LITERARY AND ARTS MAGAZINE Volume 6 Fall 2016
LITERARY AND ARTS MAGAZINE Volume 6 Fall 2016 A Production of the Hofstra English Society
CONTENT WARNING:
Some pieces featured in Font contain content that may be upsetting for certain audiences.
HOFSTRA ENGLISH SOCIETY 203 Student Center Hofstra University Hempstead, NY 11549 hofenglishsociety@gmail.com facebook.com/hofstraenglishsociety twitter.com/hofengsoc issuu.com/hofstraenglishsociety Cover art: “Endangered,” Robin Deering
STAFF EDITOR-IN-CHIEF
MANAGING EDITOR
DESIGN EDITOR
Toby Jaffe
Brianna Ciniglio
Regina Volpe
HEAD COPY EDITOR Amelia Beckerman
COPY EDITORS Hannah Aronowitz
Sarah Bonamino
Hannah Matuszak
Sarah Robbins
GENERAL STAFF Dana Aprigliano
Alyssa Ennis
Jessica Day
Danielle Ribaudo
Lindsay DeMarco
Kirsten Rickenshauser
Hannah Dolan
Nick Rizzutti
Andy Dillingham
Erinn Slanina
SPECIAL THANKS
Eric Brogger Craig Rustici Scott Harshbarger Denise DeGennaro Hofstra University English Department Vicki Dwyer
Samantha Storms
CONTENTS
Brooklyn Bridge Hopscotch I Love My Dinosaur Tee The World Was Silent When We Died Prisoner of War Paper Moths Hello Lamppost The Revenant Mercury Lumens The Whitney With Matt The Big Bang The Few, The Proud, The Mannequins What Possessed You Pubes How to Write a Female Character Floyd Mayweather Harold Leaderman Literal Animorph Parallelt Fucking Liesl Von Trap
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Elly Weinstock Sarah Robbins Foyinsi Peter Soucy Nicholas Rizzutti Amelia Beckerman Julia Gurrola Regina Volpe B. Kelley G. Danielle Ribuado Regina Volpe Peter Soucy Abbey Sullivan Danielle Ribuado Amelia Beckerman Toby Jaffe Toby Jaffe Nick Rizzutti Mika Hawley Amelia Beckerman
Jess Kurtz Robin Deering Danielle Ribuado Ashanti Davis Abbey Sullivan Mika Hawley Sharon Rus Danielle Ribuado Mika Hawley Mack Caldwell Meghan Podimsky Caro Becker Danielle Ribuado Ashanti Davis Sarah Robbins Solange Luftman Peter Soucy Elly Weinstock Jess Kurtz Sarah Robbins
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Boyertown Rose Girl Seymour The First Tuesday of November The Scene Styrofaces Zip August Friendly Competition Bill’s Neck Halo Look Up Hey Coney Island Summer A Short Story of War-Making Hipster Girl Thinks Selfies Are Art What’s the Point? Human Hive An Evolution Flight 1702 Wakefield
CONTENTS
BROOKLYN BRIDGE HOPSCOTCH Elly Weinstock
You laugh at the man who is his own skipping stone, the sound of water meeting the shore holds you like an old friend cups your chuckle like it paves the creasing of waves There is no need to ask why he is happy enough to hopscotch the shore sing loudly enough to drown out the sounds of all Manhattan You know to live is a reason in itself and he makes you feel alive too
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I LOVE MY DINOSAUR TEE
Sarah Robbins
“When did you get that dinosaur tee?” someone asked me I told them I bought it on the internet during my family vacation and I put it on the second it arrived slept in it overnight and my family thought it was funny that this is how I spend my money “Why did you get that dinosaur tee?” someone asked me I told them because I am a disenfranchised teen and because I used to like triceratops because it sounds like Sarah in the middle and I used to only buy Sketchers brand sneakers because they had the letter S all over them and I used to complain that my name is too plain but it carries the history of a disenfranchised people and you could argue that dinosaurs are disenfranchised too I think that it must be frustrating when only little kids and old men care you ever existed “Where did you buy that dinosaur tee?” someone asked me I told them there was a tumblr post relating clothing to my star sign or maybe related to my favorite colors? regardless, the shirt was on sale they had the original price crossed out next to the new price so you know how much you’re saving by buying something you don’t need because you live in a capitalist society and you are materialistic and maybe a dinosaur tee will help you feel unique like the special snowflake you’ve always wanted to be (Well, at least, that’s what the tee did for me)
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THE WORLD WAS SILENT WHEN WE DIED
Foyinsi Adegbonmire
(Phrase taken from Chimamanda Adiche’s novel, Half of a Yellow Sun) 1. I know he wanted me quiet as he strangled me. The dead of the night was just as suffocating as his milky hands that tightened around my throat. Did you hear me? Did you hear my muffled cries for help as you passed by? Or did you really believe I was hanging myself as if I wasn’t six feet tall? Even I’m not that magical. 2. The gunshots broke the silence of that afternoon. Six in all. Die. Die. Die. Die. Negro. Die. They’ll tell you I had a gun of my own. If I did, what hand could I have used to reach it? 3. How many times have they said there’s a race problem in this country? How many miles did they march in memory? How many names were added to the list? Did you believe them? Did you call them race-baiters? Did you sit in the comfortable knowledge that at least you aren’t racist? Remember. Complacency is still aid. Inaction is still action. 4. The world was silent. 5. We were not. 10
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“Prisoner of War,� Peter Soucy
PAPER MOTHS Nick Rizzutti
She was cutting paper moths under a single lightbulb. The same moth over and over. I wanted to ask what they were for, but more than anything I wanted/ to be able to cook again. All the salt in local bodies of water. All the girls in my life holding scissors. One time I died like a moth, and remained perched in the same spot on the wall for weeks, even after my body was finished with itself. Two more paper moths. Then a weasel. Then a waterfall. She turns off the light when she exits the room.
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HELLO LAMPPOST Amelia Beckerman
I park in one of those garages with the big orange and black signs that say “Park 24 Hours A Day” and head for the bar next door. I drink three vodka sodas and then walk twenty-eight blocks to get to your apartment because the only way I can find it is tipsy and out of breath. Which is how you find me, on your front stoop in the middle of August with a pad of post-its in my hand and the handle from a plastic grocery bag cutting into my forearm. I ask if I can come in but I don’t wait for an answer. You ask me something stupid like “how is everything?” and I nod, letting the bag drop onto your tile floor. For three years I read every book you wanted to before you had the chance and left post-it notes in between the best pages and stacked them on top of your “to read” pile. I wanted to be remembered even while you were lost and so I signed every one with love and sometimes they said things like “remember when we drove to the beach and drank too many wine coolers and accidentally called a limo to pick us up instead of a taxi” or “let’s get a German Shepard and name her Carol.” These were selfish notes because they didn’t have anything to do with the book and also they didn’t have anything to do with anything except for you and me and Carol. So when you ask me how everything is I don’t know how to answer. On the one hand, I spent the last four days on the floor of my childhood closet with “Sounds of Silence” playing on an endless loop from an old boom box covered in dog stickers. On the other hand, you once told me that “The 59th Street Bridge Song” played at your wedding. I say something about the weather or maybe sewer grates. You aren’t listening so it doesn’t matter. You eye the grocery bag on the floor. “Why are you here?” is the next thing you say. I pause, your mouth is curved politely but your thumb is rubbing circles on the side of your pointer finger. “Can I use the bathroom?” You point me towards it and I nod like I don’t know that it’s approximately thirteen steps from the front door (seven from your bed). I sit on the toilet with the seat down and grab the top book from the metal basket. The first post-it I write reads, “Remember the Delaware Water Gap?” The second one just says my name. So does the third. The fourth is a picture of an overhead fan. The fifth is a haiku. I write until my hand cramps and then I switch hands so the notes look like a second grader’s and I hope maybe you’ll find this charming. You knock on the door and I say I’m just “freshening up.” You knock again and tell me you have to be up early tomorrow and that maybe you should be heading to bed. I don’t respond. Eventually I run out of post-its and I can hear you breathing outside so I stand up and open the door and see you leaning against the wall. You say my name and repeat your earlier question. I blink a lot and can’t 12
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help but lean forward in the off chance that you will too. You don’t. “I didn’t mean to trouble you,” I say, even though it is a stupid thing to say and also a lie. “It’s okay,” is what you say and maybe I imagine it but I notice that your mouth stays open for too long after you say “okay” like maybe you mean to add something else like “I miss you” or “I love you” or “I never should have lied to you and I am very sorry especially since I love you more than her and all I ever wanted was to grow old with you in a small, stone cottage on the coast of Scotland and adopt a German Shepherd and name her Carol and get married on a cliff in the rain and have our first dance be to ‘April Come She Will’ which is the song I hear whenever I look at you.” Except you don’t say anything else and we just stand outside your bathroom for a full minute until you repeat the thing about having to wake up early. I pick the grocery bag up from the floor where I dropped it and hand it to you. You don’t say anything even when I see you peek at the pink bottles inside. Your mouth is still a little open. I want to say something but I feel like all the words have left me on account of all the post-its. Nine days later I’m at a Vietnamese restaurant on 5th Ave with a new you that I met on OkCupid and his eyes are dark like yours but he chews with his lips glued together and when my hair falls out from behind my ears he tries to tuck it back. So when my phone vibrates in my pocket and I see that it’s you, I answer it. “Hello lamppost/I forgot your middle name/but your bulb is bright” you read. There’s a pause and the words just dangle in the air. I imagine you standing in your bedroom or maybe Central Park, your book in one hand and my notes in the other. I imagine that you’re about to say something beautiful for the first time in three weeks and I’m already tallying the cab fare to your apartment in my head. I inhale too much out of excitement and my lungs swell and my head does that thing where it fills with smoke but it’s okay because I hear you open your mouth on the other end. “You’re missing a syllable,” you tell me, “in your first line. It’s only four but it should be five.”
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THE REVENANT Julia Gurrola
you wake up in a silk-lined box the air that fills your lungs is stale and unmoving why why are you here In a coffin how did you get here the first touch of sunlight on your skin is harsh and unforgiving – but that warmth – there’s nothing like it – there’s a reason the sun Gives Life your first day out of the grave, lights flicker wherever you go, people stare, your reflection is blurry And yet, your heart still beats, your lungs take in air, you Feel, A ghost with a heartbeat, you think. That’s what I am.
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MERCURY Regina Volpe
I think you’re freezing actually I know I just think I’ve stopped ignoring the metal screws crack in the joints of my glasses and the chill that sends down my spine and burns in the pit of my stomach You’ve always been cold your icicle fingers melted into my palms so well that I like to think my fire burned until you were less ice and more slush But now I’m the sun and you’re Pluto too far for my heat to reach and the ice is forming to a whole new degree and I don’t know if you notice how your nose is redder than usual or how your nails are tinted blue or how I say my hands are cold all the time now Sometimes you get some color back into your face and I think my rays did their job but the chill in the back of my throat reminds me that you have a heat lamp
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LUMENS B. Kelley G.
The bigger picture – We both had a brush. last night we painted with faces and sounds. That canvas, tonight, is in the garage where we’ve parked our future. Let’s hide it in the green canoe we barely use and leave the lights on.
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“The Whitney with Matt,” Danielle Ribuado
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THE BIG BANG
Regina Volpe
All our planets were formed because of the wrath of matter trying to survive in the vacuum of space. Countless pieces of everything fighting to come out on top. Growing bigger and bigger until only the strongest remain; and situate themselves in their lonely orbits. It’s the battle of the fittest—the Cosmos’ finest demolition derby. And once the dust has settled, the worlds lazily live on. Ignorant and apathetic of their fate and filicidal mother. Tirelessly spinning on their ends and never changing their way of life. Perpetually living in sloth, endless days spent predictably. Jupiter and Saturn and Uranus and Neptune all grew to dwarf their rocky siblings because their vapor mouths grew too greedy. Craving for more, until their masses expanded to incredible sizes. They swallowed up all the ices and gases around them until there was nothing left to store in their frozen cores. And despite their giant standing they remain empty, desirous bellies full of hot gas. But when a planet draws in an object that will ultimately scar or destroy its surface it was simply out of lust. Its pull catching any object, big or small, that crosses its path; to plummet toward the planet’s surface. The planet’s gravity too alluring for that asteroid or that meteor or that comet to stay out in space. Attraction being a world’s attacker. And maybe our Milky Way is jealous of all the others. Galaxies pitted against each other in a race of speed or collecting or size; always comparing one to the next. Envy fueling its motion as we drift and spin and revolve around its center faster than you or I could ever imagine. And despite Pluto losing its status in the Universe, it spins on. Ignoring its newfound rank and doing what it has always done. A lone proud rock amidst the comets and debris of the outermost reaches of our Solar System. Then one day our sun will decide it’s done. After all has settled in its aura, chaos will return. It’ll spread farther and farther until it swallows all its planets up in one gluttonous show before it collapses in on itself. Taking back everything it created to then give birth to a new batch of planets doomed to the same fate as their ancestors. An endless loop of life and death recycling the same matter again and again.
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“The Few, The Proud, The Mannequin,” Peter Soucy
WHAT POSSESSED YOU Abbey Sullivan
I always thought that we looked down upon the Devil; That the dark must crane its neck to gaze upward at us. But now I see it can stare straight at us from across the room, Through eyes that we used to think were human.
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PUBES
Danielle Ribuado (In the style of “The Res Poppy” by Louise Gluck) I can hear them murmuring about us. Angry men tell their girlfriends that they don’t need us. That they’d be better without us. It’s nature—that is what men fear. But the human anatomy is nothing to be afraid of. Misogynistic leaders: possessive boyfriends controlling dads, that one relative from down South, try to conceal us like a family secret. We don’t want to be concealed, we want to be heard. Don’t cut our voices into coarse, short, statements. We are more than the opinions of men. Don’t tailor us to their desires. Wild, tame, bushy or insane: Let us grow like a garden. Don’t let the skeptics near, they will not admire the landscape. 20
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HOW TO WRITE FEMALE CHARACTERS: A GUIDE BY AND FOR MALE AUTHORS
Amelia Beckerman
cut her jeans too short. lower her neckline. dye her hair. feel her collarbones just under her skin. keep mentioning her breasts— equate their size to grapefruits or baseballs. name her something that’s not a name like Summer or Alaska. if you name her something real, she might mistakenly feel human. put a cigarette between her lips. leave empty bottles scattered by her bedside. don’t blow the candles out. make him think he loves her. make him younger than her or smarter or lamer or nicer make him a virgin. make her a slut. and then kill her. put your hand over hers over the gun over the rope over the bottle. teach girls that they’re only beautiful when they’re rotting from the inside out— teach girls that they’re only beautiful when they’re dying. teach boys to love empty things. teach boys that girls are empty things. teach him that there’s so much to live for. teach her that there’s nothing.
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FLOYD MAYWEATHER Toby Jaffe
“If he was a peacock, he’d never fold his feathers” – Larry Merchant on Floyd Mayweather Jr. Gray over Hempstead Queens Kew Gardens disappeared in the acute no motivation Floor the dial tone, tame my smile – Some poor unknown fella Toby Jaffe writes prosy poetry Toby Jaffe writes prosy poetry Toby Jaffe writes prosy poetry Toby Jaffe writes prosy poetry Toby, you’re balding you silly boy! – Floyd Mayweather Jr. Floyd throws compact punches in the ring, yippee throws wild in Fatburger but you still write prosy poetry – an enthused observer Roger Mayweather vacations in an imaginary Martha’s Vineyard A Martha’s Vineyard that brings to mind some kind of urban locale in the Pacific Northwest An apartment in the sky. Spending evenings after trips to the beach down the street, crooked pavement turning to forgiving sand, in the kitchen with those six people in his life he most loves and adores playing card games. – story time with Smokin’ Joe Frazier, in dazed flux Oh man did you see Mayweather fight Pacquiao? Oh man did you wait all those years just to see those two stand in the same ring? Like really… Did you expect something? Were you excited? I was. But it was a let down…
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Floyd did his thing and Manny’s shoulder ached. Unanimous decision. It was over after the second round. Oh man, did you realize that so much we look forward to ends up sauntering on down a slow river of drizzly hellfire? We should have been smarter. Always. We expect the sublime. Heaven. But oh yeah: Floyd hasn’t had an exciting fight in 20 years – Signed wholeheartedly, Me I heard what Floyd said all those years ago. But I grow. Grow, yes I cheek peck. I move on. I realize now that love encapsulates everything rock-em sock-em anger, euphoria, sleep, tears, belly-laughter, knuckleheaded frights you can get high on anxiety, real high – Prince Naseem walking alone on a Saturday afternoon in the city of London, England. He holds a mild coffee. Shut up “Prince” Naseem you’re a lowly jester cloth screwed on your bloated 21st century forehead like a clogged toilet. Twisted. Waxing like you know something! All the pensive spirituality in the world you can find is in my record 49-0 – Floyd Mayweather Jr.
HAROLD LEDERMAN Toby Jaffe
Jim Lampley: Lets go to Harold Lederman sitting ringside for the unofficial scorecard. Harold Lederman: Ok Jim! Let me tell you something. I’ve had seventeen genuine life experiences, none of them good! I’ve listened to obscure Sinatra records alone, sliced my throat on burnt toast in outer borough diners even lonelier. I’ve bought uppers off of street dealers whose knees were twisted, downers off sulking trainers you’d think were above it. I’ve climbed tattered elevators to the sky, watched speedy commuter trains stuck in neutral during the height of steamy autumns. I’ve heard late night whispers about mothers standing over guilty daughters. Or maybe I dreamt that. It was like a film. These mothers, these shame striken mothers! These mothers held rusty scythes upon their distraught mothers too close for comfort. But Jim I gotta tell you, I’ve scored fights like this. Or maybe I dreamt that too? I stood with my father and a childhood friend — from middle school perhaps? — as they fought and wrestled among fall leaves. The cops had to show up. These fuckers were from out of town. They had no interest in any of it! In fact Jim, they were all laughing at me! Jimmy, it was quite the scene! It was humiliating! In any case, Jim, i’m interested in one thing tonight and that’s ring generalship. How does one measure such a thing? Confidence comes and goes. Nobody’s no good at any damn thing! Anyway, I score this bout 30-27 for Mr. Shane Mosley!
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LITERAL ANIMORPH Nick Rizzutti
If you lie in an attic for a while you can get really dusty and then even the outer layer of your body will be made of other people’s skin cells. And insect parts. Some people have a third eye but I have a fifth and sixth leg, covered in tiny, sensitive bristles, undulating in the spirit world. My spirit proboscis liquefies your organs and sucks them into my body. My spirit eyes see in 100 directions but not in color. I can only smell rotting meat. I realized I wanted to hurt your feelings so I slowed way down/ and turned all the water in my body/ into glass. Now I can live in space, orbiting some other planet if I need to.
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u spelled that wrong regina wtf r u doing
“Parallel,” Mika Hawley
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FUCKING LIESL VON TRAPP Amelia Beckerman
I was born in the basement of my grandparent’s house during a snowstorm. Or maybe a thunderstorm. Or maybe it was just heat lightning. Now that I think about it, my grandparents didn’t have a basement at all because they lived two miles from the beach and also my grandpa was in a wheelchair and couldn’t use stairs. So maybe it was just the living room, not the basement. And maybe it was perfectly nice outside. Maybe I wasn’t really born at all. I used to say this to my mom. She would be standing on a blue mat in front of the sink, wearing elbow length gloves and I would say, “what if I just appeared one day and tricked you into believing I was your daughter?” And she would say, “I would love you anyway.” But then I would counter with, “what if I brainwashed you?” And she would say, “I would love you anyway.” And I would say “what if I am an alien and I’m just collecting data on humans before I kill you?” And she would say, “I would love you anyway.” And I would say, “what if I’m just a regular little girl?” And she would say, “then I wouldn’t love you at all and I would leave you in front of the fire station” and then she would crane her neck backwards and laugh in the good way that meant she would love me even if I wasn’t special at all. But now that I think about it this only ever happened in my head because my mom didn’t wear gloves when she did the dishes (her hands were rough and cracked) and also because she had a very short neck so it always kind of looked like she was shrugging or maybe trying to pull her head into her body like a turtle. In fact, I’m not sure I had a mother at all. I had a dad though. His name was Paul and he had a very serious face like maybe his wife just died and now that I think about it maybe she did, which explains why I never told her I was an alien. Paul had the kind of job where you had to wear a tie and squeeze your forehead between your thumb and pointer finger and talk about someone named “Jenkins” all the time. I called him “dad” because he told me to and I was very young when we met in maybe a snowstorm or thunderstorm or just heat lightning. When I was a little older I started to call him “father,” which I liked because it sounded like I should be wearing a little white dress with matching gloves and that I should be visiting him in a room called “the study” where he liked to sit in a wooden captain’s chair and think about the impending merger. On the rare occasions that 26
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Paul would take me to work events with him, I would say things like “father, may I please take a step to the right” or “father, would you allow me to tie my shoe” and he would get very embarrassed and tell me to stop acting like a “fucking von Trapp kid” (though I have watched the musical several times and found no evidence that any of the von Trapp children were sexually active, except maybe Liesl). I had a sister too. Her name was Ruth and she was older than me by one thousand years or maybe just four. She used to tell me about our mother who she only knew for five years but had a very good memory of. I would sit on the edge of her bed and she would say things like, “mom had a beautiful voice and her favorite song was just the words “where are my keys” sung over and over again forever.” I would ask something like “did she wear gloves when she washed the dishes?” And Ruth would say, “her favorite color was off white like the walls in a new apartment or the clouds too early in the morning.” And I would ask, “what did her laugh sound like?” And Ruth would say, “she smelled like pinecones covered in snow.” It would continue like this until Ruth got bored and then she would lie down on her bed to signal that there was no longer room for both of us. I would stand up and slink to the door and she would say, “goodnight sister,” and I would say back, “stop acting like a fucking von Trapp kid.” Actually, I think I was born in a tornado and it was in a basement except at my other grandparents’s house since they didn’t live anywhere near a beach and my Papa had two working legs. Also maybe my dad’s name was David, not Paul, and my mom’s hands were very smooth and Ruth was actually five years older than me. Now that I think about it, I’m not sure why you’re even asking about all this since I already completed my mission and reported back to Yezu in Sector 3 and he asked me all about human behavior and then yelled at me for being so forgetful especially because it was such an expensive trip. I told him all about being born and thumbs and Liesl von Trapp and he asked if I had revealed myself to anyone. I thought about Ruth and David and my imaginary conversations with my imaginary mom and I told him that they all thought I was a normal girl and also maybe I did too.
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BOYERTOWN Jess Kurtz
She was a melting glacier Cold and temporary, Struggling to remain whole Stable for now But soon gone. Offering himself To an undeserving recipient, He was a bowl of Halloween candy Left out with a sign, “Please take one” She dumped every last piece into her pillowcase. Every flower in the garden Had been picked in her name. Still, she cried, “Where are my damn peonies?!” The lipsticked woman Thought him oblivious To the elusive hours Spent late at work Yet, there they sat Night after night, On the crusty patio, Overgrown with weeds, Mundane but content.
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“Rose Girl,” Robin Deering
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“Seymour,” Danielle Ribuado
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THE FIRST TUESDAY OF NOVEMBER Ashanti Davis
After the shining supernova that was dinner, I leave my house. My first time in months, I think. But the place is beginning to smell like what ten people and one shower begin to smell like after a week. It’s one of those murky, cold afternoons, and it feels like rain is gonna happen sometime soon, but I’m not willing to turn back and get my umbrella—I barely made it out of the house to begin with; my mother saw me putting my shoes on and asked if I could take my infant sister with me, then, “Would ya mind brining along the dog, too, dear. She needs a walk.” I told her I was going for a drive and didn’t have a car seat. She frowned at me, and I nodded at her; she waved me off, “At least take the dog shit down to the trash, it’s by the back door.” This compromise I could accept. Shit in hand, I promptly ignore my car, and stick to the sidewalks, until I get to the edge of my neighborhood. My neighborhood is surrounded by a forest of evergreens, and I check my watch, toeing my regular footpath. The time is six fifteen. I left the house at six; I remember the bag of shit in my hands, and I drop it beside the path. “Fuck my mom,” I say. The forest doesn’t mind my cussing. I appreciate this greatly. “Fuck my entire family.” For coming into my space and shitting on my peace. I step one foot into these trees—a solitary drop of water lands on my cheek. Then, I run. I’m not a runner, so after a minute or two, my own body forces me to stop; I shrug off my jacket and lean against the nearest tree trunk and wipe the heavy mud from the soles of my shoes on an upraised root. I pant for a second in the cold air. How dare them—how dare they—I sigh, aloud, resorting to logic against myself, “How dare they get their house foreclosed on? How dare they have no one else to turn to? How dare your parents ask you return just a little of the favor that raising you and feeding and clothing you—” I stop myself, out of breath again. Plus, I’ve told myself all this before. I push my chin back, rest my head on a tree, stare up through the branches; the sky is dark. I know I’ll have to pick bark bits from my hair when I get back to the house, but that’s a problem for later. Right now, I’m just enjoying the cold breeze, through my shirt, across my sweat covered arms and chest as it starts to drizzle; then, my phone rings. FALL 2016 31
“Honey, honey, hello, where are you?” My mother’s voice calls, before I even place the cool glass of the screen to my ear. I fold my jacket over my arm and look around me, attempting to trace back with my eyes the footpath I jogged down. “I’m here, Ma.” But she doesn’t really care— “You need to get back here, Lizzie’s driven off in your car to see her girlfriend again, and the dog got out.” “—JeezUS, who let—” “And I can’t leave little Olive all alone in the house, and everyone else isn’t getting back from work at least for another hour. Honey, you need to get here.” I step forward, my foot breaking in two a branch below, the wind shaking the branches above. “Of course, Ma, on my way ba—” “Good, good, you did take care of the dog shit? Yes?” Quickly, I hang up. Then, taking a moment, I blow air through my cheeks and make no hurry in my return. “Fuck my family, fuck my mom, fuck my sisters, fuck that damn dog,” I remind the forest. It makes no argument. I am pleased. I see the edge of the forest, the line of the sidewalk, even spot the bag of dog shit. And that’s when I see it: between two trees, there’s a shadow, a velvet—hanging like lost clothes on the line—shadow, strung up between two trees. “That’s odd,” I say. The forest agrees in its silence, I am sure. I put back on my jacket because this action is familiar. The rain is falling harder now. It feels as though a decision needs to be made. I glance back to the plastic bag of dog shit and take one step from my footpath, a step backwards and away. And that’s when I hear it: A low humming, like music; a syncopated breathing. “What?” I say, staring into the shadow’s inky pitch, a heat emanating, stepping forward.
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“The Scene,” Abbey Sullivan
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“Styrofaces,” Mika Hawley
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ZIP
Sharon Rus We do not speak about where the zipper lies. Still, she quickly locates the zigzags between her lips. The teacher says “shhh,” and, though five years old, she can feel its tightness. Thirteen and she knows what it means to cross your legs and lace them together until no light can pass through altogether. Few can remember the exact age when she locates the zipper on her hip and slips out of her own skin to see from the outside in. She finds herself lacking from their perception. No one tells her it is a deception or how dangerous to leave one’s own first layer of protection. Why do we not speak about where the zipper lies?
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AUGUST
Danielle Ribuado Momma’s hands were rust on a gate after the first April rain. But her brain held sweet thoughts, ones made of honey, that no wasp could produce. Death came over her like a blanket, pill bottles still lying on the bedside table. They said salmon helps the brain, that it could unclog the stuffed up chimney, and get the smoke to puff out again. But they weren’t the surgeons on television, they didn’t know any better. Fringed photos of Halloweens past hang on the fridge, and I remember all the costumes she sewed for me. I always forget to use a thimble. That’s a silly mistake she never made. Maybe I’ll learn before my chimney clogs. 36
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“Friendly Competition,” Mika Hawley
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BILL’S NECK HALO
Mack Caldwell
(Inspired by the execution of Bill Bailey) and eventually mama said the rope wrung Little John a Saint That’s why we called him Saint John Others only talked about evidence But mama had a funny way She leaned elbows on knees sighing out smoke while Uncle Jack deconstructed the local gazette prying open the swamp of information with dry eyes and a metallic opinion headlines went rolling by only the ones he wanted stopping to get soaked up “the man only took one bottle” his throat crackled out Mama peeked up with a smile “His gun musta jammed” Uncle Jack laughed a little bit “Well, he managed to cut one down” he said Mama raised her body up using the two arms of the chair and plopped a seat next to Uncle Jack “that’s his picture there, ain’t it?” her puffed finger dented the paper “Yeah, they all thought it’d be controversial… but only a coupla folks came” Mama adjusted her back and turned “He uh… he say anything when they asked?” Uncle Jack paused and read “Nope, he just bowed his head” Mama’s whole body exhaled she put her hands on her knees and stood up “Good, sinners make excuses.” Mama raised her hands her finger curled around a holy trigger of air “Whether it be a noose or a bullet” She took aim at Uncle Jack “The righteous ones carry forth the flood” Uncle Jack’s pupils ran black his nervous wheezing echoing out against the rotting walls around him 38
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“Look Up,” Meghan Podimsky
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HEY
Caro Becker hey, she says hey, yourself, she replies they lapse into silence. they speak again at the same time. do you thinkI want tothey both stop. you go first, says the taller of the two the other draws in a breath do you think they know about us? her eyes were wide with fear both their hands were trembling in each other’s grips I think, breathes the taller, I think that I don’t give a damn what they know. strong arms hold her close and quiet assurances are whispered into the cold, indifferent night shh, hey, shh, it’s okay hey, we’re okay
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“Coney Island Summer,” Danielle Ribuado
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A SHORT STORY OF WAR-MAKING Ashanti Davis
the biggest lie i ever believed was that you didn’t deserve it. the morning the sun met the shadows—i found— it’s always a struggle, a fight somebody’s knife against a throat. somebody’s knife against a throat who didn’t ever deserve it the sun met the shadows— the biggest lie i ever believed i found the ever lying sun—you— met the struggle, met the fight met the throat—you deserved it. the knife against—the biggest sun against the morning struggle against the in-mourning fight ever against the—i believed. you deserved it. Please believe: that the morning the sun met the shadows of the hydrangeas, i found peace.
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HIPSTER GIRL THINKS SELFIES ARE ART
Sarah Robbins
I started wearing makeup in the sixth grade tweezed my eyebrows to one thin line but wore thick blue eyeliner for a linear balance, I was deeply invested in the experimentation of colors across my skin, but also I was deeply invested in pretty I took a mirror selfie with my polaroid 600 film is twenty-five dollars for eight pictures which means that mirror selfie cost me approximately three dollars and sixteen cents I let my eyebrows grow back in but they’ve never been the same multiple bouts of pink eye left the hairs brittle and weak, I hate their sparsity and try to accept them but I still usually don’t leave my room without them filled in; I don’t remember what they used to look like, but my memory isn’t sharp regardless, nowadays I am deeply invested in transformation I took a mirror selfie with my polaroid 600 film is twenty-five dollars for eight pictures someone told me that mirror selfie cost me my humanity In the ninth grade my old friend told me that if I liked how I looked then I wouldn’t need makeup so I try to tell my sister not to wear makeup to be pretty but for artistic expression and I hope that she hears me because I can’t undo the damage that was done unto me; I love makeup but sometimes it haunts me; I am deeply invested in allowing myself to finally be happy no matter what that takes and no matter what that means I took a mirror selfie with my polaroid 600 I hung it on the wall I love it
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WHAT’S THE POINT? Solange Luftman
Mrs. Gilfrey cut off my right index finger today. She told me it was time. I knew this was coming, but I didn’t think it would happen this soon. She got her surgical scissors out of her drawer and dragged me to the front of the class so everyone could watch. I was the first and had to be made an example of. I knew this, so I made sure to laugh maniacally the entire time. In a swift motion, she snipped my finger, and it fell onto the floor with a hearty “splosh.” Oh, but the show wasn’t over just yet! My finger, the quirky trickster it was, began a break dance routine. I supplied beats for it as it spun and jumped, decorating the gray tiles with swirls of hemoglobin. Mrs. Gilfrey would not tolerate the tomfoolery, so she put my poor little finger in a small mason jar. She told me I couldn’t have it back until I knew how to use it. I could have sworn I heard my finger whimper as she took the jar into another room. It was impossible, of course, because fingers didn’t have mouths, but it certainly missed me, and I missed it, too. I wept for my index finger that night. It had been with me through everything. It had helped me eat, wiped sweat off my brow, played violin, and picked my nose. I thought that perhaps my mother could provide some solace to my inner torment. It was only 10 P.M., so mother was sure to be awake fulfilling her newest artistic endeavor. She called it “Spice Painting.” Mom would get a bunch of different spices to make art and create aromatic masterpieces. She was currently working on a piece which a customer requested smell like, “Lemon Dreams with a touch of In Between.” Mom always knew just what to mix. “Mommy?” Mother looked up from her painting. Her tsunami eyes powerfully focused on me. She could make anyone feel important. “What’s on your mind, honey bee?” I held up my right hand to show her my lost friend. She looked understandingly at me. “Did I ever tell you about when my eyelids were taken from me?” I never knew it had been her eyelids! I aggressively shook my head. Mother chuckled before continuing. “It was a funny time in my life, honey bee. I would always talk in class and rarely did homework. So one day, Ms. Thunder— I’ll never forget—told me I needed to learn to pay attention, so she took away my eyelids for a week. That’s how I found art, you know. When I was forced to keep my eyes open, I recognized all the beauty that surrounded me.” 44
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My mouth was agape for so long that a spider was able to take a brief nap on my tongue before leaving to go on a hunt. “Mommy, that’s amazing! But what am I supposed to learn from not having a finger?” The storm behind mother’s eyes looked at me mischievously, “You’ll find out soon. We all do.” Mother kissed me goodnight before returning to her spicy art. She had achieved the “Lemon Dream” part, but she needed a few more hours until the touch of “In Between” was detectable. I took one extra-long sniff and then returned to my room. There was much I had to ponder. I wanted to play my violin to clear my mind, but holding the bow was much too difficult. Frustrated, I put on headphones and played one of my favorite classical pieces, “Adagio for Strings.” Though the piece possessed a melancholic tone to it, I was glad I could still listen. At school the next day I asked Mrs. Gilfrey if I could have a moment with my finger. I knew I couldn’t have it back yet, but I wanted to reassure it that we would be reunited soon. Mrs. Gilfrey looked at me with understanding but declined my request. She told me I could see my finger again when I was ready. I ran to the bathroom and cried into my sleeve. Wiping my face with my hand didn’t feel right without my friendly pointer. It was lunchtime, and I had to hold my fork like a toddler as I stabbed at my bowtie pasta. My friend Derrick, who lost his ears that day, sat next to me. I think maybe he was supposed to be an artist, too, but I don’t know. He wrote on his notepad, because he felt weird about not being able to hear his own voice, and then showed me the sheet. It said, “Are you okay?” I shook my head to say that I wasn’t. He put his arm on my shoulder and looked at me with hopeful eyes. His expression told me I was going to be okay and that made me cry again. It had been three long weeks without my finger. What if I never figured out what I was supposed to do? The only thing that could soothe me at night was the classical tunes I played on repeat. The next day at school, Derrick had his ears back. Everyone was congratulating him on solving his mystery. Jealousy boiled inside me. I marched up to Derrick to see if maybe he could give me some clue to figure out my journey. Derrick looked down at me with a maturity I hadn’t seen in him just a few weeks ago. “So, what are you going to be?” I asked. FALL 2016 45
“A psychologist. In my silent world, I was able to gain a deeper understanding of body language and to expertly read the emotions of others. I can tell you’re quite frustrated right now.” I was silent, and he continued, “but the only advice I can give you is to wait and watch. It will come.” Derrick could see that I was dissatisfied with his answer yet he still offered his contagious hopeful grin, and I couldn’t help but grin, too. I hadn’t gone to orchestra rehearsal in all these weeks. The shame of not being able to play my violin was too much to bear. But I missed it, so I decided to sit in on the rehearsal. Mr. Romero, the school’s music teacher and conductor, was late as usual. Fueling my long held desire to stand on a conductor’s podium, I decided to take advantage of this opportunity and made my way to the stage. Once I reached the podium, the first-chair violinists instinctively lifted their instruments in the ready position. The other rows followed suit. I suddenly realized they were waiting for me to begin! Feeling the pressure, I grabbed Mr. Romero’s baton that he had left on a small stand. I thought about how I wanted to shape the piece and settled upon a tempo in my head. Though holding the bow was awkward without my index finger, I felt born to lead this orchestra. Wait a minute... I ran home as fast as I could. Upon entering, I was greeted by the smell of “Angels Tiptoeing in a Rave” (the requests always got stranger). “Mom!” A knowing smile adorned her face. “Yes, honey bee?” “I’m going to be a conductor. I led my orchestra today!” Mother’s eyes flooded with pride as she embraced me. “I’m so proud of you!” *** At graduation, all of the students in my class lined up, excited to reclaim their career tools. Leana, destined to be a model, got her lovely cheekbones back; Tony, a car mechanic, got his hands back along with a book called “How to Overcharge and Get Away with It”; and I was granted back my finger along with a baton. Mrs. Gilfrey happily handed the Mason jar to me. My finger jumped in excitement as I opened the lid and placed my hand inside. It then excitedly screwed itself back onto the empty space it had missed so much. We were ready to create together.
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“Human Hive,” Peter Soucy
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AN EVOLUTION Elly Weinstock
once we were trees and dirt roads that led to cave walls with stories on them some told tales of arrogance and blood some of warmth and full stomachs and camp fires the good things but no one painted anything about love: we invented love it makes the stories more interesting. boys on the subway freestyle but they don’t talk about hand holding like palms praying for redemption, they talk about arrogance and blood no coats and empty stomachs, neglected neighborhoods the bad things it makes the stories more interesting.
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the trees couldn’t protect us so we invented umbrellas the umbrellas couldn’t protect us so we invented bullets ricocheting excuses for why we need so many shields that backfire like puddles rejecting rotten stones that don’t skip right across the ripples and I wonder did we invent love before or after the blood the excuses empty stomachs the bodies clung tight for the sake of survival, the thought of one more day? the world couldn’t protect us so we invented language to tell our own versions love to make the stories more interesting, hate for balance, pride for purpose. now after all this time with nothing new left to forge for convenience we invent ourselves it makes the stories more interesting. FALL 2016 49
“Flight 1702,” Jess Kurtz
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WAKEFIELD Sarah Robbins
We joked an awful lot about suicide even though we knew the legacy of young blood in an old town We knew that place would never prosper unless some of us stayed behind We were a hot commodity The kind of place where old footsteps ground pink petals down until it became the pavement The kind of place with troubled protests about anything ever changing We joked too much about suicide between the SAT, ACT, and AP Growing up means freedom for some but not in the town with a foundation of nostalgia We streaked down Main Street because that’s what freedom means The kind of place where my teachers went to my high school and sat in the very same desks I did The kind of place where the bricks kind of crumble and we’re all okay with it Suicide really isn’t funny and we all knew that too I think it was a fear of predetermined destiny though perhaps also a fear of leaving our little bubble It was always nice there the ice cream has always been good the bagels are okay too
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Disclaimer: Font exclusively features the work of Hofstra University students. Each staff member reviewed and ranked submissions blindly.
Font Literary and Arts Magazine. Volume, Fall 2016. Hofstra University. Copyright 2016 Font Literature and Art. All artwork and literature contained in this publication are copyright 2016 to their respective creators. The ideas and opinions expressed within belong to the respective authors and artists and do not necessarily reflect those of the editors, Hofstra University administrators, or the Hofstra community. Any similarities to persons living or dead is purely coincidental. None of the contents of this publication may be reprinted without the permission of the individual authors or artists. PRINTED IN USA
A PRODUCTION OF THE HOFSTRA ENGLISH SOCIETY