Growl Magazine Issue #9 - Fall 2021 by Growl

growl growl issue #9 fall 2021

A Hofstra English Society Collaboration

Staff Managing Editors

Lauren Sager Debbie Aspromonti

Editor-In-Chief Manasvi Vietla

Design Editor

Jessica Mannhaupt

Copy Editor

Aissatou Ndiour

General Staff Lauren Ballinger Abderrazak Bammou Lex Besecker Sabrina Blandon Andrew Cardell Tyler Dickinson Thor Disselkoen Madison Donnelly

Marissa Feiler Julianna Grossman Ally Herrington Isabelle Jensen Sabrina Josephson Josie Racette Roddyna B. Saint-Paul Daniela Wydler

Thank you to our contributors: Debbie Aspromonti Lauren Ballinger Sabrina Blandon Ashley DeStefanis Elissacita Anna “Kittyjack” Evans Océane Goriou Isabelle Jensen Kaitlyn Kinnard Roddyna B. Saint-Paul Caitlyn “Cat” Snell Manasvi Vietla

Front cover art: perfectly imperfect Jessica Mannhaupt

Back cover art: Treetalk Debbie Aspromonti

CONTENT WARNING: Some pieces in Growl involve themes that may be triggering to certain audiences.

Damned if I(o) Do(n’t)

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Anna “Kittyjack” Evans

Io Anna “Kittyjack” Evans Was it that your legs were dyed in seawater Or that your hands were painted red In possum-blood, trash-feeding, Street-walking idiocy or The evening’s way you sat upon your once comfortably vacant bed? It must have been something— Something bad, so help you God—God given horns, unusable That leads you here to Egypt, Aimless wandering for safety, refuge ever Inaccessible, pursued by forces Two, rock murder-body, Breaking-spirit hard place Yet to what end do you flee? Do you stop, embrace the gadfly Or the so-dubbed “touch”—Ephaphos—man unwanted Uncalled for and cursed, bad luck and famine footprints Of your dread escape in tow? Where are you to run When there is no place left to go?

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I Froze Kaitlyn Kinnard Content Warning: Sexual Assault I remember when I was warned Because every young girl is warned That one day a man may think he has the right to put his hands on my body without my permission That he would try to possess the vessel that contains me I was told to say “no,” run away, scream “FIRE,” and jab my elbow to his throat Fight or flight No one warned me it’s actually fight, flight, or freeze I froze When he barged through the doors to the home that is my body, he knew what he was doing First, he used his lips to suck the air from my lungs that he was now claiming for his own No words can be formed without air much less a scream

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He proceeded to crush himself against me hands roaming with greed His weight an insurmountable burden I could not remove He left my mind alone for that he was uninterested in My mind was left begging for mercy, pleading for escape, wishing that my body was stronger, and forced to watch as the scene unfolded Why didn’t I say no, why didn’t I run, why didn’t I scream, why didn’t I fight, and why did I let this happen to me My mind was tortured while my body was being stolen Why did I freeze?

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Backpack Isabelle Jensen I need a backpack Not a school backpack Or a cute backpack I need a big hiking going-away-and-never-coming-back backpack I need somewhere to store these overwhelmingly anxious feelings A place to put them that doesn’t turn my head into a bowling ball A bag that will put them on my shoulders instead of in my lungs A storage space to shove them in without fear of rips or wear I need to tangle these feelings until they are compact enough to carry None of them will ever become a bow so they will become knots Knots moved from my stomach to my enormous backpack If untangled they would encase me, so they must be jumbled together I need to strengthen my core, says the yoga woman on my tv So heavy lifting is my new hobby, I add more weight with each thought Every new feeling is more to cram into the pack and work the zipper past A suitcase would be more durable, but my baggage cannot be so literal After all, no one ever said someone had too many backpacks In school, the heaviest backpack was the most impressive You walk with that on your back all day? Aren’t you in pain? I tell my classmates I am just used to the weight

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Untitled

Ashley DeStefanis

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pants on fire Manasvi Vietla i am a liar but it’s not my fault they leak out of me, dripping from my eyes, my ears my nose my mouth sometimes i feel like you can see them layered on my skin like if you were to peel me like an onion they’d come off, one by one exposing raw, red flesh underneath good to see you no, i’m not mad i’m eating, mom, i swear what? no, i’m straight i am a liar and it is my fault because maybe if i were a little less sad and gay and defective and a little more pretty and skinny and perfected i wouldn’t be here standing in front of you with my mom jeans in flames

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Authentic

Debbie Aspromonti

FALL 2021

Broken Océane Goriou

Content Warning: Sexual Assault Molly was staring out the window, watching a red Kia SUV pull up to her driveway in a hurry. Her stomach dropped; her eyes glazed over at the thought of what was to come. She convinced herself that the dread she felt was just nerves, something that might diminish with time, or maybe another six months of dating Julian. Molly waited by the door for a familiar knock to sound. She hurried to open it, willing to correct her past mistakes and keep his wrath from emerging too soon. “Babe!” Her voice was high-pitched and excited, it didn’t sound like herself. Julian smiled. “Hi,” he kissed her lightly on the lips before slipping past the door and towards the stairs that would lead to her bedroom. Molly watched him go and delayed her own steps as her mind began to quiet. A voice inside her had started to scream, a warning that she had so often ignored—it made no difference to her now. “Baby?” he called out to her, caressing her body in a way that made her want to scrub her skin until only flesh and bone were left. She hurried up the stairs, making her way to her own room. He was already sitting on the bed, her laptop open and playing a random T.V. show. Molly sat gingerly on the bed, only lying down against him when he put his arm around her, forcing her down to his chest. Her eyes strayed from the screen to the mirror that stared back at her. It was a blessing and a curse. The mirror was a few feet taller than her and completed the width of the wall. It held secrets; it saw too much. Molly scolded herself for even daring a peek. She forced herself to focus on the voices coming from the screen. Molly ached for a way out of this room, the one place that seemed to be the setting of unfortunate events. She mentioned her parents, half forcing Julian to follow her down the stairs. Her parents were always near the office or kitchen of the house. They greeted Julian like another son, an admiring part of the family. In the midst of the chaos of hugs and small talk, Molly desperately looked to her mom. She contorted her face, trying to grab her attention if only she would understand. But her mom’s

stare never left Julian’s, as though he was a magician that usurped her attention. Her options diminished when he motioned her to follow him back upstairs. Every step to her room became heavier, slowing her down. Julian refused to acknowledge it, pulling her forward with his strides. 12 ISSUE #9

A nervous hour passed where Molly couldn’t focus on the show because every movement and stroke from Julian made her flinch. The sun was falling, and time was running out, that much Molly knew. The sun was passing through her sky light when what she had dreaded all along came. His hand stopped stroking hers, halting for a second as he moved it to her face, forcing her vision away from the show and to him. He leaned in, kissing her in a way that made her feel like property, like he was only doing it as a reminder that he could. She didn’t pull away. Molly moved her mouth against his. But where he was rough and fast, she was light and playful. She tried to slow it down, tried to find any kind of enjoyment in it, but he robbed her of that as he forced her to keep up with him. His hands strayed from her face, moving slowly, but with an intended goal. Molly’s hands began to tremble lightly, a sheen of sweat settling over them. For a second, she felt frozen in time. She prepared for what was to come next, something she had done for the past two months now. It took a while to convince herself it was okay, that she wanted to do this and by that time, she realized her clothes were gone. “Wait,” she started, putting a hand on his chest. The contact burned and she wondered if he could feel it. “What?” It was more of a demand than a question. Anger flashed in his eyes; the lust that had roved her skin was replaced with contempt. His hands were on her wrists, his grip hard. A chill ran down her spine as fear set in. What was she supposed to say? She tried to picture what would happen if she said no. If she asked for some time to breathe. He didn’t seem to care about her resistance as he swooped low to kiss her neck. He nipped at her, and where his tongue made contact with her skin she cringed. She didn’t speak for the rest of the time, surrendering control of her body to him. She kept telling herself that it would be okay, that it wouldn’t last too long, that after it was all over, she would be able to lay down and sleep. Hopefully forever. But the longer he forced himself onto her, the less she believed in her own reassurances. Molly risked a glance at Julian, wondering what she had done to him to deserve this. A single tear slipped to the edge of her face, falling until it settled inside the crook of her ear and wet a baby strand of hair.

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She focused on the feeling, trying desperately to occupy her mind. Why hadn’t he noticed? Time slipped slowly as she forced another glance at the man she loved, his face contorted in pleasure, his body moving against hers, ignorant of her lack of effort. She waited it out, her head lolling uselessly to the side until she could see herself in the mirror. Her tears clouded her vision, and a numbness settled over her mind and body. It was a numbness that she depended on when even her own voice couldn’t convince her that she would survive this. It was a numbness that brought her into a limbo between reality and dream. She was able to detach herself from the situation, to pretend that he wasn’t hurting her while she enjoyed her time in between two states where there was nothing but silence. She felt strong arms grabbing her but didn’t register the pain she imagined accompanied the action. She was flipped over on a bed that used to remind her of innocence, one that used to sport a polka-dotted comforter. That was a long time ago and it was different now. Julian forced her on her stomach, her head against the bed and facing the mirror that haunted her nightmares. It was hard to ignore the truth when it reflected itself back at you. A blessing and a curse. She felt a hand on her head, grabbing a chunk of her hair. This was a pain that was harder to ignore. So, she did the only thing that was left for her to do. She lost herself in the mirror of a girl that looked like her but couldn’t possibly be her. Not with those empty eyes, void of emotions. The girl in the mirror laughed at her, mocked her for her weakness. She could even hear the whispers of the girl’s voice in her head, saying that she deserved this, to feel worthless. That she had it coming for a long time and would have to keep experiencing it over and over again until her sins were wiped clean. Molly wanted to scream, to ask what she had done and how to make it right, any other way. She didn’t know how much time passed, only that the pain got comfortable. That she was getting used to it the more time went on. She was vaguely aware of Julian moving her body to fit his expectations and wants. She didn’t say anything about it, letting herself detach from the very body that linked her to him. Time trickled slowly. Julian finally pulled away. His hands left her body, leaving open wounds in their wake. Molly’s eyes found him. He was out of breath, tired, but there was a ghost smile on his face that told her he was satisfied. Molly forced her head to the side where the mirror once again

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held a truth she wanted to ignore. Her face was tear stained, her mascara clumping in ugly pairs. She dropped the fake smile she had plastered for Julian’s benefit hours before. She couldn’t pretend anymore. “I’ll be right back,” Julian said. He leaned on the bed, kissing her forehead lightly, “I love you.” Molly watched him leave in silence. She couldn’t possibly understand how he didn’t realize that he was stealing a bit of her soul, piece by piece. She moved her body, the first time she had exerted control over it in an hour. Molly curled herself into a fetal position, hugging her feet to her chest and curling her neck until her chin hit her knees. She bit back sobs. She couldn’t cry now. She imagined Julian coming back to her breaking down on the bed, looking absolutely pathetic. Molly knew he would lose respect for her and she didn’t know how much more she could take. Molly picked herself up from the bed, pulling clothes over herself. Her skin burned. She itched over her clothes, her skin too sensitive against any type of touch. Julian walked back into the room, settling himself beside her. He put an arm around her, as he had done hours before. She let her head rest on his chest, allowing herself to take comfort in the fact that the worst had passed. That she made it out of the other side of the pain and fear. True relief came two hours later when Julian announced he would be leaving. It took all her willpower to force herself out of bed, out of the room, and down a flight of stairs to the door. She didn’t think she would make it. She was sure she would collapse on her way, forced to prove how weak she was. She stared at her feet as she moved. One step in front of the other, she reminded herself. Molly focused on her breathing, to keep the panic from surfacing. “I love you,” Julian said with a smile, leaning to kiss her. She didn’t stop him as his lips grazed hers but even that amount of contact threatened to bring her to her knees. As the door closed behind him, Molly felt the world go silent. She stared at the door, unable to move or think. She only walked back to her room because it was simply muscle memory. Fear laced her steps as she got closer and closer to her room. It took more effort than she wanted to admit just to walk through the threshold. And then she was truly alone. Her bed was ransacked, as if someone had been searching for gold between her sheets. Her computer, still playing a random show, was the only thing that seemed untouched in the

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entire room. Molly made her way to the edge of the bed, placing her hand lightly on the velvet sheets. She cringed, opting out from the bed and taking her place on the carpet, right in front of the mirror. A blessing and a curse. The truth was hard to swallow, even if it stared at her in the face. The longer she observed her face, her arms, her body, the more she realized that she was holding on by a thread. That she didn’t know if she could survive another day of Julian’s love. She stared intently at her face, seeing before truly feeling the single tear that escaped her eye. It was like the catalyst for the destruction of Molly’s world. In the next instant she was sobbing, unable to hold back any longer. Panic rose to the surface, making her hands tingle until she was forced to grab hold of her knees, just to prove that she still had some control. Her breathing was labored and sudden thoughts of never being able to breathe again overwhelmed her rationality. She rocked back and forth in front of the mirror, massaging her knees as she repeated to the girl in the mirror, “It’s okay. You’re okay. It’s okay. You’re okay.” Molly didn’t believe it for a second. The pain was too much to bear. And then the girl in the mirror seemed to give up on her too. Because the panic subsided, her breathing slowed, her arms and hands grew numb and fell in her lap. Molly stared. She had puffy red eyes, a tear-stricken face, and lips that had swollen to twice their normal size. The girl in the mirror didn’t seem to care, though. In fact, she relished the pain she felt that had brought her to this point. It was a reminder that she could feel something. But at what cost? Molly didn’t know she was falling until her head hit the carpet with a light thud. She was losing control of her body. She let herself lay motionless on the floor. Tears were streaming slowly at the corner of her eye and over the bridge of her nose. The absurdity of it made her chuckle lightly. The effort was painful. Molly didn’t know how long she was lying on the floor, only that she genuinely couldn’t get up. Her body had given up on her, and her mind was following quickly. The girl in the mirror was broken and scarred. Molly could no longer look at herself and feel any sense of pride or love. All she saw were the places he had touched her and hurt her. She could see the handprints she had never wanted, on her skin and over her clothes. Molly wallowed in her grief. In that moment she mourned her innocence, her past self, her future. She couldn’t even see herself in a year from then. The light shining down on her dreams were dimming and

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intrusive thoughts strutted in their wake. It was those kinds of desperate thoughts that people shamed others about. They told her there was one last, easy fix. One that could make the pain and the fear go away for good. Sure, it would hurt some people in the process, but maybe a little less than if she left Julian. Molly pondered the escape of this world for a while. More than she wanted to admit. She didn’t notice the hours that passed, only that her strength was falling through her fingers like sand, and there was nothing and no one left to save her. She closed her eyes and begged for someone to take her away, maybe Peter Pan, she mused. The only mercy she seemed to deserve was the gift of sleep.

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screaming Isabelle Jensen Screams will escape me Not because I am afraid But as a reflex to the cage

Baggage Claim

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Anna “Kittyjack” Evans

saltation Manasvi Vietla sal·ta·tion /ˌsôlˈtāSHən/ noun abrupt evolutionary change; sudden large-scale mutation. there’s a demon under my skin it’s making noises again. it claws at my insides, begging to be let out it wheezes, wet and heavy, every time i breathe and yet i don’t feel it scratch i don’t feel the weight of it, parasitic in my chest when did it stop? when did i no longer recognize the blood in my mouth was my own and the redness in my eyes was not? how do i describe a complete absence of feeling how how how how do i tell you i no longer exist?

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The bee on dryer #22 Caitlyn “Cat” Snell A bee died on dryer #22, the 564-dollar Whirlpool Front-Loader, in the Worcester Home Depot, Store 2684. It was one of those bumblebees, more fluff than fury. Do bumblebees even have stingers? He died in the recessed handle, on the top of the machine, one of those old-fashioned lint traps that you pull from the machine, and it tugs and scrapes and feels like the pull-cord on a snowblower you have coaxed back to life one last time, like every other one last time. The bumblebee probably got in from the garden center. At least, you think as much. He might have come in through the back pad, weaving between the guys in receiving unloading, unloading, unloading. He might have followed a customer in through the front door. Probably though, he came from the garden center. Tricked into the boxy warehouse of a store, slathered in an orange bright enough to be a flower. The illusion of soaring skies bound by rafters, caging birds. The appliance department is in the center of the Worcester Home Depot, Store 2684. He appeared, already dead, 3.5 hours into your shift. How long did he buzz at skylights and the pictures on pesticides until he made it here? How did he choose this spot to die?

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It is 4.5 hours into your shift, and 1.5 hours until you will take your lunch break (unpaid) where you will not eat lunch. You have not moved the bumblebee’s body from his final resting place. The appliance section has twenty-one ranges (fifteen electric, six gas), twenty-two washing machines, twenty-three dryers, six top-freezer refrigerators, five side by side refrigerators, twenty-four French Door refrigerators, three mini-fridges, two 5.0 cubic-foot chest freezers and one laundry center. You have cleaned the laundry machines twice this shift already. You have not moved the bumblebee’s body from dryer #22, the 564-dollar Whirlpool Front-Loader. What a tragedy, you think, to rot here.

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Reaganomics Lauren Ballinger The basement is flooding. Mothers and fathers are gathering gray sewer water into plastic buckets and bins and boxes. They shush their children. You must not cry, they say, for we are to rid the water from this place, not add to its puddles. So, the children fall silent. But the basement is still flooding. From the streets, the buildings’ architecture is a champion to the horizon. Sweeping arches, silver horns, sleek and glossy windows, reflecting the faces of pedestrians, catching the glint in their eyes just before the jaw drops. On the roof, a cocktail party sips on Bloody Marys and cigarette butts, their teeth crimson-stained from the gore. The gluttonous crowd takes in the scene, not knowing the basement is flooding. The windows are locked, the stairwell chained shut. The tenants are gasping, swimming to pockets of air or floating, living before it is no longer a right but a luxury. A hurricane’s wet breath thrashes against the vulnerabilities it can find.

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Asphalt cracks underneath the weight of our Mother and train cars reach their final destination, submerged. Now the first floor is flooding. Water from the lobby drips down below the cracks in the floor, filling the basement to the brim. Is this what they meant when they said trickle-down?

American Standard

Elissacita FALL 2021

Fuel to the Flames Debbie Aspromonti You think your passivity is harmless Because every fire burns itself out eventually But what you don’t know is that standing by is pouring gasoline Over the flames that you could’ve quelled so easily

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Sabrina Blandon

In Response to Jacob Lawrence’s “Confrontation at the Bridge” Roddyna B. Saint-Paul just above the Alabama river pasty cheeks yield to crimson tides as pigs rest on their haunches and sic their hounds upon peaceful men just before the snarling cur there has to be a snarling man finely dressed for Bloody Sunday in his government-issued ignorance and garb just behind surges a sea of starched navy and helmets made of pastoral blues and greens billy clubs bob along the surface while the wretched confront the wronged just beside the mongrel’s gaping maw just beneath the paws of police with “pristine pedigrees” wide noses and white eyes weep from tear gas and black backs break beneath bloody batons

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madhavan-warsi’s dictionary Manasvi Vietla de·per·son·al·i·za·tion (noun): when you realize no one else gets the joke you just made about getting “shipped off to India,” cause that was just a stupid thing your mom used to say when you were young and misbehaving and it’s supposed to be funny, guys, come on please just laugh and quit looking at me like something’s wrong— dis·gust (noun): 1. the feeling you get when you look at an applebee’s menu. similar: chili’s, cheesecake factory, t.g.i friday’s, longhorn steakhouse, ruby tuesday

2. when fourth-grade you opens their lunch box at school and that one girl looks over at you before loudly going, “ew, what smells?” and then you have to huddle into yourself and try to eat as fast as possible all the while your cheeks are flaming and you are holding back tears.

i·so·la·tion (noun): when you’re asked a question about marriage during a class exercise and you respond by saying you don’t know, it depends on your family and then everyone looks at you strangely and you realize that no one else has to deal with the same cultural restrictions that you do. you lock eyes with your groupmate, the only other brown girl in the room. you see your pain reflected back. after a moment, she turns away.

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self·doubt (noun): when you’re stuck at home for the foreseeable future so you decide to go on tinder and swipe right on a white boy named carl, fucking carl of all things. and he’s nice and kinda flirty at first and maybe you’re enjoying the attention a little bit cause no one has ever seen you like this, and it lasts for two days before he starts getting distant and you try so hard to keep the convo going only for him to ghost you completely on day four. so now you’re wondering if he ever liked you and if you’re hot enough and maybe he’s into blondes and you just didn’t do it for him. and you wonder why the hell he even bothered swiping right in the first place. fuck you, carl. hyp·o·crite (noun): when you know you shouldn’t be judgmental but your whole life you and other brown kids have been pitted against each other, and you see your ex-friend at a holiday party and you notice how studiously she avoids your gaze. you stand there and remember how when you were younger and used to dance together she’d giggle with you at stupid thirteen-year-old jokes and listened when you felt like your life was falling apart. you remember how she stopped responding to your texts, how when she invited the team over for her fourteenth birthday party it was clear she didn’t want you there, with all your thirteen-year-old awkwardness, because you weren’t “cool” enough for her anymore. and you think about how when you were both in high school she became friends with the girls that talked shit about everyone and you know they talked shit about you even if you can’t prove it. you think about the smirk on her friend’s face when she called you a “chammak challo,” knowing you wouldn’t know what that means because you don’t fucking speak hindi. and you wonder if you’re any better because you’re judging her now, when her friends have turned on her. re·flec·tion (noun): when i look in the mirror. my mother, my sister, stare back.

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Falling Océane Goriou Content Warning: Assault Cate was holding back sobs that threatened to shake the entire Dunkin Donuts where she worked. She was in the bathroom, her head between her legs in an attempt to gain control of herself. She stood back up, forcing herself to stare at the mirror. Her hands slipped off the porcelain sink as realization set in. The pregnancy test was on the ground, right where she had dropped it when she read the result. She reached for it again, praying to any God that would listen that she had read it wrong, that she was not pregnant. The two lines crossing at their centers stared back at her. There was no denying this truth. She was sixteen and pregnant. She wiped her eyes, taking deep breaths before stepping out of the bathroom and getting back to work as though nothing had happened. Her coworkers stared but said nothing. They had their own problems going on without pretending to care for hers. Seven hours passed by slowly, with Cate in utter silence. She sprinted from the store the second her manager told her she was free to go. It was past eleven at night and she walked through the still-crowded streets of Chicago. She kept her head down, the best way to keep attention off of herself, and hurried to the projects. Cate could hear the screaming of her siblings before she even reached the landing of her third-floor apartment. She had six siblings. Four of them were under ten years old, one was thirteen, and her older brother was twenty-four and long gone. She walked into the chaos that rivaled a busy day at her job. Her siblings were running around the tiny living room in an attempt to tire themselves out before bed. Normally she would play along, grabbing her siblings and wrestling with them before she ordered them to bed. But today she didn’t have the heart. “Mom?” she called out. There was no answer, there usually wasn’t. She opened the door to her mother’s room, the biggest bedroom in the apartment. She had chosen it for herself, a place to get away from her kids, she once said. Cate’s mom was lying on the bed; at her side was another nameless man who would most likely stick around for two weeks leeching off Cate’s salary before he eventually decided he had used them up for all they had or abused her mom and siblings to the point of getting arrested. Cate kept a neutral stare on her face as she watched her mom, leisurely smoking a cigarette while scratching the man’s back. “What?” she deadpanned, her eyes promising violence. Cate shifted slightly, letting enough light into the room

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when she found nothing. “Did the kids already have dinner?” Cate asked. “No,” she rolled her eyes, as though this was obvious, “You’re getting your paycheck tomorrow, right?” Cate sighed, the day before her paycheck was the only time her mom actually bothered to speak to her. “Yes.” “Leave it on the counter tomorrow when you get home.” Rage filled Cate, forcing her out of the room. She heaved, trying to calm herself down in the midst of panic. Her siblings were hitting her and screaming for food. She dropped her head to the dirty counter that held cigarette ash and five-day-old breadcrumbs. She cringed as they stuck to her forehead when she looked back up. She breathed a sigh, knowing this was simply what needed to be done. She made a microwave dinner for her siblings and made sure that they were all bathed and ready, leaving her with no hot water. She ushered them to their shared tiny bedroom and begged them to go to bed, tears pricking her eyes. She was seconds away from breaking. When they had all taken their spots in bed, she settled on the broken couch where she slept most nights. She thought about how she would tell her mom, how she could get out of this problem. She knew that the father of her child would never help. The most he would do was punch her in the stomach if he thought it would get rid of the child. But in the end she was alone. She would have to raise it herself, she would have to pay for everything. She looked up at the door to her mother’s room. Would she even help? Cate always believed her mom when she promised to get better. To get a job, be more attentive, to love harder. Each time, she’d been disappointed. The longest she had ever held a promise was two weeks. It had been bliss. Cate thought of her brother, who had left them the second he turned eighteen. She had no clue where he was now. If he joined one of the gangs or actually got out of this forsaken city. It was hard to say. He never wrote. He never even said goodbye. The only person Cate had was her mother. She hoped for the best as she entered her bedroom once more and forced her out of the room. Her mom looked absolutely livid as she came into the living room light. “Can you sit with me please?” Cate asked in a tired voice.

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Her mother didn’t move for a few moments, glaring at her child as though she wished Cate were dead for asking her to do such a thing. The pleading in Cate’s eyes must’ve been enough because she sat down eventually. “I have to tell you something,” her mother stared but said nothing. Cate took a deep breath and blurted, “I’m pregnant.” Rage registered on her mother’s face before she raised her hand and slapped Cate across the face. Cate cried out in pain, tears already streaming down her face. “You whore!” her mother screamed. Cate could hear her siblings in the other room shuffling awake. “I will not take another child under my roof. Do you understand me?” Her yells could have woken up the neighbors. “I didn’t mean to, mom!” Cate tried, she had slept with that boy just for one moment of relief from her responsibilities and her life. But her mother wouldn’t listen. She grabbed the slippers at her feet and chucked them in Cate’s direction which she barely dodged. “Get the fuck out,” her voice was lethal, “Get the fuck out! I don’t ever want to see you again, do you hear me?” Cate didn’t wait for the blow she knew would come before she raced out of the apartment. The tears wouldn’t stop, only getting worse as her mom stood in the doorway, screaming about how disappointed she was with Cate and that if she ever came back home she would have to face the wrath of her newest boyfriend, Henry. Cate ran and didn’t stop until she reached the Dunkin Donuts. Her back slid against the wall as she cried into her hands. She had nowhere to go and she was pregnant. Her own mother wanted nothing to do with her and all she had left was a job that she probably wouldn’t be able to keep once she had the child. At least she’d finally be able to keep her own paycheck for herself, she mused, bringing out a chuckle in herself despite the overwhelming sadness plaguing her. Her thoughts wandered to her siblings, the ones that depended on her for lunch money and dinner. The ones who didn’t know that she was their sister but believed her to be their own mother. What would they do without Cate’s paycheck? How would they keep the apartment or afford necessities? Cate felt hopeless, wondering how the hell she could’ve made such a mistake, one that reminded her that she was no different than her very own mother.

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patterns

Debbie Aspromonti

FALL 2021

something old something blue something borrowed nothing new Manasvi Vietla on my way out the door, my grandma stopped me i don’t want to hurt your feelings, you know but our guests have been asking—who’s the fat one? you’d look so much more pretty if you lost a little weight that’s funny, grandma words like that hurt more than you could ever know or maybe you do know maybe you heard it too when you were a little younger a thing of sixteen—a child, really and you overheard your father discussing you with the fancy couple in the living room does she cook well? does she clean? she must, to be a good wife it’s such a shame though, that she’s so dark i bet you kept those voices in your chest for fifty-plus years, and eventually you learned to love the man who’d married you and to pass on your happiness the only way you knew how like you, grandma, i keep those voices in my chest and when i get too confident they’re right there again

32 ISSUE #9

are you serious? you can’t wear that why’s your skin so mottled? who will want you when you look like this? grandma, i ache for you for the girl you were and what you became and i wonder do you cry for me? for the girl i was and what i’ll never be?

FALL 2021

Cloudy Thoughts

34 ISSUE #9

Ashley DeStefanis

Snowfall Debbie Aspromonti My worship of love at all costs has fallen to the wayside I’ve flung out romantic notions, snuffed out longings for unattainable things I’m no longer interested in touching the flame to see how badly it hurts I’ve known since I was little that if you play with fire, you’re going to get burnt What I crave is the snowfall that arrives overnight Without a warning, my world is transformed but still recognizable I want to dance in the dustings of a quiet love, a right love I want to look at icicles and see sharpened metaphors, not weapons And I know, I know, I know I wear layers upon layers at the faintest hint of cold But in his absence, I knitted myself a scarf It keeps me warmer than his embers ever could Star-crossed lovers will say that love isn’t meant to be easy And I’d be lying if I said my mind never tripped over old patterns, muscle memory But I wrap that scarf around my neck like a benediction So far, it’s kept me from putting my hand in the fire

FALL 2021

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