THE CATALYST co n t e m p o r a ry l i t e r a ry a r t s m ag a z i n e
issue 8 // SPRING 2016
COVER ART // CASEY MIX
A Letter from the
Editor:
Dear Reader, It’s my last quarter as Editor-in-Chief of The Catalyst. In the 2 years I’ve worked on this magazine, the hardest thing I’ve had to do is write this letter from the editor. It doesn’t help that I’m graduating, and I feel like I have to detach from Isla Vista even while I’m still a part of it. It’s overwhelming experiencing the end of something you love with your whole heart. A few weeks ago I was laying in my backyard reading a book of poems by Dylan Thomas. I read “Sometimes the Sky’s Too Bright“ and started to cry. The poem reminded me of the ambivalence I feel every day in Isla Vista. There will be days when I’m smiling at every person I bike past, and then that same night I’ll feel like a weed at a party, all I want is to be yanked out and placed in bed. I never got used to the polarity of living here, and pretty soon I’ll have to leave. This magazine reflects the mind-states and temperaments of those who stay up countless hours working on it. I’ve been trying to write a happy letter from the editor for three weeks, but some part of me is so sad to leave that it seems wrong. But I also experience a profound sense of happiness, I know a huge part of that comes from belonging to a community of artists and writers brought together by The Catalyst. I hold endless gratitude to all the wonderful people I have met through my involvement in it.
Love, Madeline P.S. I originally wrote the poem below after biking under some trees on the 68 block of Sabado, but it seemed right to include it. All is not lost that still glimpses between golden grasses that still sees limpid lemon trees, those bright sour suns Apexes within reach. I could not have buried that gentle bloom, it was both too selfless and too sweet.
Staff and
Contributors
EDITOR-IN-CHIEF
Madeline Lockhart
MANAGING EDITORS Emily Balaguer Kiana Fatemi Hannah Mussey
ART DIRECTOR
Madeline Lockart
Design DIRECTORs Kiana Fatemi Hannah Mussey
Literature DIRECTOR Emily Balaguer
Editing Team Emily Balaguer Kenny Oravetz Baily Rossi
Design Team
Kiana Fatemi Hannah Mussey Sarah Wilson
Faculty Advisors Jeremy Chow Brian Donnelly Bishnupriya Ghosh
Authors
Emily Balaguer Tessa Boling Isabelle Carrasso Malcolm Coffman Adam De Gree Alexandra Dwight Axel Eaton Jonah Erickson Eva Garrett Max Goldenstein Edward James Zoe Jones Pierre Kobierski Madeline Lockhart Robin Loi Dev Macleod Yaak McNeely Veronica Nakla Maximilian Ochoa Kenny Oravetz Nicholas Pieper Baily Rossi Lake Shank Bryson Smith Kimmy Tejasindhu Troy Yamasaki
Artists
Emily Balaguer Isabelle Carasso Nick Cook Lauren Davis Axel Eaton Kiana Fatemi Eva Garret Canon Hastings Alex Ivory Coulter Keeler Madeline Lockhart Ashley Lynn Dev Macleod Madison Mead Casey Mix Hannah Mussey Arthur Nguyen Kasja Philippa Niehusen Preeti Ovartchaiyapong Hannah Pham Kate Ryan Simone Staff Allie Sullberg Lauren Wicks Troy Yamasaki
Special Thanks To:
UCSB English Department IVCRC Coffee Collaborative IV Food Coop Brian Donnelly
Table of
Prose
Contents
3 (Un)Spoiled Kenny Oravetz Art // Dev Macleod
20 Oysters Baily Rossi Art // Arthur Nguyen
29 Billiam Isabelle Carasso Art // Hannah Pham
5 How I Narrowly Avoided Being Arrested Outside the Hub Yaak McNeely Art // Casey Mix
23 Avoidance Veronica Nakla Art // Hannah Mussey
31 Gospel Choir Yaak McNeely Art // Nick Cook
25 Could Have Been Maximilian Ochoa Art // Arthur Nguyen
33 Underwater Kimmy Tejasindhu Art // Dev Mcleod
26 Soundtrack at the Moonlight Eva Garrett Art // Eva Garrett
35 My Friend Walt Robin Loi Art // Madeline Lockhart
27 A Reasonable Man Kenny Oravetz Art // Axel Eaton
38 Mission Creek Nicholas Pieper Art // Simone Staff
7 Cooking with Marcella Isabelle Carasso Art // Kiana Fatemi 11 Degrade Jonah Erickson Art // Allie Sullberg 15 Lark Villa Voodoo Emily Balaguer Art // Lauren Wicks 17 It’s Lucifer Max Goldenstein Art // Alex Ivory
Poetry
41 Catch-Up, Kids Baily Rossi Art // Axel Eaton
46 She’s a Wonder Malcolm Coffman Art // Kiana Fatemi + Hannah Pham
52 Drown Pierre Kobierski Art // Madison Mead
42 Old Soul Axel Eaton Art // Lauren Davis
47 IV Recycled Bryson Smith Art // Coulter Keeler
53 Kind-Eyed Ty Dev Macleod Art // Canon Hastings
43 Honey Adam De Gree Art // Troy Yamasaki
49 Medusa Madeline Lockart Art // Emily Balaguer
54 Cereal and Milk Pierre Kobierski Art // Kasja Philippa Niehusen
43 Palm Tree / 399 B.C. Tessa Boling Art // Troy Yamasaki
50 Plath Zoe Jones Art // Allie Sullberg
55 Finally I Speak My Mind Alexandra Dwight Art // Madeline Lockhart
44 Where do the Hummingbirds Go to Die? Emily Balaguer Art // Nick Cook
51 Walkin’ After Midnight Edward James Art // Kate Ryan
38 Finding God Lake Shank Art // Isabelle Carasso
45 Dinner on a Tuesday Troy Yamasaki Art // Ashley Lynn
ART // PREETI OVARTCHAIYAPONG
PROSE ((Un))spoiled // Kenny Oravetz How I Narrowly Avoided Being Arrested Outside the Hub // Yaak McNeely Cooking with Marcella // Isabelle Carasso Degrade // Jonah Erickson Lark Villa Voodoo // Emily Balaguer
,
It’ s Lucifer // Max Goldenstein Oysters // Baily Rossi Avoidance // Veronica Nakla Could Have Been // Maximilian Ochoa Soundtrack at the Moonlight // Eva Garrett A Reasonable Man // Kenny Oravetz Billiam // Isabelle Carasso Gospel Choir // Yaak McNeely Underwater // Kimmy Tejasindhu my friend walt // robin Loi Mission Creek // Nicholas Pieper
[Un] Spoiled
By Kenny Oravetz I am high at the beach with a friend from Virginia on the third day of summer. She turns to me and says, "When I say this weather is gorgeous, it doesn't mean anything to you! Not like it means to me! You don't know what it's like to go through blizzards and hailstorms and rain! You Californians are spoiled!" She smiles and dances down the sparkling sand. Bad weather in Isla Vista is a myth.
flashing disco-balls and DJs spinning trap tunes until twelve, when another sort of light takes over. Sirens flashing as we walk back to my place. Clumps of wanderers drift down the street, laughing, talking, yelling, tripping over their footsteps. I kiss you under the night sky before we step inside. I kiss you again and hold you tightly. Here I am drinking six packs and thirty racks and forties on Friday nights and days. Beer die in the blue sky, rising up into contested heights, a clitter clatter on hardwood tables. Waves crash in backyards, waves watched by the loungers, contemplating doing their course readings, or maybe just taking another sip of wine. It's so nice out. Rain is an anomaly that is as hated as it is loved. Couches left on balconies soak it up like a sponge. The spilled beer and the taste of box wine.
Small white clouds drift in the sunlight as we sit on that warm beach. A place to be spoiled in. And then I'm biking down Del Playa on a Saturday afternoon. The guys and I, rolling down the street lackadaisically, joints tucked away in our pockets. People playing smashball at the cliff-side park, dogs running happily through the green grass. A slight breeze carries the scent of sea-air and barbecuing hot dogs. Nowhere we have to go and nothing we have to do but for what we feel like.
On Sundays I wake up to the sound of bird-song, and hiphop song, and to a headache that's begrudgingly accepted as a reminder of good times. A shower and a cup of coffee until my vision clears to another sunny day. Biking through
The sun sets and the lights come up. Not the streetlights, mind you, but the house lights, yellow, blue, green, red, Prose
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campus in the slightest of dazes, past the green lawns and the tall tower whose bells play songs I sometimes recognize. Doing homework half-heartedly to the beat of a coming Monday. Everything is grander with a little piece of panic thrown in.
The real world is a faraway place and time. A myth of somewhere far distant and less divine. There are days when I've thought of Isla Vista as a living hell, and there are days when it's lived up to such thoughts as those.
We smile in the clean air and breathe in the music of the voices of beautiful people going about their day. Young and spoiled in their un-spoiledness. Pure in their impurities. The surf is good today, let's jump in that water and paddle out. Let's go get coffee and talk about art. Let's listen to music and sing along until the sunset comes, when we'll go down to the sand and watch a purple vision of heaven from a place that's nearly as divine.
But far more often I find myself staring at the sunny sky and saying, "Yes. We are spoiled." A bubble to swell the heart and soul and sex until we burst out of it. A cherished memory of sandy beaches viewed through the lens of the rosy sun. ď ł
A mile by a mile crammed with masses of youthful humanity. Rolling, walking, talking, laughing, turning up and turning down. Sitting on rooftops, and watching bands play in backyards, and the stars light up the night sky. Watch your step that you don't slip and fall off the roof with that drink in your hand.
PHOTO // DEV MACLEOD 4
How I Narrowly Avoided Being Arrested Outside The Hub By Yaak McNeely I didn’t plan on fighting with anyone that night. It wasn’t even a bad concert—the opposite, really. You wouldn’t expect a slacker-pop band to jam for a good ten minutes to “Smoke on the Water.” The opener wasn’t great. I generally don’t know what to expect from overpriced shows at the university venue. But at some point, the cops started pulling people from the crowd—dancers, moshers, crowd surfers, drunkards. Which is ridiculous, of course. It’s a rock show. A few good friends got snatched up in the nonsense. Things reached a tipping point when the singer leapt out into the crowd, then surfed on dozens of hands to the venue’s extensive decorative scaffolding. He scaled it like a spider, leaping over the second-floor balcony to lead security on a wild chase around the building. When he ran back to the stage, there was a cop waiting for him. He was led off in handcuffs. The show ended. We were pissed. I’ve always been an instigator. It’s a bad habit. Maybe it’s just my way of dealing with some repressed self-loathing, but I love getting yelled at by someone whose buttons I’ve been pushing. They were lined up by the doors. I started up as soon as I saw them: “Hey, come on, you guys. Sixteen cops for a campus show? You worried about the uprising, or what? And they laughed, and they smirked, and they glanced at each other like they knew what was coming. I should point out one thing: I was intoxicated. The night before the concert, I’d broken my left ring finger in a lesser skateboarding accident. At first, I didn’t know it was broken— instead, I continued on to my friend’s house, where I took heavy dabs and iced my finger until it stopped hurting. My friend Bill Clippers, exhaling a dank cloud, asked, “Can you move it?” And I answered, coughing, “a little bit.” “Then it’s probably not broken,” he said. “Sleep it off.” When I woke up the next morning, my finger was the size of an eggplant. I went to the campus health center, where a doctor determined (by astute observation) that it was “definitely broken.” She explained that my finger had essentially snapped off at the knuckle, and that they weren’t equipped to deal with it there. “Your hands are structured very particularly,” I was told. “You need to see a specialist, or you’ll ruin your finger alignment.” Problem was, the specialist didn’t work on Fridays. He was out for the weekend already. So I was given a bottle of painkillers and told to tough it out until Monday. “Don’t take them recreationally, and don’t drink or smoke while you’re on them.” I promise I’d be careful. I took two pills before the concert. I didn’t drink, because I didn’t want to die. May or may not have smoked a little. It Prose
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doesn’t matter—the drugs you take don’t make you special. I wasn’t sober—that’s the important part. In fact, I was exactly far enough from sober to feel lucky. Exactly far enough from sober to feel confident. You know that place, right? When you’re walking the fine line between simple social aptitude and self-destructive ego inflation. In this particular case, I was fucking unstoppable. I’d spent the show with my hand held in the air, careful to avoid damaging my finger any further. Bill Clippers was on the downhill slope of an acid trip. We both moshed furiously. And I guess some of that energy carried over into my attitude post-show. “I mean, not that it’s any of my business,” I said a little too loudly, as Bill and a few other friends started to leave, “But it seems pretty pointless to arrest people for moshing and crowd-surfing at a fucking rock show.” No reaction, really. Not the right button. Time to push a different one. Louder, now. “It’s just so useless, you know? It doesn’t do anything but piss people off. I mean, who are you protecting and serving? My taxes pay your bloated pensions! You work for me!” And one of them looked at me, raising his eyebrows. Scowling. And I smiled, making direct eye contact. See, that’s what I wanted. He approached me slowly, hands in his pockets, head tilted down, eyes pointed up. “Hey, hey. What’s the fucking problem here, kid?” He must’ve been 5’11’. Middle-aged, with a head of short gray hair held in stiff spikes by visible product. Wrinkles around the eyes and mouth. A frown stuck on his grim face. His eyes were soft and sullen. I gave him my best shit-eating grin. “No problem, officer. I just wanted you to know that I dislike and disrespect
you because of the job you do.” He raised his eyebrows, provoked but unsure how to proceed. His hand emerged from a jacket pocket, pointed, and poked me dead in the sternum several times. “You wanna know why we arrested your guy?” he asked, temper rising. I laughed. “My guy! Fine, man. Tell me why you arrested my guy.” His look was beyond stern. His entire frame tightened mechanically, and his jabs at my chest became more deliberate with every syllable he pronounced. “Li-a-bility,” he said. “Liability,” I laughed. “That’s a big word for you, man. Congratulations. But I’m not sure you know what it means. What sort of liability?” And he was pissed, I could tell. “Singer falls from the balcony. He gets hurt. He sues. School has to pay him. That’s your tuition.” “But they pay you to do security. They use my tuition for that too. You guys always bring way more officers than they request, and then you force us to pay all of them. You’re ripping me off, man.” I was careful to have my hands behind my back for all of this. I could tell that he wanted me to touch him, because if I did, I was getting carted off. So, standing there, hands in my back pockets, I smirked and danced my way through a very one-sided argument. I was feeling lucky. I turned up the obnoxious. “You’re not a cop, man. You’re a stooge. And too many of you guys walk around like you own this fuckin’ town. Stop touching me.” “Listen, punk. Do you have any idea how long I’ve been on the force?” “Nah, man. How fuckin’ long have you been on the force?” “Twenty-eight years.” “No fuckin’ kidding!” I yelled, turning to my friends, who were now floating on the periphery of this bizarre confrontation. “Hey, Bill! Guess how long this guy’s been on the force! Twenty-eight fuckin’ years!” I turned back to the cop, grinning still. “You got some real problems, kid.” “Nah, man. You got some real problems. I’m your problem.” It was at this point that Bill, who was on LSD instead of Vicodin, realized that I was making some poor decisions. And to his credit, it was Bill who pulled me away. Several times, because I didn’t go willingly at first. And I give that cop a lot of credit for recognizing that I wasn’t dangerous— just being a shithead. I guess that’s the kind of judgment you pick up after twenty-eight years on the force. I don’t regret the interaction, because nothing ultimately came of it. I don’t think I’m a bad person. I don’t really think the cop was a bad guy, either—just an idiot. And that’s good enough for me.
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ART // CASEY MIX
Cooking With
Marcella
By Isabelle Carasso
Marcella Graves stands straight, staring blankly at a camera on the set of Cooking with Marcella. She looks over to one of the robust camera operators, Hank. He begins counting down from five on his chubby fingers that look more like sausages than limbs to her. Five sausages. Four sausages. Three sausages. Two sausages. One sausage. All out of links means it’s time to smile. -Hello, my lovely ladies! Today I’m going to show you how to prepare for your Thanksgiving meal—in every sense of the word. We must, must, must prepare so we can avoid catastrophes.
-Coming right up. Ellie is just finishing her tea. She reaches over to the mug so she can finish it quickly, but looks back over to Greg, who appears annoyed to be alive. It’s almost eight thirty, almost time for Greg to leave for work. Ellie lets her mug with tea go cold, telling herself she’s had enough to drink. No problem. Coffee and eggs coming right up.
Marcella jaunts over to her oven with some pep in her step. Turning her face away from the cameras, she lets her smile go, wiggles her nose, and takes a deep breath. She turns the knob of the oven up and quickly places her huge smile back on before she turns around to the cameras. -First thing we do is to preheat the oven to three hundred and twenty five degrees Fahrenheit. While that’s heating up, your life probably will, too.
Ellie May glides down her windowless hallway wearing her usual lavender silk robe. It’s always so quiet at this time, and that’s how she likes it. Ellie enters her kitchen and makes a cup of tea, butters a slice of toast, and picks up the morning paper from outside the front door. The simple smell of toast and tea makes her feel like she is in England again, if she shut her eyes. She slowly sips her tea, briefly closing her eyes, and then opening them again so she can skim the front page for anything remarkable. But alas, today is just November 5, 1952-- everyone still likes Ike, and frozen peas can now be purchased. A few minutes later, Greg clomps down the hallway in his heavy work boots. He drags his feet in this annoying way that sprinkles and smears dirt on their wood floors. This is only one of the ways he loudly stains Ellie May’s life. -Morning. -Hello, Ellie. -Would you want any— -Coffee. And eggs. Prose
While Greg is at work, Ellie scrubs the hallway floor, tidies up the newspapers around the house, does laundry, and puts on a yellow sundress. While rearranging the television guides, she takes a moment to sit down to read the program for tonight, even though she already knows what she wants to watch: Channel Eight. Channel eight is her favorite station, because it is a smorgasbord of shows. There are crime shows, morning and evening news, detective stories, and cooking programs—a perfectly planned mess of broadcasting. It’s a bit all over the place, but Ellie appreciates variety in her life. Her favorite program on channel eight is Cooking with Marcella. Marcella is an African-American woman with her own show on a network—a miracle in itself for Ellie’s time. Marcella’s show is on every night at six o’clock, and every night at six o’clock Ellie sits on the couch watching and committing her tips to memory.
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ART // KIANA FATEMI
Two sausages. One sausage. All out of links means it’s time to smile. Marcella wipes her hands on her red polka-dotted apron, places a huge smile on her face, and begins her lesson again. -Let’s begin by twisting the neck and giblets out of the cavity; similar to how your husband might grab your neck. Keep in mind that if he does this, the most important thing to do is to protect your head. So get rid of this liver by taking the time to scoop it all out of the bird, I mean really get it all out of there, and save it for the stuffing and gravy that we’ll make later. She looks over at Hank and the other men on set to see if they are listening. They don’t notice her, or more accurately, they don’t care about cooking. Marcella grabs a few napkins, dabbing them all over the turkey. The men continue doing crosswords, talking to each other, and smoking. -Next, dry the turkey with any ol’ napkin you can find. Dab, dab, dab it. And if your husband tries to jab, jab, jab it, for who knows what reason today, drop low and grab his leg. Make sure when he starts to get aggressive, you assume a balanced, wide position for your legs so you can have optimal stability.
Marcella walks back over to her kitchen island and flamboyantly gestures to the uncooked turkey. She’s about to start unpacking the turkey’s innards, when a studio lamp falls down next to her, crashing into a thousand tiny pieces of glass on the floor. Hank jumps, visibly startled from the sharp, icy sound. -Ahh! I’m sorry, Hank, we have to tape all of this again. -It’s okay, you have some extra time today. -And how’s that? -Network bumped you back an hour. -Why did they change my timeslot? It’s almost Thanksgiving, the women watching my show are going to wonder where I went and will be worried they’ll mess up the turkey. -Does it look like I made the decision, sweetheart? Your guess is as good as mine. Now, I have to go fix a lamp. When I’m done, just keep going from wherever you left off.
That was peculiar, Ellie thought. The television guide must’ve made an error—Cooking with Marcella is on at six o’clock every night, not seven o’clock. Ellie looks closer at the description of tonight’s show: Practicing For Thanksgiving. Ellie tries to hide her grin, looks around, then realizes she’s by herself. She beams. Ellie perks up and grabs her purse so she can walk to the store to purchase ingredients for tonight’s cooking lesson.
Ellie glides around the store picking up ingredient after ingredient for tonight’s cooking lesson with Marcella. She notices the other women in her neighborhood are also getting turkeys to practice on tonight. Maybe they watch her show too, or maybe they’re already great cooks. She doesn’t know because she’s never spoken to them. By the time Ellie finishes snaking around the store, her cart is stuffed with a turkey, parsley, rosemary, thyme leaves, lemon pepper, celery, onions, carrots, and a Hershey’s chocolate bar-- presumably not for the turkey. As she
After Hank and the set workers clean up the glass on the floor, they return to their stations, looking incredibly bored. It’s as if they’d enjoy doing anything, even if it’s just throwing away glass. Five sausages. Four sausages. Three sausages.
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approaches the register, the checkout man has got her all figured out. -Practicing for the husband, are we now? -No, just for myself. I love to whip up stuff in the kitchen. -You’re not married? -No, I am. The checkout man scans Ellie up and down, frowning at her response. Even though he’s frowning, Ellie shoots him the same smile she uses on her husband. This pacifies the checkout man, and he shoots her a smile back.
and cutting board out of her drawer to prepare for the next step of cooking. -Ladies, we need to fill up the turkey with onions, carrots, and herbs, so let’s get to chopping! The key to good locks is not strength, it is all about good technique. When you apply your technique you need to be sure that you don't support the joint, since you are trying to lock it.
Ellie is outside on her back patio smoking a cigarette and reading Jane Eyre. She elegantly wears sunglasses and puffs on her cigarette, smiling at the residue of her red lip stick left on the stick. She takes her sunglasses off, as she doesn’t need them anymore since the sun is setting. She turns the book upside down on the table to mark her page so she can stand up, stretch, and watch the sunset. She closes her eyes as she exhales smoke, deeply lost in her moment of solitude and the setting sun. -Ellie?! Ellie May! Where are you? It’s Greg; he’s home from work and he’s hungry. Ellie responds, keeping her eyes shut. -Hello, darling, I’m outside! -Why are you out there? Come inside! I need to talk to you. Ellie stomps on her cigarette. The moment’s gone. She enters the house through the back glass door and walks into the kitchen.
Making a slightly-goofy-slightly-disgusted face, Marcella’s hands are inside the turkey. She pulls out the guts and places them in a large bowl.
ur o y y l p p ou a y n e be h o W t “ d e e n you e u q i n h c te ’t n o d u o y t sure tha joint, since the support ing to lock it.” try e r a u o y
Marcella looks directly at Hank, who is barely awake at this point, and continues talking. Would it be bad to test how far she could go? Marcella doesn’t like to just think, though. She likes to take action. -If he grabs your wrist, which he will, because let’s face it—that’s his favorite way to discipline you, pull your wrist as close to your stomach as possible while jamming your other open palm into his chin—hard.
-We need to take all this here turkey’s innards out. Don’t be shy, ladies, you’ve suffered through worse. Another great idea for you on Thanksgiving is to perform a joint lock and throw. These are amazing defense moves, because you can restrain your husband without causing him too much harm. She reaches for the salt and pepper shakers next to the bowl of turkey innards and sprinkles them on every square inch of the dead bird. -Now, we are going to season it all over. So grab those salt and pepper shakers and shake, shake, shake it! A lot of you women think you are seasoning…but you’re not. Get in there! Keep going. More seasoning and more lemon pepper! That’s what I always say. You should know, though, the drawback to performing joint locks is that you need to practice a good amount to get it right. So call up your mom, girlfriend, or sister and help each other out.
Greg trudges into the kitchen to meet Ellie. He leans against the counter and takes his muddy boots off near the dinner table. Ellie softly closes the glass door, making sure to place a smile back on her face before she looks at Greg. -Darling, I’m all yours! What do you need? -What do I need? I need food, and about a million other things. -I can take care of the food right now; I’ll whip you up a little snack. Oh, Greg! I went to the store and bought a giant turkey! So I can practice and get it right this year, you know? Last year was a fluke, I swear, you know I can cook, darling, you know it. And tonight my favorite cooking program is going to teach me how to make a turkey properly. He stands up and grabs Ellie’s wrist and pulls her close so swiftly, you can’t tell if he wants to kiss her or smack her. He lets go of her to sit down at the dinner table as Ellie softly rubs her wrist. -You looked like you were up to something. Just fix me some mashed potatoes now and then I’m going to nap before dinner. -Mashed potatoes, coming right up.
Ellie returns home carrying seven paper bags of groceries. She places them on her doorstep while she fumbles through her purse to find the keys. After she opens the door, she picks up the groceries again and brings them into the kitchen.
Marcella has carrots, onions, and various spices and herbs spread out on her countertop. She slowly pulls a knife Prose
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leg. Make sure when he starts to get aggressive, you assume a balanced, wide position for your legs so you can have optimal stability. She walks back over to the kitchen, thinking about what Greg would do if he heard this. But would he hear it? He hardly pays attention to her anyway, she thought. Perhaps she should leave it on. Mid-thought, Greg stomps down the hallway like he was still an adolescent and not the thirty-year-old man that he is. -Dinner ready yet? -Just about! Sit down, sit down. I’ll fetch you a beer. Ellie grabs a beer out of the fridge and hands it to Greg. The doorbell rings at the same time as the oven buzzer dings. Greg gestures at the television set with his bottle of beer. -Her again? -She’s my favorite. Ellie quickly brings Greg’s dinner over to him and runs to the front door, fluffing up her hair and smoothing out her dress to look more presentable. She opens the door to see her neighbor, Bill, holding a few letters. -Excuse me, Ellie May, but they delivered your mail to my door again! -Darn, I told the mailman that this keeps happening, and he said, he told me, he was going to be more careful next time. -I swear, if he does this again, I’m just going to apply for his job and take over passing out mail to this block! Ellie lets out a laugh, putting a hand over her mouth to try to cover up her blushing. Bill smiles at her too; he always enjoys her company. Greg shouts from the kitchen, annoyed at their exchange. -Ellie who the hell is that? -Darling, it’s just Bill. It’s just Bill, darling! I’ll be right back. Ellie smiles back at Bill, a hint of sadness in her eyes now. They both are about to start talking, and realize that the other person wants to speak. Ellie starts since ladies first. -Well, I should be going. -Yeah, me too. Just wanted to drop that off. -Thank you. Ellie twirls a little in her dress and shuts the door. Bye, Bill. She lackadaisically sorts through the mail as she makes her way back to the kitchen. Greg loudly eats his meatloaf. -What did he want? -Just giving us some of our mail that was accidentally delivered to him. -Doubt that. From the television, Marcella is still giving instructions on cooking a turkey. Ellie’s ingredients look abandoned, just sprawled out on the counter. Greg’s chewing is so loud that he doesn’t hear the television, only Ellie does. -Let’s get to chopping! The key to good locks is not strength; it is all about good technique. When you apply your technique you need to be sure that you don't support the joint, since you are trying to lock it. Greg stands up, with an intense anger boiling deep in him. Ellie shifts her eyes from Marcella on the television
The clock struck six o’clock, and Ellie’s finger struck the power button on the television. It’s finally time for Cooking with Marcella. Her focus flickers between the television and where she’s walking, her upper lip quivering in an attempt to conceal her smile. The television roars to life with the opening credits for Strike it Rich. Ellie stops in her tracks. She slowly turns around and walks back to the television set, incredulous at what she’s watching. -Strike it Rich is brought to you by Colgate! Now with new Guardol, an invisible shield to help fight tooth decay! Now, here’s your host, Warren Hull! -Hope the sun keeps on shining for you today, and even if it doesn’t, let’s make you some money! Ellie sits on the couch, mouth agape, completely forgetting about the show’s schedule change, which she’d previously thought was an error. She turns the television off. It’s quiet again, just like she likes it. She rests her head on the couch and closes her eyes. She tries to smile but a tear falls instead.
Greg is sound asleep, loudly snoring in their bedroom. Ellie accidentally falls asleep on the couch too. It’s two minutes to seven o’clock when she wakes up disheveled. Ellie thinks that perhaps Strike it Rich replacing Cooking with Marcella was part of a bad dream. She brushes off her dress and gets up quickly to turn the set back on. The credits of Strike it Rich are rolling as the announcer comes back on. -Stay tuned, because Cooking with Marcella is up next! Ellie immediately perks up. She looks at the clock, then back to the television. She knows she needs to have dinner ready by seven thirty for Greg, so she doesn’t have much time. She gets out all the ingredients for the preThanksgiving meal and prepares meatloaf, green peas, and skimmed potatoes for him. She can make his supper during the commercials, she tells herself. On the television, Marcella welcomes her viewers and tells them what she’s going to be cooking tonight. -Hello, my lovely ladies! Today I’m going to show you how to prepare for your Thanksgiving meal—in every sense of the word. We must, must, must prepare so we can avoid catastrophes. So go grab your turkey from the fridge and let’s get started. Ellie has her turkey already on the counter, eager to learn more from Marcella. She has all her ingredients organized in descending size from left to right. -Let’s begin by twisting the neck and giblets out of the cavity; similar to how your husband might grab your neck. Keep in mind that if he does this, the most important thing to do is to protect your head. So get rid of this liver by taking the time to scoop it all out of the bird, I mean really get it all out of there, and save it for the stuffing and gravy that we’ll make later. Ellie looks around, curious if what she heard was what Marcella actually said. She walks back over to the television set, turns it off, waits a second, and then turns it back on. -Next, dry the turkey with any ol’ napkin you can find. Dab, dab, dab it. And if your husband tries to jab, jab, jab it, for who knows what reason today, drop low and grab his 10
back to Greg, back to the television, and finally back to Greg. -If he grabs your wrist, which he will, because let’s face it—that’s his favorite way to discipline you, pull your wrist as close to your stomach as possible while jamming your other open palm into his chin—hard. He grabs her wrist again, this time it’s clear he just wants to harm her. Ellie looks back at the television. -You don’t pay attention to me. You just watch this machine and flirt with Bill. I’m sick of it. -Greg, please let go, you’re hurting me. -I will when I know you’re actually sorry. With a surge of confidence, but mainly bravery and Marcella’s voice in her head, Ellie jams her palm into Greg’s
chin as hard as she can. While he’s caught off guard, she then grabs his wrist and twists his arm around, causing him to fall to the floor. Ellie walks around on the other side of the kitchen island to get away from Greg. -I don’t want to hurt you. -Then don’t! -Come here. -No. -Ellie May. -No. Ellie walks back over to the couch to finish watching Marcella cook a nice Thanksgiving dinner. It’s hard for Ellie May, but she manages to hold back a huge smile.
Degrade
By Jonah Erickson
“The philosophy of the school room in one generation will be the philosophy of government in the next.” – Abraham Lincoln Tucker raised his eyes meekly to the poster on the classroom wall which read: “Once upon a time…” and on this poster there was a great castle and a knight in armor and a beautiful princess and a terrible dragon. Somewhere inside the castle, there was a King and a Queen and a wise old sage or wizard, or at least he imagined that it might be so. On the ground near his feet, a crumpled piece of paper was tediously decorated with times tables. Tucker recited these in his head: seven times two is fourteen, seven times three is twenty-one, seven times four is twenty-eight… He sat timidly beside his mother while she and Ms. Lock talked about grown-up things. Staring out of the classroom window longingly, he held in a heavy sigh. All of the other children were playing games and running around, enjoying their class recess, while Tucker was forced to stay in the stuffy classroom and suffer. Unable to participate in the grownup conversation going on above his head, he alternated his melancholic gaze between the window and his lap. “I see,” his mother was saying. She sounded like she did not see. Tucker looked up for a moment and caught the sting of his mother’s tightly pursed lips. His little heart fluttered. He looked back down, unsure whether her wrath was meant for him, or if it was because of him. He felt vaguely guilty of something, yet he thought to blame Ms. Lock and her knowit-all stubbornness for whatever conflict was passing before him. He began to squirm about anxiously. Prose
“Do you have something to say, Tucker?” Ms. Lock suddenly asked him. He froze in his seat and his little heart began to race. He did not look up, afraid that if he did, his feelings about Ms. Lock would surface and get him into even more trouble. His little mind began to rocket and fire, speeding into a rushing whirlwind of thoughts. It was an unstoppable train going faster...... faster… faster, faster, faster faster faster— Because Ms. Lock wasn’t exactly mean but neither was she particularly nice and it was mostly her know-it-all attitude that he disliked because he would have assumed (being an eight-year-old) that being a grown-up automatically meant that you knew more than an eight-year-old but he wasn’t so sure nowadays… Because there was Mrs. Sawaya and Mrs. Sawaya was really nice; she was a real teacher and she taught Tucker when he was a seven-year-old, the second grade, which seemed like a long time ago, and when she taught, it made him feel intelligent because when he finally understood something, Mrs. Sawaya made him feel like he had accomplished something, and not just any kind of thing, but something that really mattered and that made him want to learn, and want to succeed, and Mrs. Sawaya made him feel like that… But Ms. Lock made him feel dumb, made him feel stupid for learning because when he asked her for help, she acted like he was bothering her and she was always sighing and saying “let’s get this over with” really quietly under her 11
ART // ALLIE SULLBERG
breath almost a whisper and maybe she didn’t think that he could hear her say that but it made him feel afraid to say anything, to ask for help, to try... A tear formed in his little heart and a warm thought diverted his internal outburst. Because then there was Dad. Every night, Dad told him that he could do anything in the world—even things that other people said were impossible—if he had faith, and if he set his mind and his heart to it. He warned Tucker about “naysayers.” Dad was a writer and a professor, and Dad said that in the beginning he faced a lot of “naysayers.” He said that there were times when he doubted himself, but Mom had believed in him, and Grandma, and Grandpa, and Uncle Roy had believed in him, and he had believed in himself, and he said that those things made him into a good writer. So Dad’s life was proof… and he just needed to believe what Dad told him. So maybe Ms. Lock was his first real “naysayer.” But how? He always pictured a “naysayer” to be bent over, wrinkly, decrepit, foul, evil-looking, saggy, bulbous, mean… He certainly didn’t feel that harshly towards Ms. Lock; she wasn’t that bad! Could she be a “naysayer?” He would have to ask Dad… The tears in his little heart reached his eyes. He opened them as wide as he could and looked down, hoping that the tears would not fall. “Tucker?” Ms. Lock asked blankly, startling him deeply and causing him to jump. She had a unique tone of condescension and pandering especially for Tucker. She was using it now. “Tucker? I asked you a question,” she reminded him, speaking slowly, dumbly. Most of the time—including now—she wondered why she even bothered. The boy had put on a squeamish little heavy breathing act which not only failed to make her sympathetic to his cause, but which had aggravated her. She sighed dolefully as she saw that it clearly drew sympathy from the boy’s mother. Later that night, a cheap bottle of wine would have to make up for her wasted recess. Tucker thought nothing of Ms. Lock, but tried desperately to contain his tears. Several miles away, Tucker’s father felt a strange and inexplicable tug at his heart. Guided by no particular logic, he found his thoughts directed towards his son and wife, who he knew were supposed to be in a meeting with Tucker’s teacher. He frowned pensively, habitually adjusting the balance of his reading glasses and glancing down at the watch on his delicate and sturdy wrist. He was standing on a stage in front of two hundred or so university students, about to present an eagerly anticipated and controversial lecture on the shortcomings of secular ethics. Though it might have seemed to the entire class that Professor Jameson was merely closing his eyes, perhaps dozing upright before an intensive lecture presentation, he was actually actively engaged in earnest prayer to his Lord and Savior, within whom he fully trusted the wellbeing of his wife and child: “Heavenly Father, I don’t understand what’s going on, but
I feel the need to pray for my boy. I know that this is a feeling that must be of you and so I thank you. Lord, give him peace and keep him safe; give Carol strength, patience, and wisdom in her decisions. I wish I could be there. Amen.” In the stuffy classroom, Tucker’s mother narrowed her eyes and stirred in her seat. Tucker had kept his head down all the while, unwilling to respond to Ms. Lock or look up and grant her eye contact. He heard her sigh dolefully, then felt the safety of his mother’s hand enclose over his shoulders. In that moment, it was bliss. His mother spoke: “I am going to keep Tucker in regular classes for the time being,” she said with authority. “He has really a bright mind, and trust me I would know if he needed to be put in a special education program. If that were the case, I would do so gladly.” Ms. Lock began to counter. “I’m sorry, Carol, but I think—” “—That would be Mrs. Jameson.” Tucker’s mother smiled tiredly. A shock of indignation flashed across Tucker’s downcast eyes. Ms. Lock turned red and attempted to backtrack. “Ah… well I meant: Mrs. Jameson; that is—” Ms. Lock cleared her throat and tried to jar loose the phlegmy remains of her pride. “Mrs. Jameson: Tucker fails test after test, never turns in homework, never does classwork, he’s antisocial, he’s… An unattentive twit if you ask me and here I am just blah blah defending myself like I didn’t go to college to do this stupid job in the first place and got convinced to do this when I could’ve been… a different thing… better pay…” Ms. Lock paused and bared her teeth in an effigy of a smile. “Look I’m not saying that he’s not bright,” she continued, “but trust me: I’ve thought through all of the reasons why he should be moved to special education. I think that you should...” Ms. Lock faltered, recognizing the dangerous territory into which she entered. “Well, start by looking into various learning disorders and…
He looked up at her apologetically. “I need you to do better on your tests and homework, okay?” He frowned. “I got a perfect score on my writing exam,” he said quietly. “I know honey, I saw. I’m so proud of you. But I need you to show your teacher that you can do the other subjects too.” Tucker’s head drooped. “She’s a ‘naysayer,’” he lamented. Carol closed her eyes as a wave of sudden joy threatened to crash over the shores of her resolve. She almost laughed and cried and hugged her son all at once. Maybe he was right to dislike Ms. Lock, but what brought her heart such gladness was seeing how the mind of the child was impossibly sensitive to injustice. It could peer through every crack in society’s veneer and see on the other side what was righteous and true. Uninhibited by the vices of adulthood, it could imagine itself a part of that better Way, regardless of society’s demands for a systematic and practical solution. She kissed him on the forehead and squeezed his hand tenderly. “I’ll see you after school, okay? We’re going to try and get you into a different class.” Tucker’s eyes grew bright and hopeful. “Okay,” she said, placing a hand on one cheek and then kissing it. “Be good.” She turned to leave. Tucker watched longingly until she had disappeared into the mysterious world of grown-ups. A grey and undefined cloud seemed to enclose her receding figure, leaving him with the impression that somewhere, it was raining. When she had disappeared entirely, he listlessly fell into line with the other children, each of them shuffling into the classroom on the wings of an assembly line. Inside the stuffy classroom, Tucker watched everything. He watched the other students. Some were bigger than him, but some were smaller. He wondered why that was. He imagined that maybe their parents fed them different foods, and that maybe some of the smaller kids were fed smaller foods, maybe little baby corn and peas. He tried to avoid looking at Ms. Lock. She still seemed a bit red, and she seemed more flustered than usual. He felt bad for her. “Okay class, take out your multiplication tables.” Tucker sighed and reached into his desk to withdraw a single, slightly crumpled sheet. On it was a list of all of the times tables he had to learn. He had memorized them all, and now looked at them blankly, feeling as though they were base and pointless observations. He wondered where numbers came from. Why did this symbol mean ‘one,’ and another mean ‘two?’ “Who can tell me what three times two is?” Tucker continued to look down. It was strange to him that saying three times two was the same as saying three plus three. It seemed that multiplication was far stronger than addition. He felt as though he could get to higher numbers much easier. “Ooo Ooo Ooo!” said a little voice in the front of the class. That would be Peter, making the monkey noises. Ms.
I do think that Tucker is very smart, but I earned a degree in education; it is my job to be able to make these decisions… I think you should trust my judgement.” Now and only now did Tucker look up at Ms. Lock. Silence ensued. Her face was flushed, but not as flushed as it was about to be. A thick film of dull sweat covered her face in an unconscious effort to shield her from her opponent’s glare. He did not have to turn his head to see his mother’s icy stare, calm as the eye of a hurricane. “Ms. Lock,” she said calmly. “I appreciate your... concern…. for Tucker. At the risk of sounding prideful, I believe that my degrees in both developmental psychology and special education render me the greater authority in this scenario. That being said, something you have neglected to mention in this conversation is the radical change in Tucker’s performance in the transition between the second and third grade. It does not take someone of my accomplishment to see the correlation between Tucker’s lack of interest in completing coursework, and his instructor’s lack of interest in the wellbeing of the class and of its individuals.” Ms. Lock’s face flushed in embarrassment. Tucker—for the first time since he had been detained—exhaled. His mother let the silence smother Ms. Lock, utterly victorious. Before Ms. Lock could rejoin, the bell ending class recess rendered her dignity unsalvageable. Catching the warmth of Tucker’s childish expression of relief, she further reddened to a deep purple hue, then dismissed the two of them so that she could prepare the materials for math class. Gripping his mother’s hand, Tucker allowed himself to be led out of the classroom. In his mind, something had been accomplished; a victory had been won. Once they were far enough away from the line of schoolchildren gathering at the door, Tucker’s mother stopped and turned to face him. “Tucker,” she said, kneeling. Prose
13
Lock didn’t like the monkey noises, she preferred dead silent noises. “Yes, Peter?” she sighed. Tucker looked up just in time to see Peter’s overzealous hand shoot back down to earth, and when it came to a slapping halt on the desk, he yelled: “Six!” Both Tucker and Ms. Lock resisted the urge to roll their eyes, he at what he considered a display of doglike obedience, she at what she considered the culmination of her fruitless efforts. “Yes. Six. That’s very good, Peter. Now, who can tell me seven times four?” Tucker began again to look down, but in the corner of his eye he caught a magnificent scene. Two seats behind Peter, Sarah was reading a book. His little heart began to race at this secret act of rebellion. Silently he urged her on, applauding her and worshipping her for her boldness. Sarah was Tucker’s closest friend. She was never mean to him, and never called him names, and seemed to be so much wiser and kinder than any other person he knew. It was no secret that she was the best writer and reader in the class. Tucker liked to sit and listen to Sarah explain things to him; he listened with almost reverent intent as she spoke on all subjects. A verbal sigh emanated out from the front of the classroom. “Sarah, please put the book away, this is math time not reading time.” Fear gripped the room, bringing the already stale quiet to a wretched silence. Sarah turned stiff, and though Tucker could not see her face, he could feel the tears that welled in her eyes. Stunned and unable to move, Sarah pushed the book out of her lap and onto the ground. Its spine cracked loudly when it hit the ground. Tucker watched, horrified as it rolled over limp onto its side like a dead, lifeless corpse. His heart swelled in a rage. “Seven times four,” Ms. Lock said, exasperated. Tucker glared at Ms. Lock in bitter fury. He waited until she made eye contact with him. She might have flinched internally, but if she did, it did not make its way past the thick wall of apathy in her eyes. She wondered how many hours were left before she could go home. “Tucker?” she said. He gathered up in himself the thoughts of all the things he could say. He had been handed a moment of opportunity to use his voice, like his mom, like his dad. “Nothing,” he whispered as steadily as he could. Ms. Lock looked confused. She cocked her head to one side as though it was detached from her body. “Seven times four? Really?” “Nothing,” he repeated more loudly. Ms. Lock shook her head as though shaking off a fly. “Nope, I’m sorry. Can anyone else—” “Nothing!” Tucker shouted. He stood out of his seat and picked up his backpack. He stood now for his mom, his dad, Sarah, even Peter. With all
of his might, he pointed a little finger into the barren soul of Ms. Lock and released his mind into the cold, hard world of the adult. “Seven times four is nothing when it is taught by you! Aren’t you supposed to be a grown-up? You would think that you would have learned how to be happy by now, or learned what life is all about, but you haven’t! Over and over and over again you teach all these numbers, and all these facts, and you don’t know anything about what they mean. You just come every day and act like you know everything, and you act like I’m stupid, and you make me feel stupid, but you’re the stupid one!” He was shouting and while he was shouting he was becoming increasingly terrified, but the look on Ms. Lock’s face at least let him know that he was not alone. They were together wrapped in confusion and spite, knowledge and ignorance, illusions and truths. Tucker almost stopped and fled, but he looked to Sarah. She had picked up her book and placed it on her desk, where it no longer had the appearance of a limp, lifeless corpse. Her eyes looked up at him in wonder, and for a moment he saw himself through her eyes, through the eyes of the one whom he most admired. It occurred to him that he was doing a very brave and a very foolish thing. Spurred on by Sarah’s silent support, he stood fast and looked for a way to calmly resolve the situation that he had created. “I am leaving this nonsense behind,” he declared. “I will not be like you. What makes me happy is praising God and following Him, and helping people and reading and writing and learning new things and sharing ideas with people. And I don’t need to do that here…” He paused, as the look on Ms. Lock’s face dropped to a profound sadness. Filled with a sudden compassion for her, he changed his tone. “I feel sorry for you, Ms. Lock. You should go find something that makes you happy. Maybe God will make you happy, I don’t know though. I know that you don’t love teaching, so maybe there is something else that you do love.” Sarah stood up suddenly and walked over to him with her backpack and her book. She took his hand and smiled at him. He suddenly felt very old. Behind Sarah, Ms. Lock sat down with her face in her hands. Purged of his fury, he turned to leave quietly. In the doorway, he thought to say one thing to Ms. Lock that might give her hope. “Ms. Lock,” he called. She looked up, red in the face, this time from crying. Tucker turned to look outside the classroom, embarrassed, and he wondered if it was really possible to live happily ever after, or if there must be more to it all, or perhaps nothing at the end of it all. He turned back to Ms. Lock, sad that he had made her feel miserable when all that she was doing was something that someone else had told her was the thing to do. She wasn’t mean, she just didn’t think that there was hope for herself, or for anything, maybe. He sighed and turned back around to leave it all behind for good. “Seven times four is twenty-one,” he said. 14
LARK VILLA VOODOO Emily Balaguer The hallway leading up to our front door was long and thin and had bright lights creating an almost-surgical ambiance. Its carpeting smelled of cat fur and kimchi. And the woman who lived across that hallway from us looked like she could have been 103. Her skin hung off her body the same way drapes sway and cling to a window in the wind. In my time living across the hallway from her, I gathered that she suffered from post-traumatic stress disorder, although I was never quite sure from what. Together, her thick Persian accent and my juvenile impatience prevented me from ever understanding or remembering her name. So, I gave her a pseudo-Persian-sounding nickname, Efarbna, and because Mom and Dad thought it was funny, our family referred to her as such behind her back for fifteen years. We never attempted to learn her real name; Efarbna was good enough for us. The man who lived directly below us was bald and 65 and died his little ring of gray hair dark and tanned his skin with some kind of orange substance that looked like it might come off if it was rubbed against. Periodically, he’d come charging up to our unit, screaming that our pet bird-named Navin, after Steve Martin’s character in The Jerk-was chirping too loudly. So Mom nicknamed him The Bird Man, and we would joke about his odd hair and skin tones over dinner. One day, after living on top of him and running Prose
into him in the mail room for eight years, I stepped into the elevator, and found The Bird Man standing there, smiling at me. It was the first time I’d ever seen him smile. He began asking me questions about myself-- what grade was I in, and what was my favorite thing to study, and how did I like living all the way up on the third floor? Suddenly, after eight years, I had become somebody that The Bird Man had an interest in. I didn’t find this so peculiar as I did him asking me my name on his way out the elevator. He said it with his shiny, tanned head half-cocked and a little to the side as he swiveled to look at me standing behind him. If it had been a movie and the volume was muted, I would have guessed he was saying something like, “Nice to see you,” or, “Say hello to your parents for me.” But he wasn’t saying any of those kinds of things; he was asking me something he should have asked me years ago. That encounter led me to believe that there must be some cut-off to the time frame in which it is acceptable to ask people what their names are. It made me feel justified in my permanent nick-naming of Efarbna. Swallowing a slow giggle at the situation, I blinked. “Emily.” I remember going to my friends’ apartment buildings after school and riding in elevators with their neighbors. I remember those encounters seeming a little less off-putting. My friends were cordial with their neighbors, and their neighbors were cordial with them; they’d lend each other 15
books, bring by leftovers, and walk their dogs together. Until then, I’d always been confused by the adjective, ‘neighborly,’ as referring to someone as friendly, because my neighbors were weird and angry and sometimes looked constipated and would make our hallways smell putrid when they dragged their slimy, dripping trash bags down to the garbage shoot, leaving a stained trail of that week’s kimchi tears behind on our hallway’s carpet. ‘Neighborly’ had always been synonymous with ‘weird’ or ‘creepy’ in my head. Mom said our apartment complex must have been built on some kind of ancient burial ground, because none of the people living there could seem to get along. Sometimes I’d lay awake in bed at night and hear my neighbors screaming. The shouts were always muted enough so that I could not identify what they were saying or who they belonged to, but loud enough that they’d wake me up. And they’d wake Mom up, too. But Dad would sleep through. Mom would lay awake in bed, at first enraged, and then sad, and finally scared, until she’d be shaking and convulsing and having what Dr. Strok referred to as “panic attacks”. Dad never knew how to respond to these. He’d tug on the hair by his temples and breathe really heavy, finally submitting to the authority of medical professionals. One time, Mom said that Dad dropped her off at the hospital in the middle of the night during one of her episodes and told her to call him when she was ready to come home. That was when she decided to divorce him. I remember the last time I was inside that apartment building well. It was late-July, and gnats hung low in the stagnant air. I made up to be in a hurry and, in some sense, I was. My steps hit the rough wood floor hard, and through the doorway, I could see the hallway. “Emily!”
ART // LAUREN WICKS
I spun around to face him, losing sight of that hallway, my escape. “What?” “Just wait. Just...” His words hung out to dry, as if waiting for something to make them wet again. “Just what?” “Just... don’t forget anything.” A rogue tear rolled down his scruffy, scarred cheek, and in that moment I remembered he was my father. Soft and sweet, those dark brown eyes. I realized that what was happening wasn’t his fault, or anyone’s for that matter. I realized that we all process pain differently, and we all have different emotional capacities-- different limits. For a moment, I wasn’t mad. “I know, Dad. I won’t.” I turned around again to find that hallway looking at me with its bright lights and mysterious odors. As I walked, I focused on the softness of carpet absorbing my shoes and forgiving my crude steps. I tried to keep my cheeks dry with my lips instead of my eyes. I whispered words that were brittle and belonged in the desert. Because sometimes the only way to keep yourself from getting damp is to bury yourself deep in some sand. Because feeling angry is easier than feeling sad. Maybe that apartment was cursed. Maybe it wasn’t. Maybe those hallways were possessed by something more than just trash bags and bad juju. Maybe they held the keys to understanding who I am today. All these names, all these people in my life that pass by me in hallways… I form my opinions of them, with or without knowing who they even are to themselves. But, with the passage of more and more time, I find my perceptions of these people-- of Efarbna, of The Bird Man-changing constantly, although I still do not know their names.
It’s Lucifer // Max Goldenstein Lucifer cracked his eyes and stared around his studio apartment. He looked at his Ikea bookshelf, his two-year-old, Black Friday TV, his black Sabbath poster, and then pulled his pentagram-patterned blanket over his head. After hitting his snooze button for a third time, Lucifer put his hooves on his hardwood floor, scratched the skin around his horns, and got out of bed. After showering, brushing his teeth, and shining his scalp, he reached for his phone to check the weather. “Sunny again, gotta love LA,” he muttered to himself. Lucifer opened his closet to remove a pair of faded corduroy shorts, a white t-shirt, denim over shirt, and a pair of sandals. He looked in the mirror and sucked in. “You fat piece of crap,” Lucifer said. “Gotta call Terry to set up more personal training time.” Lucifer grabbed his phone, keys, and sunglasses as he walked out of his house, locking the door behind him. You’d have to be a fool to break into the dark lord’s house, but then again there are a lot of fools in the world. Lucifer lived a block away from the main stretch of Venice beach. Walking into his favorite brunch joint, Sunny Spot, he saw his friend sitting at a table outside. “Satan!” Beezlebub shouted at him. “Dude!” Lucifer barked, “You know it’s Lucifer now. I’m trying to change my image. No girls want to talk to the lord of darkness. They want to talk to someone exotic. They want to talk to Lucifer.” “Satan, no one calls Dwayne Johnson ‘Dwayne Johnson,’ they call him ‘THE ROCK.’ You’re Satan man! I bet all those scene girls dig it!” retorted Beelzebub. “Well honestly after Miranda, Starfire, and Jade I’m kind of burnt out on the whole ‘emo’ thing,” Lucifer replied. “Remember goth? That was cool. And not this black lipstick at Coachella shit, I’m talking séances in your grandma’s basement goth. Great way to meet girls” “The good old days,” said Beelzebub, whimsically. “But you know this ‘Lucifer’ thing is going to take some getting used to Sata- I mean Lucifer.” The waiter came and took their order. Beezlebub ordered the eggs benedict. Lucifer ordered the Paleo scramble, just what Terry his trainer had recommended weeks prior. “So did you hear about the party tonight?” Beelzebub said with a mouth full of runny, poached egg. “Where?” said Lucifer. “It’s at Pontius Pilate’s house” Prose
“Oh shit, Pontius is having one of his ragers?!” said Lucifer. “Fuck yeah! And he’s doing it classic roman style. We are talking fountains of wine, orgies, the whole shebang. It’s gonna be wild” exclaimed Beezlebub. “Yes I am so stoked. If I can get one of those Roman, wannabe Greek Goddess girls to smoke Frankincense with me afterwards I know I can seal the deal.” “Satan! You dog!” yelled Beezlebub. “It’s LUCIFER now!” said Lucifer, sternly. “Right, right” whimpered Beezlebub. After finishing up brunch and running some errands, Lucifer decided it was time to get ready for the party. He pulled out his suede baby blue suit which perfectly complimented his deep red skin. He applied polish to his horns to achieve that perfect shimmer and clipped his hooves and claws for the ultimate manicured look. Truthfully, Lucifer was looking pretty gosh darn slick. He ordered his Uber, and headed to West Hollywood. As he arrived at the gates a burly security guard greeted him. “Yo what’s up man, your name on the list?” “Uh, yeah, it’s Lucifer?” “Hmmmm… no I don’t see any Lucifer” said the guard. “Look man, I know Pontius. I have for a long time! Hell we went golfing out at Caddie Tip. I was the one that got him into that fucking place. You know how many strings I had to pull?! How many fucking people I had to trick into selling their souls?!” “Sorry man, there’s nothing I can do,” said the guard. Then there was a slight pause. Before walking away Lucifer looked back at the guard. “Is there a Satan on the list?” he questioned. After a few moments of checking the sheet the bouncer blurted out, “Aw yeah here you are! Hell you are pretty close to the top too. Why you gotta go and use some fucking pseudonym on me Satan? Go on inside.” “Thanks,” said Lucifer. Fucking Satan, thought Lucifer. As Lucifer entered the party it was everything he could have expected and then some. LA’s crème de la crème all drinking wine, sharing hallucinogens, snorting coke off any surface they can find. Jack Nicholson was flirting with Mother Teresa and Martha Stewart. John the Baptist was taking handle-pulls in his underwear. Robert Pattinson was sharing mushrooms with Ares, God of War. Colossal fountains of angels spilled wine into great basins for movies stars and athletes alike to drink themselves silly. Piles of cocaine lay around like bales of hay, 17
ART // ALEX IVORY waiting to be snorted by Hollywood’s top dogs. There was foie gras pate, shrimp cocktail, caviar, and little grilled cheese sandwiches (which weren’t that classy but who doesn’t love a good grilled cheese, you know)? It was an epic party. It was a Roman party. Lucifer felt a tap on his shoulder. “What up mutha-fuckah!” yelled Beezlebub. “Oh shit wuddup homie. This party is off the hook!” said Lucifer. “Yeah dude, and have you seen Mary Magdalene tonight?” Beezlebub commented, “She’s looking oh so fine.” “Oh yeah I bet, she’s alwa-“ Lucifer stopped dead in his tracks. “Wait what the fuck did you just say?” “Mary’s here and I’d sure like to show her my second com-“ “Shut the fuck up! You idiot don’t you get it!” yelled Lucifer. “If Mary is here, that means…” Before he could finish the music stopped. A bright light appeared at the entrance of the party. Amongst the sounds of angel’s horns, Jesus Christ walked in wearing bleached white skinny jeans, a ragged Gucci tank top, $300 high tops, and a black leather motorcycle jacket with embroidery on the back that said “He is Risen.” Everyone began to cheer. Girls tried to wrap themselves around him. Guys tried to get high fives and fist bumps. Nothing could attract Jesus’ attention as he headed straight for Lucifer and Beelzebub. “What’s up Satan, didn’t know they were just letting anyone into this party,” said Jesus. “Oh um it’s Lucifer now. Kind of trying to do a brand renewal you know? Evil is kind of a thankless job. But yeah I was on this, Pontius and I play-“ “Yeah that’s cool. But what about this party man? Kinda lame right? I mean I’m not saying I’d rather be crucified again than have to talk to all these jerk offs but- (Jesus was interrupted to take a quick picture with Rob Schneider, doing his signature emo-gaze into the camera) but I mean I didn’t get two holes in the hand and a spear wound in the heart to be bored on a Friday night ya know?” “Uh, yeah” muttered Lucifer. Beelzebub interjected, “Oh Jesus, I saw your tweet from earlier it was so-“ “Sorry, who are you?” interrupted Jesus. “My dad didn’t give me these ears to listen to underling babble. Why don’t you go back to Hell?” Jesus then walked away and met up with Mary. “What’s up babe, let’s find some myrrh and get lit.” “Wow Jesus is such a dick!” exclaimed Beelzebub. “You go and die for a couple people’s sins and BOOM you think you can walk on water or something.” “Well…” said Lucifer. “Oh shit, right. Well you get what I mean.” The two sat there in stillness until Lucifer had an epiphany. “Oh Shit! Beelzebub. If Pontius knows that Jesus is here is going to throw a fucking fit!” “Oh shit you’re totally right.” “Fuck, what are we going to do, I don’t want this party to end. I haven’t even talked to any girls yet!”
The two sat there in thought and came to the same conclusion. Sorrow-filled, Beelzebub looked at Lucifer. “Satan, you know what you have to do.” “Ugh, I know,” Lucifer replied. Lucifer waded through the celebrities and bible-folk until he found Jesus stuffing his face with foie gras. “I thought we were done talking Sata-“ But before Jesus could finish his sentence, Lucifer gave him a right hook across the face. Blood and bloated duck liver stained the floor. “WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK,” Jesus screamed. “YOU MOTHER FUCKER, STILL FUCKING BITTER HUH? WELL FUCK YOU, AND FUCK THIS PARTY. WHEN MY DAD FUCKING HEARS ABOUT THIS HE’S GOING TO GO OLD TESTAMENT ON YOUR ASS. I’M TALKING LOCUSTS AND DEAD FIRST-BORNS YOU PIECE OF SHIT.” Jesus grabbed Mary and stormed out of the party. After the encounter a few people began to boo. Eventually the “boo’s” became a thunderous roar. People began pushing Lucifer, pouring wine on him and dousing him in handfuls of cocaine. Beelzebub grabbed Lucifer and pulled him out of the party. Outside the gates they got to Beelzebub’s car. From the distance they could hear the party was back in order. People cheered and were merry, continuing their binging and lives of excess. Lucifer turned to Beelzebub. “No one likes doing evil. It’s a thankless job to do.” So that night, Satan and Beelzebub went to their local tattoo parlor, and got matching pentagram tattoos.
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ART // ARTHUR NGUYEN
Prose
Oysters By Baily Rossi
The bartender kept coming up to my father and I at the bar to refill our drinks. I had some water, and my father was drinking straight vodka. Actually, scratch that! He corrected me and said it was vodka with olives. My mistake. “I’m proud of you man.” He’d splash the kettle one over my father’s glass: “You look good. Really good!” My dad had lost 40 pounds in the last six months because my step-mom Georgia and him went on a break. I suppose he finally felt like he had something to run from. “I feel good. I really do.” He continued to slur out a couple of words I couldn’t make out, partly because he was thoroughly hammered, but also because he didn’t seem to be talking to anyone but himself. I took a sip of my water, silent. We stood at the outside bar attached to Brophy Bro’s fish house in the Santa Barbara Harbor. I had originally thought we were going to a sit down dinner, but I suppose it would be asking my father too much to wait twenty minutes for a table. I had picked him up from my step-mom’s about 40 minutes previous to his fourth “vodka with olives”, and we had just finished a second plate of oysters. I hate oysters. “You look beautiful baby doll.” “Thanks dad, I appreciate that.” “No, looove bug! You look beautiful, like a grown woman-” He took a quick sip of his drink and set it back on the bar top, “-I’m so proud of you… Want to get more oysters?”
closer. I felt like my nerves couldn’t breathe; my thoughts were being choked and filled with discomfort. “Aw, look at my baby doll. You love your daddy.” My face flushed with strains of agitation, probably looking as distraught as I felt. He let go of me after giving me a wet kiss on the cheek and one last choking squeeze. I tried to center myself back on my water glass; thrown off by the drunken shit show I was being forced to take part in. Was I being forced though? Couldn’t I leave and make him get a taxi? Why was I still standing here with him? I looked up and saw a woman looking at me from across the bar. She was with her husband, and looked like a typical middle class lady out for a drink after her nine-to-five job. She was looking at me like I had nothing; I felt holes burning into the core of my ego and shrapnel piercing my thoughts. She was looking at me with pity… gentle pity. “Fuck you.” I thought to myself. Although I couldn’t really tell who it was pointed at: my dad, this random lady, myself. Or maybe it was directed at everyone. “How was San Luis doll?” He took a think gulp from his glass. “It was fun. We went to some concert… a DJ.” I had fixed my eyes on my water. “I’ve been to some great concerts. And I’ve been to SLO. Did you get fucked up? It gets wild up there.” I didn’t respond to this question because 1.) What a wildly inappropriate thing to ask your 19-year-old daughter and 2.) He still wasn’t having a conversation with me. He was having a conversation with himself. The bartender came up to us again, “I’m proud of you man. I heard you talking about oysters. Want more oysters?” “What do you think, baby doll?” He turned to me,
I felt a disconnect in his words creating gaps in our conversation. The words he spewed seemed to be scrambling around his brain, like eggs frying on a pan. A mind of drunken chaos rather than sober clarity: “Thanks dad.” He started wrapping his arm around my neck, pulling me into him tightly. I started wiggling, hoping to escape his disoriented and misplaced affection, but he kept holding me
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leaning his left elbow into the bar and nudging me with his right. “I’m pretty full actually, and I don’t really lik-” “Yeah! Get us some more oysters!” He high fives the bartender and they both laughed. I realized this guy looked like Ernest Hemingway if he would have made it ten more years. His hair was thick and curly, but short, and his skin was wrinkled and tanned by the sun. He smelt like rum and cigars. That pissed me off. He started topping off my dad’s “vodka and olives” again, “Awesome, they’ll be out soon. I’m proud of you, man.” He left us alone again.
He handed me an oyster and scooped horseradish onto it. He suddenly spoke, “I just don’t want to call or answer anymore baby doll.” He sounded like a deflated balloon, and I felt like all of the oxygen had been wasted on something that wanted to pop. The entirety of my being began thickening with blood that didn’t know where to go. You didn’t want to call or answer? What are you fucking doing if you aren’t calling and answering? That’s called being alive you drunk fuck. “I just want to live for me. No obligation.” Wasn’t I an obligation? Was I something he didn’t want to call or answer to? What about his obligation to alcohol? Which OBLIGATION is more troublesome? I looked down at the oyster in my hand and set it back down on the plate in front of us. I wouldn’t eat it anymore. My dad didn’t seem to notice. “I don’t like oysters, dad.” He responded silently by throwing his head back and sucking down his slimy food. He ate the entire plate by himself, while I watched silently. The night officially ended when he tried to shove a slice of table bread in my face. We paid the bill and the bartender handed us our receipt: “I’m proud of you, man. See you soon. Take it easy.” We walked past some docks in the harbor, lightly lit by salty sea lamps. He held onto me and leaned a solid 70% of his bodyweight on mine. His steps were jagged and rough, like his speech. I tried to show him a seal popping up near us in the water, but he claimed his eyes were bad and he couldn’t see. “How was San Luis, baby doll?” “It was fine dad, it was fun.” “Yeah, SLO is fun… You’re so beautiful.” “Thanks, I appreciate that dad.”
I turned myself so my back was against the bar, my body facing out towards the lufting sails in the harbor. I stared out into the darkness, consumed by the man standing next to me: my father, or so he claims to be. The man who helped in creating my very existence. I couldn’t decide if he was a father or biological predecessor. I felt my dad move closer to me, our right shoulders touching, “Baby doll, please don’t tell Georgia about this. About me being drunk.” I felt something sticking to my throat, hanging there like a breath that had suddenly solidified. “I know I’m drunk, but things are real good between us. I don’t want to lose her again.” What about losing me? Where was my apology? “Sorry I got trashed, baby doll.” “Sorry we couldn’t grab a normal dinner together, baby doll.” “Sorry I’ve ruined your trust in men, baby doll.” “Sorry I made you eat oysters even though you fucking hate oysters, baby doll.” Did he even know me? Did the man standing next to me connect that his very DNA was next to him? That blood that flowed through his veins pumped through mine, too? “Yeah, dad. I got it. I wouldn’t say anything anyways.” Why? Why wouldn’t I say something? Why was I set on protecting the drunken stranger standing next to me? I suddenly felt all these questions pause for a moment, murdered something more interesting: was I trying to protect his addiction or my dignity? He hung his head down and slowly rolled it back up. He closed his eyes and spoke, “I’m going to move to the South.” I laughed, genuinely amused, “Dad, you were born and raised in California. What business do you have in the South?” “I don’t know, Georgia’s from there and I’ve visited a couple of times… Life’s just slow there… I’m ready to start breathing again.” I thought that was funny; how alcohol really does make everyone sound much deeper than they are. The bartender came up and pushed our third plate of oysters on the bar behind me. He fist pumped my father: “Proud of you.” I flipped around to my father, who was grabbing money out of his wallet and slipping the guy a ten-dollar bill. He was making slight nudges into me, obviously off balance. Prose
We almost made it to the car without my father making a total fool of himself, but he insisted on telling a group of bikers that they were “fucking skin heads”. But they didn’t do anything and just looked at me with warning eyes. When we did make it to the car, he insisted on opening the driver’s door for me: “Never date a guy that doesn’t open the door for you, baby doll. Because that means he’s not a gentleman.” Is he a gentleman if he gets loaded every time we’re alone together, dad? Is a drunk a gentleman? Really dad, teach me. Be that guy that cooks his kids’ hot dogs and reads them bedtime stories. I may be 19, but it’s never too late to start. Come on, daddy, put me on your knee, bounce me around, and tell me all about being a gentleman. We started driving home and I put on my Bob Dylan CD so my dad would sing along instead of talking to me. He was just about screaming “Knockin’ on Heaven’s Door” when we finally pulled in the driveway. “Baby doll, you are SO beautiful.” He continued to kiss my head and slur words of affection at me as I walked him in the house. My step-mom was out 21
of town, thank god. He was lonely, and I knew that. I knew that, but it doesn’t mean I accepted that as a proper excuse. I showed him to their bed, and tucked him in as he rambled on about nonsense. When he finally nodded off to sleep, I mustered up the energy to leave him there. I made my way into the bathroom, and sat down to pee. I had this terrible flashback of when I was four, and I found my dad passed out in the bottom on his shower; the water pouring on him and vomit crusted on his mouth. I flushed the toilet and left the bathroom.
I made my way to the front door, at the end of this long, thin hallway, and opened the door to the cool air waiting outside. I asked myself how much warmer it was in this house, with my drunken father passed out in the bed just down the hall. I stood there in the doorway, my every shadow exposed by the moonlight peeking its way through my private moment, and I couldn’t help but feel angry: angry at him, my father. I was angry that he had forced my life into some irreversible cliché. The girl who would probably never receive proper love from her father, and fears she may never receive proper love from any man. But, in this moment of thought, I found that I wasn’t crying. I wasn’t crying about him, and I wasn’t crying about me. I had me. I love me. I had the choice to leave, and he could never take that from me. So, I left without saying goodbye because he had left me along time ago. I started driving back to UCSB, my thoughts becoming clearer as I drove down the freeway. I considered, in this space between where I was and where I’ll be, what it would feel like if he died. And I know that’s a fucked up thing to think about, and I’m in no way ready for that to happen. But, I thought about it. Vivid flashes of things uncertain began lighting up the question of “what if ”. I’d be overwhelmed with sadness, certainly; I’d cry and weep and scream because he’s my father… because even after all the bleak truth and pain, he’s my dad. But I think about after all that emotion. After the tears dry and the screams smother themselves with self-control, what would I feel? Regret, probably. Longing for a redraft, I hope not. And then comes something terribly wretched; a feeling I can’t seem to cast off. I fear a part of me would be slightly relieved; to no longer feel like I’m something to be answered and called to. Relieved that I don’t have to watch someone I love so much drown themselves in liquid relief that turns into throbbing headaches. Relieved that I wouldn’t have to keep swallowing oysters. “I’m proud of you, man.”
I found myself wandering through the house; mentally glued to all the antiques and Southern memorabilia fillings it’s spaces. There were first edition novels, European silver, washed out photos from the late 1800’s. The house was a hanging novelty in the memories of experience. Its entirety was decorated by times that carried themselves into the present. And, walking down the long hallways of my stepmoms house, a part of me wished to be in a time much simpler than the second I was living in. I felt like I was dangling in a time where my dad ordered two “vodka and olives” and told me he never wanted to call or answer to anyone. My world stopped spinning for a split second, like a heart skips a beat, and I didn’t know where either of us stood in the cliché of life. Having your father look at you with a drunken look glazed across his face is like having your future look at you and say, “I’m waiting”. It’s helpless, and terrifying. Was he ever going to start moving, and was I ever going to stop? Was I ever going to sit at dinner with my child and tell them through drunken slurs that I love them? Was he ever going to stop calling or answering, and would I ever understand what it feels like to not want to call or answer?
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Avoidance
by Veronica Nakla for him to ask you anything, he was wondering why you said something in the first place. So to cut short your anxious apprehensions about thoughts you’d never truly know, you turn towards the knob, opening the door and stepping outside. Mist immediately attached itself to your skin, and as you inhaled, it aligned itself inside you. Your nausea came back. 6565 Sabado Tarde was not very far from 851 Camino Pescadero if you had a bike or a car, but when you had your own two feet and an upset stomach, everything was suddenly so much farther—like, the Shire to Mordor far. In the unbroken sunlight, the faint odor of rotting vegetables from the garbage can, you begin your trek home, that odor not as pungent as the faint smell of fish scales and damp mold that dominated the general college town. You slip on your shoes once you walk on the gravel, trying to avoid unnecessary pain. While you had a late night, others had an early one. Bikers were nonexistent for the moment, but all you had to do was turn your head, past the wooden fence of 6563 Sabado Tarde and see them cycling past each other. If your brain was slamming itself against your skull harder than now, or if your stomach was upturned like a flopping, suffocated fish, you might have taken the two minute walk to the new 7/11 towards the western direction. But you had to get home; you had to wash the previous night off. Glancing around, seeing no cyclists or vehiclists, you cross the street, reaching the other side of the road and continuing forward, your purple flats offer no protection against the millions of grains of sand on the pathway that crosses through Little Acorn Park. The walk ended with a large stone, multicolored mosaic stones and glass on the ground to commemorate some people you didn’t know— presumably they’d died. And you’d always wanted to look up their names, to make sure that you weren’t feeling some superficial pity without cause, that they weren’t just important people who’d contributed to making Little Acorn Park. At least once you passed through Little Acorn Park, you could take a sharp left and adorn yourself in the love of all things bagel—plain bagel, cream cheese slathered on or something a little more intricately made, perhaps a Phinest, a grainy hummus spread with slices of soft green avocado and strips of crisped, lukewarm bacon. Topped with a thick slice of cold deli turkey, breakfast never sounded so good. Unless Bagel paradise wasn’t your destination and all you wanted to do was get to your own home with your own bathroom in which you could keel over your own porcelain basin, and ignoring all other scents, empty the contents of your alcohol-sick stomach. So you took a journey, a small journey through the small college town you called a temporary home, passing Bagel
There is nothing more nauseating than waking up in a bed that is not your own on a Saturday morning. And not because it is not your own, but because you realize if the bed isn’t your own, then the apartment isn’t your own, and if the apartment isn’t your own, you can’t comfortably walk into your own restroom, keel over your own porcelain basin, and ignoring all other scents, empty the contents of your alcohol-sick stomach. So there was a drudgery in getting up out of the depleting mattress, effort in swinging one leg down to the floor, and then the other. Rubbing a hand over your face as you try to pressure your eyelids into opening wide, and ignoring the dull, general ache in your stomach that you know is pulsing through your entire body. You look behind you at your Regret; there was such promise in dark jeans and fitted tanks. You couldn’t stay here; it was unspoken, and Regret hadn’t told you to get out, but you would now. It was sort of implied right after the events of last night, but you’d been too tired, just like you’re too tired now to relive the last few minutes of your previous night. It wasn’t like waking up in a movie and looking for your clothes in confusion; it wasn’t passionate enough to confuse you. You knew exactly where you’d left your shirt and your jeans and if you were confused, it was only because Regret’s roommate, Awkward , had moved them. After you slip your clothes on, take your slip on shoes in hand, you make your way past the hall, the low light of the morning filtering through the large windows of the apartment. Your toes curl against the scratchy carpet, and you could only think what sorts of infestations were in it; crumbs, flakes of weed, minuscule insects. Your feet stepped on it all and as quickly as the thought came, it left. Your nausea was subsiding. “Oh…hey,” you hear a voice that isn’t Regret’s (you don’t think) and there was no way it would be Regret’s because you hadn’t seen him come out from the room you’d just left. “Hi,” you force a smile, small but essential to establish the mannerisms your parents had taught you. Awkward looks at you, his brows twitching every so often and his cracked, dehydrated lips pursing slowly; he was going to ask you if you were Regret’s friend, to which you’d have to respond “No, I’ve never met him” or he was going to ask you to stay for breakfast, to which you’d respond “No, I’m not very hungry, and I have work anyways, thank you”- both responses were embarrassing to say and think. You don’t want to think about responding to anyone this early in the morning. “I’m going to go,” you say before Awkward can manage a word in and he nods, his face twisting to make you feel like you shouldn’t have spoken at all because now he was judging you—and he was. Now that you had taken away the reason Prose
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That circulation, that desperation, that one track longing had graduated from its earlier predecessor; instead of needing to go to someone else’s house, kiss someone else’s mouth, sleep in someone else’s bed, you need to return to yourself, and you push off all other things, all other ideas. Ideas that are not yours, ideas that are afraid of yours, ideas that are created to muzzle you. One circular longing, the longing to be free, exchanged for another, the longing to feel your desires, as well as the last longing, the longing to please your past. And all these things are recycled. All humanity was, a twirling, intertwining bubble of so many recycled desperations; you cannot combine them. You cannot be free and feel your desire and become the painting you were coaxed to be: colors chosen by your family, brushed against the canvas in a way they desire. Painters that never asked their subject’s opinion. You could think about all these things in juxtaposition, but you do the same thing each time—avoidance. This is all over as quickly as you enter, and now, here you stand at your door, already home since your thoughts had carried you, like a cloud, and you slip your key into your doorknob and it clicks open and you walk in. Into your own home with your own bathroom in which you could keel over your own porcelain basin, and ignoring all other scents, empty the contents of your alcohol-sick stomach. 24
ART // HANNAH MUSSEY
Café and continuing on towards Fire and Ice, the red frame of the building immediately reminding you of extra crispy egg rolls, just a lick of soy sauce sprinkled on top and pooling at the bottom of the yogurt cup they put it in. The oily crunch and uniquely flavorful ginger batter of the eggroll almost made you forget about the previous restaurant in this building, Pita Pit. Almost. But the store had the same frame, the same layout. The food in front, the seats behind. Although, Pita Pit had never had seats. Although, you’d never actually walked into Pita Pit. Although…didn’t really matter anymore because you were passing it. Up Seville Road you went, a small rack in front of the wooden pillars of the local Co-Op. On a Saturday morning, closer to eight AM, no one was there yet. There was just the grey bearded homeless man that haunted the same bench as always, snoozing softly as the sunlight peeked up more. But stop. You avoid it all; you avoid meditating on your night. You pay attention to the grains in Little Acorn Park, the algorithmic combinations available at Bagel Café, the old homeless man that inhabits the large wooden bench at the Co-Op, but you don’t stop to think, not for a moment, about Regret. Not since you’ve walked out of the apartment, the last two pages your own way of moving your life forward. It was insignificant. The moment, the gravitational pull of reliving what you were told should be an exquisite experience, was as vanishing as burning incense, smoke wisping and smells rising, but rocks disintegrating. You try to grasp it, you try to smell it, you try to feel it, but you look at it, and it doesn’t exist. You can grasp the fact that you’ve been integrated into a culture of sexual acceptance, you can smell the bagels and the coffee and the crispy egg rolls even though that restaurant hasn’t opened, yet you think about how you feel and suddenly you feel nothing. Blankness, but it’s not so much that your thoughts scatter, but that they freeze. You know what you did, you know how you feel, and you stare at what’s in your mind, so hard, that the little dots in your forebrain turn into sludge. If you step back, you’ll realize you were thinking about nothing. You feel like you need to go home, your own home with your own bathroom in which you could keel over your own porcelain basin, and ignoring all other scents, empty the contents of your alcohol-sick stomach.
ART // ARTHUR NGUYEN
Could Have Been By Maximilian Ochoa We are all not as good as we could have been. I realized this secure, warm, belly – filled, and somehow still sad. Instead of space to grow in, our roots are squashed in dreary little gardening boxes 6’ x 6.’ Sometimes, younger, I would feel suffocated and I wonder now if that’s because my mother frowned at me when I confessed pink was my current favorite color. We are all not as good as we could have been because when we were very young we found out we could only fill a predesigned archetype and never truly be ourselves, that our individuality could shine through only so long as it was very dim and obedient to the very sad, very stupid wailings of a society that would much rather have me bleeding in the street rather than wear lipstick. Sometimes. I don’t even like lipstick. But I’d like the goddamn option. Have you ever been called a Faggot? No. Yes. Maybe? I can describe it to you. It’s slurred words, It’s whispered so that you have to wonder if you were even called a faggot in the first place. It’s from the mouths of drunk white men, in my experience. Prose
It’s from balconies. It’s in front of friends. It’s on your way to an exam. The feeling’s the same regardless. It’s a coldness running down your back. It’s slick fingers clawing with them a nostalgia for all the other times. It’s a tear that won’t fall because your well only goes so deep. There’s even a hint of sentimentality. Being a Faggot’s an “issue” - I believe - because it’s oppositional to the dualistic approach by which we structure our world. Good-Bad. Black-White. Man-Woman. We are all not as good as we could have been because we see and are seen through this lens. The inexpressible shame of true self – expression makes me feel ugly. Exhausts me. It’s sad because people I love can’t always love me back. It’s sad because the prospect of emotional intimacy is beaten out of us. It’s sad because we could have all be indefinable but in the context of this society indefinability is eradicated. But Listen. It’s great. We can all now be easily explained and well understood. 25
Soundtrack
at the
Moonlight You can find the Moonlight standing alone from the bailbond-office strip malls that dot San Fernando Road. It’s harder to find by day. The sun bleaches the generic, dry, beige paint job with barred glass windows. Windy days bring paint-chip dandruff over the cracked pavement parking lot. This decrepit confetti is what welcomes customers. Around noon it’s fatigued parents who are throwing low-rent birthday parties for their six-year olds, and hope to be home by four. The entrance is under the dead neon sign, a loose cursive spelling Moonlight Rollerway. These kids are treated to the mandatory fixings of cake, pizza, and small cups of lemonade made from a sweet and sour mix, all complementary. No matter what the party’s theme is, the Moonlight supplies a non-sequitur mascot to take pictures with, and guide the less-graceful children around the rollerway. Skating is not officially mandatory. However, their arcade selection of Mortal Kombat is deemed inappropriate by caretakers, and the kids find the aggressive dismembered hand in Addams Family pinball creepy. As the day turns to dark, the Moonlight changes. The signs turn on and the flamingo pink of Moonlight Rollerway paves over the walkways cracks. The loosely-knit birthday parties file out and new customers of gay couples and drag queens trickle in to attend regular Rainbow skate nights. Sporadically there are thirty-year old hipsters that revel at its inclusively kitsch interior of roller-skating-waitress wallpaper and galaxy print carpet. They enjoy the smells of nicotine and chlorine that waft freely. The only constant there, besides the stained carpets and cheap lemonade, is the DJ. He sits in a small booth above the glossy rink, the walls covered in a crushed, sun-bleached, red felt. He makes no distinction between the Birthday and Rainbow skates and plays Diana Ross’s “I’m Coming Out” as a newly-seven-year old is rolled out onto the floor by a bunny mascot. Skating lessons are offered to the constant repeats of “Xanadu”. One of his limited differentiations is unironically playing The Village People for the kids. No jaded hipster would do the YMCA, no matter how ripe for cultural sarcasm the opportunity may be. As the Moonlight fades more and more into the surrounding strip malls, he keeps light spinning over the rink to his 1980’s favorites.
ART // EVA GARRETT
By Eva Garrett
PHOTO // AXEL EATON
A Reasonable By Kenny Oravetz After graduating early, Cobi thought he was going to spend a few months up in Yosemite, at some remote campsite, writing his theory of collective imagination, of life, the world, and a human connected consciousness in a state of sublime solitude. That didn't happen. He lasted a day then went to move back in with his parents in San Rafael. It might have helped if he had brought a tent. Cobi started delivering pizzas, which I think makes sense. Imagine this, a tall and scrawny white guy, head a fluff of hair, driving around town in an old Oldsmobile, delivering pizzas. Immensely talkative, each pizza with a verbal explanation of his work-in-progress philosophical treatise, and a smile. Cobi was lonely in San Rafael. He hung out sometimes with his younger brother, who worked cleaning out river and creek basins. He spent some time with his parents, who weren't entirely thrilled with where his life was headed. He worked on his treatise, long and hard work, writing pages and pages of original thought, riffing off Hume and Kant, lacking in citation, but full of good intentions. Prose
Man
In January, Cobi decided to come back to Isla Vista and see some old friends-- the guys from the Freshman dorms, some of the homies and I. He couldn't drive the Olds down because it was the pizza car. It was needed for the pizzas. So he took Amtrak. It took a couple stops and transfers to get down to Santa Barbara, a ride of six or seven hours. Cobi passed time by chatting with his fellow passengers. Any of them. He told them about his treatise, about life in the Bay Area, about college, but mostly about his treatise, and they mostly nodded and tried their best to wrap their heads around what he was saying about life, love, imagination, and all that good goop that made up Cobi's perception of what life is, right there in his noggin. One of these conversational companions called himself Spider. Spider had just gotten out of prison after being there for three years. Spider had initially been booked for something minor, shoplifting, reckless driving, peeing on 27
the wrong tree, what have you, but then he stabbed a guard and they slapped an additional couple years on his sentence. He had tattoos up each arm and wore a tight black beanie. He told Cobi about life behind bars. Cobi told him about his treatise, about life as he saw it and the things he saw in it. Spider nodded. Cobi also met another ex-con named Ian. He had only been imprisoned for a year or so. In that time he had read the entire Bible and taken it to heart. He had also eaten the entire prison cafeteria and taken it to the gut. Ian told Cobi about God and his deeds while Cobi told Ian about his treatise. Ian nodded and toyed with the cross around his neck.
Cobi was silent. He stood by Spider's frozen side. "I need to go talk to him." Spider strode across the street, directly, decisively. His ex-wife saw him coming halfway across the pavement and quickly thrust her bags and the child into the car. He approached her and she began flailing her arms and yelling, Cobi couldn't hear what. Spider talked to her submissively, arms outstretched, his tattoos a speckled pattern in the sun. Another man, a large man, came out of the store nearby and approached the two of them. Spider's ex-wife got in the car and closed the door. Spider and the man talked. They talked quietly and seriously. At one point Spider took something out of his pocket. Cobi could see the strain on Spider's face, could almost smell the perspiration forming on his brow. The conversation ended. The man opened the back door of the car, where the child had been tucked away. Spider reached into the car. Cobi watched as Spider cradled his child in his arms. Spider smiled as much as a man who had seen so much could. Spider put the child back and said goodbye. A piece of litter drifted in the wind. The stoplight changed again and the cars drove by in a new direction. Cobi stood still on the edge of the platform as Spider crossed back across the street and the Camry drove away. Spider returned to Cobi's side. Cobi said nothing. For once, he could not think of what to say. Spider hesitated, then spoke. "That is a reasonable man. That is a reasonable man. While I was off being foolish, locked up in prison, that man was caring for my son and my wife. He protected them. He married her. He did the right thing. He did it. He is a reasonable man. We're going to work it out, between us, the custody. I'm going to see my son. Not through the courts, no, they're never nice to felons, but we're going to work it out. Outside of the courts, just between the three of us. The four of us. I got that man's phone number. I'm going to see my son on weekends. I'm going to see my son. I'm going to be his father. That man is a reasonable man. A reasonable man." Spider was too tough to cry. He wrapped his head in his hands. The sun shone into the station and the cars passed by outside, filled with blurred figures. Ian came back to the two of them, standing on the edge of the platform, watching the cars drive by on the street. "God is watching you. That was a gift from God. You are blessed, man. Our train wasn't even supposed to stop here. Praise Him." Ian kissed the cross around his neck. "Praise God." "A reasonable man." Spider said quietly. Cobi was silent, all the thoughts of the world within him for naught. The three men got back on the train. The train went off into the distance, and they never saw each other again, except in their memories, except in their imaginations.
They were on their way to a stop in Bakersfield when an announcement came on over the PA. They had to stop temporarily a station early because an obstruction was blocking the tracks. So the train stopped at the station before Bakersfield and Cobi and Spider and Ian and everyone else got off to stretch their legs and smoke and chat and enjoy the free air. It was a sunny day and clear. The sounds of the shopping district drifted by in the wind. Cobi chatted with Spider and Ian in the front of the station and watched cars pass by on the street. "So, this theory of collective imagination. What do you think? How could mankind not have a collective imagination? We're all seeing these cars pass by on the street, right?" Ian nodded and dug out a cigarette from his pocket. Spider was quiet and gazed across the street. "Our conceptions of reality are all intertwined, yet constructed. We imagine things individually, but know they exist collectively. Ian, you see that car over there. Spider, you see it too. But do we really see the same thing?" Ian grunted. Spider's gaze had fixed on one of the cars across the street, a silver Camry. A woman and a toddler were approaching it, the woman carrying some shopping bags. "Spider, I'm right, right?" Ian pulled from his cigarette. Spider's eye twitched. "Spider?" "That's my son." "What?" said Cobi, cut off mid-thought. There was a silence. Spider stared across the street at the two people standing by the car. "That's my ex-wife. And that's my son over there. I haven't seen him in three years." Ian pulled hard on his cigarette. "Fuck this. No fucking way." "That's my son." The stoplight changed and a new set of cars started driving by. Ian threw away the stub of his cigarette. "Fuck this. I'm out of here. I'll see you guys on the train." He wandered off. "That's my son." 28
Billiam By Isabelle Carasso
a victim of Billiam’s advances. I vowed that I wouldn’t fall for him again, not after the fresh hell I endured in the sixth grade. “I liked your hair like that, Margo. All spiked and such,” he told me. “Thank you, Billiam,” I demurely replied, as I carefully patted my hair so it wouldn’t lose its texture. It got real quiet after that. Not knowing what to make of the silence, he picked up his oars and paddled as fast as he could. Within thirty seconds—maximum—we reached the other side of the lake. We slowed from accidentally bumping the Yacht into Phillip, a dead duck that I named who shacked up in this lake with his dead duck wife. She was probably floating around here somewhere. “And I like your shoes, Margo. All silver and such. Reminds me of soda cans I used to play with.” “Thank you, Billiam.” “And I like your—” “Enough, Billiam.” We sat on the boat in silence, hovering over Phillip. I pitied Phillip; he had to listen to this dreadful conversation. “I’ll keep rowing,” Billiam chimed in. “Alright, Billiam.” Because he couldn’t compliment me, Billiam looked like he was about damn ready to explode. “Why don’t we eat?” I suggested. “No, I can’t eat, I’ll get sea sick.” “Then why’d you take me on your boat?” “I bet you’ll ask me why I even have a boat.” “Okay, why do you have a boat?” “I don’t know! And I took you on my Yacht because, Margo, dammit, it’s romantic. My god.” “I feel like I’m floating on duck soup,” I told him. He rowed us in circles around this sad excuse for Sapton’s only lake. It was essentially a crater with oil in it. We lapped seven times around until Billiam got dizzy. “I’d like to go home, Billiam.” “Yeah, I know, Margo,” he said, defeated. He rowed us back to shore and I hopped out first while he dragged Yacht out onto the dead grass and twigs that elegantly framed Old Oil Lake. “Margo?” “Yeah?” “Promise you won’t tell your mom about this. She’ll tell the whole town, and then my mom will hear, and I don’t really want her to know how pathetic our lunch was.”
I can’t fall for Billiam again.
His hands smelled of pencil shavings, even before we rowed out on his wooden boat. The only reason I could smell his hands was because they were profusely sweating. But the wood smell was comforting in the same way listening to the click of your family car’s turn signal is when you’re in the backseat—there’s something comforting about the normalcy. Wood, clicks, it’s all the same thing under our sun. Unfortunately, his sweaty wood-smelling hands were the only comforting things he had going for him anymore. At twenty-one, he was dangerously tall, taller than any other man I’ve had the pleasure of walking next to, and it bothered me on a moral level. All that height for one man? It was simply greedy. Oh, and his skin. He would be pale if he weren’t covered in red splotches all over. I’ve known Billiam since we were in sixth grade, and he wasn’t red then. This is what we call a “recent development”. No one really knew why he got red, and none of us really wanted to be put in the uncomfortable position to ask. His red didn’t make him less attractive, at least not to me, since on a fundamental level, it was somewhat the same as a tan. The only reason his skin was just a tad off-putting was because I couldn’t tell how pale he currently was. I like to know things. I know I’m talking about him so much, but I can’t fall for Billiam again—not after what happened in the sixth grade. He pushed out his mustard-yellow boat into the Old Oil Lake so we could have our picnic. Billiam and I haven’t spoken since we left for college, or really ever since the incident in the sixth grade. Every summer, Sapton, our tiny town—or village, as some old kooks like to call it—puts on a week of charity events that aim to fix a bridge in town that has been deteriorating since before my mother was born. One such charity event that I have done since I can remember is the bid-a-basket festival, in which women make lunches for men to bid on, and then they go picnic together. It’s archaic and stereotypical to the max, but it’s tradition. And you can’t argue with that. Believe me, I’ve tried. Since Billiam unexpectedly bid on my basket, I had no choice but to have a picnic with him. He knew that would get me. On the side of his boat, the word Yacht was sloppily painted in a crude shade of periwinkle. I sat in the boat and waited for him to jump in. After what felt like years, he joined me on his Yacht. His leap into the boat made it rock with a staccato beat. At that moment, I would’ve been happy to fall in. I’d rather be drenched in what is probably oil than Prose
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Billiam’s mother was our math teacher in middle school that also found out about my crush on her son, only she didn’t tell Billiam then. This was particularly odd because they share everything. She probably didn’t tell him because I don’t think she liked me, at least not after the incident. But not many adults liked me in the first place—I’m what they call avant-garde, and I have been since I was conscious human being. In the sixth grade, Billiam and I sat next to each other by sheer luck or fate, whatever you want to call it, in our advanced Algebra class his mother taught. As if eleven year old me didn’t sweat enough! I’d be soaked by the end of class and hoped Billiam didn’t notice—but he always did. So to distract or entertain him, I would duct tape picturesque stencils of butterflies to the inside of my shirt before class. That way, I thought, Billiam could see what he did to me. This right here was what Billiam’s mother classified as “odd behavior,” that “deemed psychological evaluation” from the school’s “psychologist.” Her words, not mine. Billy’s mom loathes the avant-garde and has an A-line haircut, two aspects of her that aren’t mutually exclusive. I was so attracted to Billiam, that son of a bitch: his skin was so pale that it was almost translucent, his teeth were so shiny that you could almost see yourself in their reflection, and he was so short that his lack of height made you feel important. Everything that attracted me to him back then was changed now. But that didn’t matter, really. Those eye-catching qualities were just a part of his skin shell. When his mom found out I had a crush on her son, she would read the lips of the children to make sure they weren’t talking about me liking Billiam. If she so much as picked up the words “Bill” or “Marg,” she would frantically ask those students questions like, “Alice, what’s seven time ten?” and “Tod, did you turn in your homework?” She did everything in her small power to stop her son from finding out someone fancied him, especially because that someone was me. But that’s not what made her hate me. That broad hated me because Billiam and I share a birthday, and that fateful December 12, she brought in a cake for him. Billiam wanted to share with me because we grew close over those few months being desk buddies, and he, being the saint that he was, knew it was my birthday too. When we both went in to blow out the candles, I let out a huge sneeze that dramatically shook the room and my entire body. I swear, I thought I was possessed. I shook so much that my arm accidentally swung at Billiam’s mouth, as well as covering the cake in my dew. My classmates were disappointed in
me, but expected something like this to happen since cake in math class was almost too good to be true. The worst part of this wasn’t that we couldn’t eat the cake—it was that Billiam’s front couple of teeth fell out, one by one, delicately onto the sneeze-infested cake. His mother was livid. I won’t bore you with the details of me being switched into a geometry class half way into the year when I knew nothing of geometry, attending monthly therapy sessions, and receiving deathly glares from his mother everyday. Awful woman she was, and probably still is. Billiam’s mother forbid him from talking to me after that. As I got older, I realized how nervous Billiam made me and how uncomfortable I probably made him with my sweat stencils and accidentally punching him. But then, after he developed his ominous red rash a year ago, Billiam’s mother told him about my crush from when we were schoolchildren to lift his spirits. I didn’t know what kind of game she was playing, but I didn’t like it. I don’t trust that woman, and I don’t know why she’d trust me with her son now. We are twenty-one, both Billiam and I, and I feel like I’m still being held for those actions today. I can’t fall for him again because I’m so embarrassed about punching his teeth out—I wouldn’t want to hurt him again. “She saw you bid on my basket, Billiam. But if it’s any consolation, we didn’t actually eat lunch.” I offered him this cheerful fact, hopefully lifting his miserable spirits. It worked. He smiled back at me, his gold teeth looking like a checkerboard in his pie hole. Each gold nugget in there reminded me of the intense love I had for him, and he must’ve felt something for me too to not replace the gold with more life-like fake teeth, right? My god, he still gave me the butterflies in my stomach. I wish I could slice open my gut and make them fly away because I can’t fall for Billiam again.
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ART // HANNAH PHAM
GOSPEL CHOIR By Yaak McNeely The Holy Spirit™. Every Praise Is To Our God. Every Word Of Worship With One Accord. Every Praise Is To Our God. ClapClap, Clap-Clap. It’s nice music. I like it. And there’s my roommate, back row-center, smiling and clapping and swaying and pointing to the sky, singing praises to a God that neither of us recognizes. He jokes about that sometimes—somehow hasn’t been struck by lightning yet. Someone’s divine, benevolent apathy. And here’s me, watching him do what he loves. Here I am, feeling even more out of place—because I’m not the one singing, because I don’t know any of the words, because I didn’t know there was going to be a quiz. But should I really be surprised? I mean, Jesus, right? Jesus. Right. The reason I’m supposed to be here. The pastor booms: “How Many People In The Room Love Jesus?” and I put my hands up. I tend to like most people, why not Jesus? He’s loud. He’s insistent. “Clap Your Hands To This If You Love Jesus,” and suddenly I’m clapclapclapclapclapping, because of course – I don’t exactly want to participate, but I’m terrified to not participate. I won’t be that guy. Not in an auditorium this small. Not in a crowd this thin. Someone might
T he concert hall is all deep red-brown. Red curtains, brown stage. Brown seats, red cushions. It’s half-full, poorly lit, and warm. I find a spot nearish the back, sinking low into my chair. A haze of murmurs from the crowd: Old ladies, Christian kids, big families, supportive parents, reluctant friends. I’m underdressed in a tie-dye t-shirt, gym shorts and flip-flops. There’s a small desk that folds up from the side of my seat—we’re on a college campus, this is a lecture hall, too. I prop up my head on a lazily bent forearm. They pull the curtains.The choir is arrayed along bleacher-style platforms in bent rows. Pastor, stage-level center. All dressed crisply, in whites and blacks and blues, in slim suit jackets and just-unbuttoned button-ups. Boat shoes, heels, black dresses, vests. All beaming, all singing Glory Hallelujah. And we all rise, I guess because this is Church. And isn’t it hilarious to be here at all? My roommate is in the choir. I’m here to watch and support him. Another friend is here to support both of us. There’s enough light from the stage to see her smirk at me as we stand. The soloist claps. We clap. The choir sways, full (I think?) of Prose
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see me, and then where would I be? Could they throw me out for that? Is my participation pretty required? What does Jesus mean? The Man, The Family, The Blues, Justice, Power. A long list of absolutes, because whatever it is, it’s something big. There’s something big in this room, and it’s catching. Every Word of Worship With One Accord. Every Praise is to Our God. I used to believe in things like that. When did I stop? Onstage, my roommate is utterly himself. Who’s to say he doesn’t touch something divine? The room is warm. Light seeps from the stage. Whatever, Jesus. And whichever Jesus. This pastor is all class. He hardly preaches. He converses. “Have you ever had a day where you didn’t know if you would make it to the next one?” “Yes, Lord!” “Because if there’s one thing I know, I know that whatever the problem, I just put it all in his hands and trust the Blood to sustain me.” “Jesus!” “And on Monday, when I didn’t know if I was gonna make
it to Tuesday – I felt weak, I felt defeated! But the Blood sustained me! “That’s Right!” “And On Tuesday, I didn’t know if I was gonna make it to Wednesday! But I’m telling you, the Blood sustained me!” And so on, through the week. He invites his friends onstage to join the choir—friends from Los Angeles. Friends who drove all the way to see the performance. Old friends. And every bit of it’s amazing: The choir, an organism. The music, their colossal energy. Us, the extended family of something indescribable. We the unlikely congregation, swaying and singing and watching amazed. The pastor directs the choir in a call-and-response: “Whatever” “The Problem” “I Put It All In His Hands” We smirk and stand, we clap and against all odds we feel something. We, the congregation. The Body of Christ. Whatever that means. And let us say – Amen. 32
PHOTO // NICK COOK
by Kimmy Tejasindhu
Underwater.
Please make sure your seatbelts are buckled and your tray-tables are in the correct, upright position. Get one last deep gulp of air and hold it in for as long as you possibly can. Welcome to Isla Vista, the sign says. We will now begin submersion. Later, when you finally resurface after passing the city limits on your way out, it will all just be nothing but a dizzy memory, a blurry hallucination—a symptom of drowning. This is a place so beautiful that it doesn’t even feel like we’re dying. I’m supposed to be writing about Isla Vista. Sounds easy enough, right? Write a couple thousand words about the four years you spent in one place. Cake. IV is a place of many monikers. It’s our little bubble, our piece of paradise, our generous slice of too-good-to-be-true… But the first mistake we make is assuming we’re allowed to use such an entitled word as “our” at all. Such naivety. We thought we could call this place whatever we wanted, give it a name and a reputation and a definition, but all along IV could never be owned. Rather, it owned us. We gave ourselves to this place wholly and willingly. In the end, it withstands, it lasts, and it remains. We go. Maybe I’m burnt out. Maybe I’ve already written enough about the endless sunshine, the marbled ocean ribbed with waves, that moment when he pulled my face to his in the middle of the intersection in the middle of the night, that time we slept on the roof blanketed beneath the dark blue crushed velvet sky, that summer when it rained stars and space-matter and we were so stupefied that we forgot how to close our mouths and even blink, the time I was so sure I could run right over the water and touch the horizon line and you had to talk me out of it… “What’s your favorite memory of Isla Vista?” he asked. “Write about that.” My memories are not singular and standalone. What I remember of Isla Vista is a convoluted compilation that can only be expressed through one long, final exhale. How can you pinpoint the very moment when you fell in love with a small section of coastal land? Latitude and longitude meet at the perfect degree to mark this gorgeously gritty pocket of hellish heaven. Isla Vista is a place of unfair indulgence. Morality not mandatory, every minute in it feels sinful and wrong. Stop questioning it though, lest the land grows angry and decides to take everything back. Lest it all disappears. Evaporates. Prose
With one eye squeezed shut and the tip of her tongue slightly peeking out from the corner of her mouth, Li reached her arm out in front of her. She splayed out her fingers, slowly waved her hand around and massaged the air. Ribbons of blue sky wove in and out between her slender fingers. “How is any of this even real?” Even through shut eyelids, I already knew what she was referring to. Li had a new theory. The other night, curled up on the couch, legs folded up against her chest, too stoned for a weekday, she muttered, “Whatever. It’s fine. We gotta get out while we can, anyway. While we have the chance, you know? The longer we stay here, the more we lose ourselves. The less we’ll notice the fraudulence. The less it even matters anymore. The laxity, the ease, and the ‘fuck it’ of life here…it’s too addicting. What the hell are we going to do…? Is it too late? Just gotta get out now. Or never.” Beautiful girl, meet your early twenties. Named after a hurricane but forever stalled in the eye of her own storm, Li was born paranoid. She needed to constantly come up with theories, explanations, and answers to remain sane. This one was about us. Li’s theory of the “Carnivorous Island” (which may or may not be loosely plagiarized from The Life of Pi—though she’ll never admit to it) describes Isla Vista as a place of deceptive perfection. The swirling combination of picturesque beachy beauty and blissful debauchery is so alluring that it sucks you in, entrances you for years, and spoils you rotten. Reckless youth as its primary fuel source, we are actually the ones keeping this place alive. Once we have been drained dry—the bags under our eyes heavy and dark, our voices hoarse, and our ears ceaselessly ringing— time is up and we are promptly shown the door. Our withered elbows brush against the next batch of springy and spritely incomers.
and gather as many salvageable pieces as possible, you learn about how to survive. We were made to feel immortal. Sadly, there is no evading denouement and decay. Maybe they didn’t watch enough sunsets. Maybe they took too many shots – clinking cups, eyes crinkled shut in anticipation. Maybe he never took her seriously, because she didn’t know when to start letting him. Maybe she never took him seriously because he made damn sure she never could. Maybe they just didn’t see enough shooting stars or cash in enough wishes. When he held her for the last time, running his fingers through her hair in that dimly lit living room to the sounds of their friends sleeping, they were sad without having to say. It was so naïve to think that they would be immune to goodbye. So childish to believe that, even though all things have an end, what managed to bloom between them through charred earth would be eternal. So ridiculous to believe they would not be susceptible to time, change, and the conveyer belt of life. She never really learned how to live in the present. He desperately tried to teach her, but she spent their entire time together thinking about the impending future. Now her future will be spent thinking about their past.
We talked about leaving often. When we hung up the new macramé hammock between the two trees in her backyard, we talked about who we would be after all of this. Li launched herself onto the woven threads and laughed as they creaked and groaned, tightening their grasp on the tree trunks to hold her weight. “How do people even make friends in the real world?” “You make sure don’t lose the ones you have.” She didn’t like that answer and quickly turned over to glare at me, the hammock rocked violently, its threads whined in aching disagreement. “Don’t say that,” she huffed and turned back. “I feel like I’m going to meet a Jared someday. Do you ever feel like the very sound and taste of a faceless name is already somehow familiar? Jared. Jared.” I laughed in response, conjuring up some of my own names—a name that could possibly be forever linked to mine, become my favorite word, poisonous to the tongue, or sugar right through to the bloodstream. But it was all just pretend and hypothetical. It didn’t seem like there could be anything else but this town, this hammock, these trees, and Li.
The sun sank to street-level, piercing her unprotected eyes with its last screaming, dying rays. She watched him get smaller and smaller in the side mirror of the car for as long as she could. She watched him—with his sunglasses and hat and shirt and jeans and shoes and those eyes flecked with green and smile stained with sarcasm—turn into just a dark smudge in the middle of the street. If he turned around, she couldn’t tell. If he started walking away, she didn’t know. If he was still standing there watching her car get smaller and smaller as well, she hoped that was true. Years and years reduced to two smudges headed in two different directions. What seemed like slow-passing time was just a cruel illusion. What felt like the complete elimination of sorrow was just a brief intermission—a reprieve. The Pacific Ocean rose up so they could leave and then slowly collapsed to cloak the town once more. No one here even realizes that they are underwater. Kindly exit in an orderly fashion through the upstairs gift shop where you can pay for that overpriced education, your customized collection of half-fabricated and half-foggy memories, and all those bruises and scars you accumulated on your limbs along the way. Will you be paying with cash or credit today? Sorry, bags are ten cents extra.
It’s true. Li and I were lost. There is no denying that we fell for it all. This place brought us exploding out of cocoons we didn’t even know we were resting within, emerging as beings we never thought we had the potential to become. Our once clear and curious eyes grew clouded and milky over the years from delusion. We searched for meaning in the constellations, in the paths paved on our palms, underneath bottle caps and deep within overflowing ashtrays. In Isla Vista, nothing hurts for long and nothing lasts for long. In Isla Vista, we are falsely promised invincibility. When you fall, your body slamming against the sparkling concrete, bones and skin breaking and bleeding, the pain is not forever. When you have to peel yourself off of the ground
PHOTOS // DEV MACLEOD
34
story // robin loi My friend Walt is one of a kind. Perhaps you've seen him coasting through Isla Vista on his paddle-board on land, pushing himself on a double-wide longboard with a big wooden stick-turned-lance (when he needs to clear a crowd). Long blonde hair tousled by the breeze. He's either wearing no shirt, or a tie-dye one: collared, tee, turtleneck, silk, rayon, cotton. Always an explosion of color, always a presence in the room. If you want, he'll tell you about it, the tie dye, he makes it himself. It takes him hours. Both to make the tie dye, and for him to tell you about it. Walt loves his tie dye. And surfing. And weed. And his gender non-conforming partner Liv. And every day Walt wakes up draped in tie dye sheets next to Liv, in his/her bedroom out on Devereux Point, smokes weed, and goes surfing. Walt is a happy guy. Like a puppy dog in a tall meadow, leaping about on a pleasant day. A total free-spirited wide-eyed hippie surfer soul. A heart for poetry, a head for facts and numbers, an easy smile. The loosest of the hangers of the loose.
Comic // madeline lockhart
Prose
35
And yet the surfboards hung throughout his dorm room told a different story, told me that there was room for him to be cracked open, like a pistachio you can just barely dig your nails into. I'm not sure the exact first time Walt smoked weed, but it definitely took him a while to come around. We'd go down to the beach and blaze it and he's wander off dazed and one of us would have to go find him on that dark stretch of coast and drag him with us to late night, where he'd eat like five bunless burgers and seven trays of fries and four orange Fantas. The burgers were bunless because Walt is a Celiac and if he eats gluten he'll die. So yeah. Tough shit. Doesn't get him down though. Walt desperately wanted to smoke weed though. I think in the deepest realms of his heart he knew he was destined to be the soul surfer he would become. It wasn't an easy transition.
But he hasn't always been like that. I remember freshman year, in
the dorms, Anacapa Scholars Floor, where people vomiting in the study lounge trashcan on Wednesday night would be doing matrices on its whiteboard on Thursday morning. Walt lived down the hall from me, a different version of Walt. Straight posture. Close cut hair. Conservative views. Pretentious and aloof bearing. Sharply refined fashion sense. Serious and deliberate.
36
I remember 4/20 freshman year. Super lit, lunchtime, Portola Dining Commons. Walt’s blonde head rests on the dining table. "Guys," he says, "I am the table." "Walt. Walt." "You don't understand. I have become one with the table." Walt extends an arm and knocks over his Fanta. "Fuck." We manage to prop up his lit ass and get into the elevator with another random guy. We're on our way to the eighth floor. The door closes and Walt mumbles something. "What's that, Walt?" Ding. Fifth floor. Door opens. Random guy gets out.
Prose
37
Walt gasps, "I need to throw up." I one fluid motion, we thrust Walt out of the elevator, he runs to the wastebasket in the fifth floor lobby, violently expels his insides, turns around, and gets back in the elevator. "I feel much better now." Ding. Eighth floor. Door opens. A new Walt gets out, the Walt I now know and love. ď ł
PHOTO // SIMONE STAFF
Mission : : Creek from the sea to the mountains By Nicholas Pieper
Mission Creek Lagoon:
Strange ducks gently glide upon the surface of the slough, reminiscent of the peaceful notion that the water has finished its long and arduous trek. Bystanders search for meaning in a flock of gulls overhead, unaware that in their searching they have brought into existence that which they seek. Bath Street Restoration Site:
A patch of barren earth claws its way back to life, aided by gentle benefactors who pepper the land with gaudy flags, reminiscent of confetti. Mission creek flows through and through, heedless of the confounding undertakings all around it. Los Olivos Channel:
Cement channel – transmogrified into a tunnel by oak and alder. Here the great effort of man becomes apparent, a grey monument to those keep the hearth in good order. Steel planks shape the flow of our maiden creek, flushing debris and providing fish with doors to their nuptial beds. Oak Park:
Slithering its way along the flank of Oak Park, the creek is rife with man’s petty interferences. Gravel fills what once was a pool, though its original intent was the creation of a haven, its fruition silenced by aquatic flux. Rocky Nook Park:
Here we witness where the maiden left her scar on the land, a sycamore left to its own company. Winding away ever to the present, here see that even water bows to the thrall we deem time. Skofield Park:
From high atop our vantage point near Skofield, we can see that Mission Creek flows twixt the folds of the land, nestling in the product of infathomable amalgamation deep below us. 38
ART // PREETI OVARCHAIYAPONG
Poetry Catch-up, kids // Baily Rossi Old Soul // axel Eaton Honey // Adam De Gree Palm tree/399 B.C. // Tessa Boling Where do the hummingbirds go to die? // emily balaguer Dinner on a tuesday // troy yamasaki
,
She' s a wonder // malcolm coffman IV Recycled // bryson smith Medusa // madeline lockhart
walkin
,
plath // zoe jones after midnight // edward James Drown // Pierre Kobierski
Kind-eyed ty // Dev Macleod Cereal and milk // pierre kobierski Finally I speak my mind // alexandra dwight finding god // lake shank
PHOTO // AXEL EATON
Catch-Up, Kids by Baily Rossi We play games of chase with the memories that haunt Our waking dreams Soft moments escalating into hard facts I spin myself around the wheel of time Trying to get somewhere other than where I’ve been The same song running me over time and time again “Will I ever escape?” And my feet move so quickly that I can’t tell Whether I’m being chased Or chasing something I’ll never catch But maybe I’m playing the game wrong Maybe the point isn’t to outrun those things
poetry
That make imprints on the surface of our souls Maybe the point is to befriend them Hold them Lead them Take them Hand-in-hand Not certain, but not unsure A word and a definition A metaphor and its meaning Like old friends, Catching up.
41
Old Soul by Axel Eaton
All it takes is a passing glance Something about your nostalgic energy Gives me the urge to grab your hand For a soothing, mellow dance Feel like I’ve known you for quite some time No words could explain it Your presence opens up a bottle of emotions And I’m reaching for our favorite wine Nice to meet you Old Friend Pity you couldn’t stay The warmth of your Old Soul has me thinking A reunion is soon on its way.
ART // LAUREN DAVIS 42
Honey By adam De Gree
And yet, Like a fish blind to water, I'm far too young to mark the changes that bring old men wonder.
Palm Tree/399 B.C. By tessa boling
I will not bend When the hurricane arrives Like Socrates I will stand unwavering As my curiosities invite poison between my lips Watch as gravity presses me down Where my roots once burrowed into the ground Toppling from such great heights The echo of our collapse transcending time Like a fork sliding between teeth Screaming out our very existence
poetry
43
I find myself watching a honeybee as she dances busily through her days Tapping out a pattern of touch and taste Turning nature's song into music I can see
ART // TROY YAMASAKI
I'm convinced the Earth is hollow, stretched taut as skin on a drum, Resonating to a global rhythm kept by changing tides, falling leaves, and the pulse of fireflies' glow.
Where do the Hummingbirds Go to Die? By Emily Balaguer
Sly in the brisk And grey afternoons Soothing the lullaby, Hello or Goodbye, It was Walking that saved me. I became intimate with Walking when there was nobody else-Before the sour salsa jars, broken car doors unlocked, abandoned bell peppers in the dash, the hummings of a white-lie clock watching us in the kitchen, I caught a glimpse of something in the distance--
Come evening time, and see me stand not quite so tall, Soaking in all those voices you wear when you think no one can hear. Nobody-- not even the night’s starry sky-- has such quick feet. Glistening with the sun and twinkling with the stars, I found your tiny wrists, forgotten on our front porch. Tell me how you still use those soft and small, delicate hands. I always knew there were white roses growing in the backyard, But I’m not sure I ever really knew. There are things we won’t ever know-So instead of wondering, we just never ask. Come with me, and I’ll show you Where The Hummingbirds Go To Die.
Her silhouette moonlit-- I lost my guitar pick-But you can’t tell people the truth; they have to realize it themselves. Where do the hummingbirds go to die?
PHOTO // NICK COOK
44
Dinner on a tuesday By Troy Yamasaki
when the chili sits over the bed of rice, it is easy to forget that came out of the can. this is not the first time i have eaten this dish: chili in rice; rice in chili. each spoonful has a little of both. never is it only one, it is always both. i can go about romanticizing: about how the amber grease of the chili goes about gliding the grains of rice like little shekels of flavor but i am more concerned with the fact that each bite tastes exactly the same. and i’m trying to determine if that comforts me.
PHOTO // ASHLEY LYNN poetry
ART // KIANA FATEMI + HANNAH PHAM
( She ’s a Wonder ) Every priest and wheeze has a squeeze down under In the trees where the birds and the bees won’t touch her. She’s a lamb renovating on the plans of a sunburn Sing to the wings, draw arm til’ the blood hurts.
// Malcolm Coffman
She’s a wonder, drunk slur but hands steady Tie the knot she learned from the girl with her heart heavy. Nerves loose, overused, producing anxious ending hobbies Thank the liquor for the wit to kill your soul but miss your body.
She’s a wonder, chaos of her mother Tomb in the womb where the wound won’t touch her. Soon she will croon to the moon hear her love burn Sounds like the eyes, crying child down under.
She’s a wonder lust for the sun’s burn, long for the sky but it’s dirt down under.
It’s alive in my mind like a dream stained thick Rich kids drinking bleach but they can’t resist. All the color, well her friends will tell her hell, it’s just a little red Keep your long sleeves, sell it tell them that it’s just a fad. 46
IV Recycled Bryson Smith
poetry
47
ART // COULTER KEELER
“That place is wild, I did immature shit there”
Shadows cast out onto the street, stars glimmer Bright star fades “Who am I going to sleep with” Drink coffee together in the morning maybe at one of the coffee shops, or from the pot in the kitchen
“The halloweens I came down for were fun, I don’t remember them” “Drinking all day”, didn’t remember the night slept through the morning
Just not at fucking Starbucks- IV’s soul’s graveyard headstones In neon corporate tangerine flake colored logos Pathos, marked along with the two towers and St. George, Wolfe & Associates, Meridian Group banners hang
Things you hear about Isla Vista bird song, Storke Tower bells Ring, garbage truck engine rumbling early It gets later, mailman cruising, waves— bikes everywhere Up & down locked up, stolen bike store or just ride a skateboard
Bastardizing our dwelling places, A reminder that the whole place is a river that flows greenbacks-- not a marine sanctuary fish swimming
Clyde, eyebrows twitch bikes up sueno-waves Cans, bottles glass- some stupid party recycled into Rising student quadplexes and duplexes, the two towers rise ever upward
Out like the trash flushed out from the streets onto the beach where Another sun rises, light recycled from days past to be caught once again in the white flicker of the surf. Once again the bikes take to the streets, riding towards campus, locked up, go to class do some other shit, library, more coffee Head on your shoulders Don’t fall off the cliffs
“Tengo mas botellas en mi casa” An opportunity to practice Spanish from class Do a little translation Island View, dream street, last afternoon of the beach. The past Playa Hermosa, planet tilting swiftly where the waves crash gazing out to a fading horizon Mediated by oil wells and kelp beds Fading light draws back through the channel
Met somebody who knew somebody that fell
Off
Sun turns into moon You can see stars on the 68 blocks Wild bacchanal begins-- except for all the cops and the same shitty beer everywhere Starlight blocked in circling undulations of red and blue
The
Cliffs But he is okay now, just got married. Ten years later Still they joke about him before and after the fall
Ubiquitous chemical change, taking place People wondering about sex, who am I going to Fuck, later walking down streets quieted by noise ordinance Arm in Arm Electric hum flickering
Before and after-- “I used to live in Isla Vista” Used to live.... I.V. generations recycled
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Medusa By Madeline Lockhart Every day you’re new. And you act on me— So I exist. A mirage I’ve built out of honey and sticks. Jittered with your colored hair A doppelgänger in the mirror: An object to manipulate. Our attachment feels permanent. I feel entrapped, snake in a zoo. Sex is the lens I have to see through.
Nerves lay exposed And I stay out of tune. My reflection no longer seems just glass. Let’s imagine you can pass my test. Our pain acute, sensation rests. A consistent image does not persist I’m dependent on the night we kissed. I’ll self-inflict abandonment, ruining it to not ruin it.
After, I’ll put you out of mind. My divided vision won’t transcend black and white.
ART // EMILY BALAGUER
Plath
By Zoe Jones
words are spilling out like water from a chalice, ashes from an urn. she knows herself, but never will you.
lovely, everything you have ever wanted to love. she peels oranges with gloved hands, she wraps the spidery veins around your neck. she pulls lilies up from the ground, she ties the limp stems around your wrists. (you taste like the earth and you are not of the flowers that grow from it.)
you talk to her as if you’re telling secrets, harboring a truth that you will both drown in one day. (you smell like the sweet parts of the sea because you let it pull you under.)
a macabre scene, a means for an ending.
she holds your gaze like an index finger over a candle flame: fleeting, darting, hot. she mocks you with her beauty, a game of catch her if you can, and you know you won’t, but God, if you could only hold her.
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ART // ALLIE SULLBERG
Walkin' After Midnight By Edward James
Oh pale messianic woman Shining brighter than the moon Sing me your soft song Under the oak of Spanish moss My skull is a begging bowl But I can’t hold it Cause I got four feelings and five points And six letters between my joints I’ve rolled and I’ve tumbled I’ve gambled and I’ve rambled I’ve sat knee deep in regret I’ve found forgiveness in a cigarette I’ve found holy men in a minaret I’ve grown older than my only pet I’ve fallen asleep but not slept I’ve awaken to what’s set I’ve been to Malta, Yalta, and Lafayette I’ve been to hell and heaven in a silhouette I’ve gone forwards, backwards, but never ahead I’ve wanted silence more than a mourning dove’s wept So tell me pale messianic woman Who shines brighter than the moon. Would you walk that miracle mile And could you fill that spoon? Would you understand the blues if I told you what you’d lose If you think health is wealth you got a lot coming to you. Cause safety ain’t comforting when you’re wrapped in a dream Where she saws off her arms as she stands there smiling. And if you still can’t understand how it may seem, You might just be walkin’ after midnight after me.
ART // KATE RYAN
ART // MADISON MEAD
Drown
By Pierre Kobierski
We are but sailors on a salty sea Prisoners in the Captain’s keep With waves of foamy cotton sheets That crash on misty morning dreams Beyond the hatch hear seagulls squeak Of far, far lands we’ll never reach Then walk the deck with calloused feet Bruised knees Legs weak And feel the broken floorboards creak Think of the broken world, so meek It is time now The Captain speaks To walk the plank To take the leap Our hands are tied The ship must sink So hold no breath and drown with me 52
Kind-Eyed Ty
by Dev macleod
Here I write about Ty *Tytanium* Cofrancesco
Uncle Ty was a spliff for us all. One that crackles with a loyal smile and burns with an endless hug It’s worth holding onto your breath for Ty wafted in a way that made us safe. An Indian musk still lingers stagnant Not the spiced chai kind but the I-haven’t-showered-in-days kind Carried by a knot of hair tied only by wisps of smoke Ty consumed the room. Clouding and swirling amongst us He didn’t seem to care about the silly things we did There was wonder in a banjo and a dun in a blue room Or was it green? Ty was a friend of the beaten and the beater. Inconspicuously strumming and humming He opened us Ty knew how much we needed it. He was a shoeless Jesus and we were his band of misfits But the fear settled with the smoke I miss watching him roll his crinkled little cigs Stop saying was and did and would cause Ty never dies and he’ll come back one day. Now he’s in the right and the left is lost I miss your goofy face Ty’s tiny drawings and bokonist words But the fire danced with us Gifted gems and caps and stems Mission accomplished but still missing you. Keep the blood off the streets of New Haven Until next time at the crystal ship Goodbye Ty in the streets of San Francisco
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PHOTO // CANON HASTINGS
ART // KASJA PHILIPPA NIEHUSEN
CEREAL and milk By Pierre Kobierski the musky smell of winter dawn in place of minty morning air the birds have lost their perfect pitch stars disappear and no one cares when without your love I awake in nightmare’s heavy hazy fog noxious achy sweaty fog hands out for help and yours long gone you left behind your floppy socks exposed my tender ticklish side so I’ll embrace the cold sharp rocks and love you till the day I die
Finally I Speak My Mind By Alexandra Dwight Like dominos We fall in rows From the weight of your feigned ignorance. Latest in a line of plunders You leave me singed at the end of your cigarette Better yet, expelled in a drop of sweat Drip-drip Where I lay on the bed
So you think that I’m weak, Which makes me ripe for the picking Mmm finger-licking! A time bomb ticking. Truth is, you can’t relate me to him, to her To that, to them I expose your emotional complex From which comparison extends.
From your averted eyes I can see, you could do with or without me And I’m tempted to say fuck you I sputter and spew Cough up a raspy whisper That “I still care about you” My butterfly flutters, One wing in the dirt.
Take me Break me Rape me Exploit my body and mind Blow smoke in my eyes, Still I rise. From the underbelly of society, Do my words come as a surprise?
I can spot your insecurities from a mile away, And I sympathize But, at the end of the night, I am the only one who cries. Despite all this fuckery, I want you to stay ...I’ll downplay, These sentiments tend to decay As they attempt to escape my airways.
I mean it’s evident that I am irrelevant in this hierarchy So it seems my only option is to speak my mind, finally Or forever hold my peace. Uh.
No Pythagoras, You consume my flesh. Leaving not a bead of blood, And glance away More interested in An ant crawling on your knuckle, Or the time—3’oclock Oh, how punk rock.
I rise from this structure that dictates my value Paid less, “you should be weightless” Like I have some supernatural control over my metabolic process You want me reduced to too fragile to defend myself, yes? Vandalize my perception, But can’t steal identity from me His hand on my knee, It was my favorite summer dress. Still I rise from this mess.
So I am not the thing of your poetry— Still I rise. Can’t extinguish the fire from these eyes Built an empire on rubble and shit, By the power of my legs I withstand the hit.
Pussy power, I exceed “woman of the hour” Beyond the limits of your watch, Outdid linear time when I shot from that rock. Can you truly you be tarnished by touch? Grade-school taught me that much— Not to unfurl my flower, Remembered this when I heard her weeping in the shower, Freshmen year, ghetto tower. Nah, fuck that You deem me too sour
Everyday I feel that Men test me, Hiss, “impress me” Convinced that history represents me Or that I’m just an “angry bitch” Victim of generational self-violence No morals, you a nihilist poetry
55
Just cuz I turn my head when you call to me in the street? Or say I won’t be vulnerable cuz it makes me feel weak? Put yourself in my place, and experience what it means To wear no butcher paper on a market for meat.
I rise, no compromise Look at these thighs Sizeable Use ‘em to stamp the venom from your jagged smile And shake this paradigm till it’s unrecognizable.
Hold up—
Scars no more on these wrists Look at this! I raise my fist
I exhale mist from the sea Dissolving under the Bodhi tree Take refuge in spirituality Sip from this Kool-Aid cup, It runneth over with muck Only safe in the wild What a paradox, huh? You crushed some foliage with your 4x4 truck, That’s enough.
Still don’t understand? I won’t apologize. I fantasize, To disturb what idle eyes idealize. Denial got you paralyzed, I know. And through it all, Still I rise.
Now do you understand why this matters to me? Your desire is relative, cuz I’ll never be free Our interaction is a microcosm Of a culture That capitalizes on a woman’s body Utilitarian, mass-consumption Use my resources till I run dry, Then toss me in a landfill I rise, still. From primordial waters I rise Catalyzing creation We once held the universe curled into a seashell Does that story ring a bell? No longer recognize the womb from which you fell?
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ART // MADELINE LOCKHART
Stare into my eyes You think I’m just sexy, But this confidence is a war cry Does it upset you that I hold my head so high? And dance like I got diamonds ‘tween my thighs?
Finding God People always talk about how they found God, with such conviction That you would think they meet him every Sunday for brunch I am not a religious person But I found God, I found him in the way that she carried herself Wearing confidence like a perfume The Egyptian Nile pulsing with her heart beat Bringing everything to life When I found God He rolled off of my tongue and through my teeth Filling the air around me As I uttered the words “This is my best friend.” I didn’t meet God That night we both got too drunk But I found him on her body And when my hands were running down her hips All I could think was this must be what heaven feels like I’ve witnessed a miracle firsthand Because when her lips pressed against mine I swear, I could taste wine I think I first forgot what God felt like When she started carrying herself less like an angel And more like a human Her voice No longer dripped with heavenly melodies But instead with the exhaustion that only mortality can bring I can remember how it felt to lose God That night When we sat in an empty parking lot And silently She showed me her bruises In the 6 years I had known her before that night I had never seen her cry The tears fell from her eyes Until the powerful river that I once saw inside of her Left her with an emptiness I couldn’t fill
poetry
By Lake Shank
I can’t help but wonder if she lost God in all of those tears Forcing any remnants through her fingertips, Gripping the steering wheel with white knuckles Saying, “I should get back to him now” As though pleasing him was one of the ten commandments And the consequence for breaking this law Would result in a vengeance that would only be evident on the parts of her body That were not visible in public I lost God when I realized that either I have been looking for a God that is not there Or one that has been watching As the innocence is ripped from her body Not giving her the choice to taste the apple herself But casting her out of paradise for the sins of another The answer does not matter Since she drove away I have begged forgiveness For letting her look into the eyes of Medusa Watching her crumble in front of me And not telling her She should not fall for a man who uses the image of a God to make promises of heaven Because the Devil fell to Earth, wrapped in narcissism and deceit too That the God she is looking for Would not leave marks on her body Using his fists as some sort of holy justice For when his image fails him If there should come a day that my sins are presented before me I know my damnation will be that night That I did not sit down and write her a new Bible One filled with the reasons he is wrong Filled with the reasons she is divine And hand her these pages Telling her, she doesn’t need to look anymore I’ve found God in everything that she is.
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PHOTO // ISABELLE CARASSO
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