphony—the cars and shouts, The crinkling of your horrid newspaper—you never looked up once to notice my red dress. Pianissimo! You’ve locked up your violin, my heart, my song, my voice; I can no longer play, for the music keeps itself away. after “A Room in New York” by Edward Hopper
Else Esmond 116
Cello Quartet
118
A Minute Passing
Sofia Giannuzzi
One day, Krios made a discovery that would alter the course of history: life, he realized, is composed of micro–moments. Micro–moments and microthings. Krios fell in love with these micro–moments, with the sound of hope, with people and beauty. Life, he decided, is made up of these moments of small love, fleeting, but perfect. Krios named these moments Minutes. Krios loved, so Krios also knew what it was to fall from love. For the fog to last and for the meal to turn cold before the person you love comes home. Krios knew that hardships often come, and when they do, they are interminable. Life, he realized, is composed of moments of good, Minutes, that comprise what seems like an eternity of bad. These endless hardships, therefore, he named Hours. And yet, these Hours and Minutes were cyclical. When good moments end, but bad things are yet to happen, something called Time continues. Krios was not alone in blindly taking steps forward, as the rest of humanity does, too. The sun once again rises and sets. And this, Krios decided, is to be called a Day. Day is a beginning and ending: Day is a question. And now, with ceaseless Days composed of repeating Hours and Minutes, Krios felt that he had figured it all out. That there was nothing God could throw his way that did not have a name. After all, each Minute fed the next, every Hour was eventually repeated, and Day ends for a new one to begin. Krios smiled at the work he had done. Here, he thought, was the answer. And yet, after inventing Time, all Krios really knew was that Time continues coming; he did not know what Time would bring.
Lindsay Hasapis
Moon and Sea 119
The Surrealist’s Seaside
Kate Wilson
I want to swim all day Along the Mediterranean. I’ll waste away the whole weekday, And stay here in the subterranean. When I become weary and lazy, These shallow rocks and mossy greens will be my refuge. When my fingers begin to prune and my legs become shaky, I’ll float along the surface until met with an ill–tempered deluge. I will not come home for dinner tonight, But feast upon my nourished soul and aquatic delight. I’ll leave my other swimmers be, and solemnly wish them a good night. When at last I drag my trembling body onto the rocks, I’ll wish the wind sweet dreams And return to a life so sadly orthodox. after “La Nageuse” by Pablo Picasso
Charlotte Gillis 120
Ocean Eyes
On Eternity
Laurel Pitts
On my ride home I decide that there’s no way none of me is immortal. There must be an everlasting fragment that’ll stay somewhere for the rest of time. So if I had to choose the version of me to exist for eternity, it would be now on Maher Avenue as the sun dips low in the sky, with all the changing trees, taller than ever before and lit up golden, and me on my glinting red scooter coasting along the empty street, just slightly downhill, in big arcs, my shadow throwing itself long and angular on the orange–cast pavement and stone walls every time it’s lucky enough to catch a ray of last light reaching through the spaces between houses. And I can’t see myself as I am now, but I can imagine the way the light and shadow must be painting every part of me—orange– red then black–purple then orange–red again, sun then shadow then sun, house then space then house. The living version of me gets home and parks her scooter and goes on with her life, but the eternal version is still alive at dusk, bathed in sun and shadow, and the trees are still golden and growing, and Maher Avenue never ends, and I ride forever.
Carlos Flores Atticus 123