The New Font: Literary & Arts Magazine

Volume 1 Spring 2014

A Production of the Hofstra English Society Disclaimer No personal preferences were taken into account in the selection of material for publication in this magazine. Each staff member reviewed and ranked pieces individually using a scale system of one to five (1-5). These rankings were then reviewed by the group at large and the pieces that received the highest rankings overall were the ones chosen for publication as space allowed.

This method was also applied to all artwork submitted.

Font Arts and Literature Magazine #1, Spring 2014. Copyright 2014 Font Art and Literature. All artwork and literature contained in this publication are copyright 2014 to their respective creators. The opinions and ideas expressed within are those of the respective authors and artists and do not necessarily reflect those of the editors, Hofstra University administrators, or the Hofstra community. Department of English, Mason Hall, Hofstra University, Hempstead, NY, 11549 -hofenglishsociety@gmail.com- Any similarties 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 The fonts in this magazine include: Garamond Albertsthal Typewriter

EDITOR-IN-CHIEF Elly Weinstock MANAGING EDITOR Alie Coolidge PRODUCTION EDITOR Alex Demarest TEXT EDITOR Gillie Houston ART EDITOR Melissa Rostek ASSISTANT EDITOR Jaipreet Ghuman

GENERAL STAFF Jacqueline Hsu Nicole Spencer Bryanna Zerella Nora Kiridly Hayley Betz Toby Jaffe Melanie Rainone

SPECIAL THANKS

Eric Brogger Craig Rustici Scott Harshbarger Hofstra University English Department Hofstra Print Center

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TABLE OF Writing

2

Solaris by Nelly Nickerson

Until I Belong to the Wind by Victoria Lauren Cocolaras Departure by Batson X. Li

Alex by Louis St. Pierre

Slant by Alice Gunther

Floaters by Victoria Snak

Get Up by Breshay Wigglesworth

Dandelion by Julia McGuire

Amnesia by Mike Cicchetti

Bartley by Mariel Vazquez

Bottles and Smoke by G.A. Demarest

Give Me Life by Brian Stieglitz

What If by Candace Brown

Birthright by Gillie Houston

Above the Soil by Devon Preston Zombies: A True Story by Julie Pate

Alvida by Jaipreet Ghuman

The Bull Curve by Nora Kiridly

A Mournful Pair by A.M. Graham

Melancholy by Victoria Lauren Cocolaras

Saccharine Pt. 15 by Breshay Wigglesworth Creation of the Cynic by Zach Johnson

Gone by Elly Weinstock

Colorblind by Victoria Snak No Such Thing as One True Love by G.A. Demarest

6 8 10 12 16 17 18 20 22 24 26 27 28 30 31 32 35 36 38 40 41 42 44 46 47

CONTENTS Changeling Lullaby by Lucia Palazzo

Remember When by Elly Weinstock

The Virgin Promise by A.M. Graham

When I’m Twenty-Seven by Anonymous

Alone by Anthony Shore

Beautiful Strangers by Michael Riscica

51 52 53 54 56 57

Artwork Photo by Nora Kiridly

Overcome Fear by Erica Genece

Nostalgia by Ebube Ezeh

A Little Party Never Killed Nobody by Jenn Smulo Photo by Lauren Webb

Photo by Ebube Ezeh Photo by Lauren Webb

Photo by Jenn Smulo

Photo by Julie Pate

Keyla by Kay Hopkins Photo by Nora Kiridly Money Shot [MAC Cosmetics] by Alvia Urdaneta Photo by Ricky Michiels

Photo by Emily Davidson

Deep Sea by Kay Hopkins

Photo by Nora Kiridly

Photo by Lauren Webb

Photo by Ricky Michiels

7 11 16 19 23 26 29 30 34 35 40 43 45 46 50 52 56 57

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Solaris Nelly Nickerson In a cyberpunk dusty world With a snake for a shadow And a fang for a feeling Things implode in a cluster Of doomed plastic stardust Where one’s heart and mind Freeze like an inkblot moment In a blind, airless space.

The cosmos in blood On a metal coke can In the realms of Blue lit parking garages Where steel silver corridors Hear electric singing Behind caution tape and lead And deep, copper ringing ears Surge and tear and rip Something alien rises Beneath concrete and diamond Hissing and spinning And knowing and whining As the neon lights see smoke

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Photo by Nora Kiridly

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Until I Belong to the Wind Victoria Lauren Cocolaras Shivering in a naked arm chair nothing but me, the pen, and the paper.

The mahogany tip, steady in my hand, hovers over the slightly yellowed paper as I find my words are carried away by the wind.

My focus shifts to the intricate design of the pen, rotating in my hand like a motor.

The precision is nearly impossible to have been crafted by any human and the harsh truth hits me.

The originality it once held is gone; I toss it aside and reach for the uncapped marker, almost too big for my fingers.

The child in me glides it over the parchment that is his body and the words flow effortlessly.

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I step backwards, frame my fingers, and my gaze is drawn to the calligraphy that now covers his skin.

Something about it pierces me, holds me rooted, my hands still held up to my face.

He moves now, puts on his jacket, and touches the side of my cheek as the ink runs down my lips until his name is written across them.

They soften and I feel myself start to relax but my leather bound book is nearly halfway out the window.

One more blink to remove the fog and he’s gone, taking my story with him; I never even read the ending.

The confusion of the day ceases and the music in the breeze stimulates every sense until I belong to the wind.

The night air overtakes me and I stand there, unable to move.

I should have never left the window open.

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Departure Batson X. Li A whole new world awaits an adventure and ignites My burning passion for an imminent departure.

In your watery eyes I will never return, yet I promise This is the death of my presence, Not the death of me.

And I will still make you smile, when you read The memoir, my stories are written well.

Before I depart this old world, I have to make our memories anew.

I lay on the middle of your old cozy bed and you Say you see the baby who used to sleep Between you and grandma.

Then I hold your left hand like you held mine, And climb the favorite bridge from my childhood In the same path you led me.

On the final day, I enjoy that delicious noodle soup You made on my thirteenth birthday morning As my last breakfast.

I promise my second departure will be for you, Before I board and fly across the sea.

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After I depart for the new world, I will tell you my enthusiastic lone journey.

If you receive my smile, and before it vanishes From too much light exposure, you will frame it And put it on the old book shelf.

When you hear my voice after lunch, you will Carefully listen to me talking, kiss grandma for me And that will make your day.

You will not only see me in your daily dreams, I will be with you all the time when you close Your eyes and think of me.

I am never too far from you, even on a journey.

A big success will sooner bring me back to you.

You will know my second departure.

You will see the worth of adventure.

When two metal wings hum across The sky and the memory fog disperses In front of your eyes, Behold the return of a glorious color To your life’s beautiful sunset.

Overcome Fear by Erica Genece

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Alex Louis St. Pierre

Alex walked back into the office with two guards and the ragged man. He turned around, eyeing up the man from head to toe. The clothes he wore were stained with oil and blood and his shoes were nearly falling apart. His hair was long, matted, and oily, covering his face in tangled auburn strands.

To say he had a beard would be incorrect; a beard, he thought, would have at least some semblance of grooming or order. What he could see of the man’s face was almost completely darkened with soot, and he could see that the man’s lack of cleanliness had led to a breakout of acne. The few patches of skin not blackened by dirt or reddened with acne were sickly pale. The man, in fact, had two bouts of coughing on the way to the office from the café.

What could Ms. Avery possibly want with this wretch?

He watched the man as one of the guards did some quick blood work and checked the man for ticks and fleas. The man, at least, was cooperative, and did as the guards asked him without saying a word.

Finally, Alex got the ‘all clear’ from the guards. “That will be all gentlemen,” he said to them, and they left without saying another word.

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The man looked at him carefully and pensively. Alex stared back, studying him. Suddenly, the man broke his silence.

“I’d appreciate it if you stopped staring at me like I’m some sort of new car,” he said in a dark but clear tone.

“New? I’d hardly call it new. If you were a car, I’d probably recommend a new paintjob, a new transmission, a new engine block… in fact, I’d probably scrap you and just buy a different car,” he said without thinking.

For what seemed like forever, the man just stared at him, his eyes now alive and full of rage.

The man did not move and did not speak for several minutes, choosing instead just to stare at Alex, who was becoming more and more uncomfortable. Finally, Alex broke the silence.

“I have been instructed to test you, to make sure that you are everything Ms. Avery thinks you are. She doesn’t want to think she wasted her money, so I recommend cooperating,” he growled.

“Do you look at everyone like that? Seeing only what value you can understand? Human life is worth more than can be calculated in profits. I’d hoped some-

one young and intelligent like you would be above that sort of thing, that you’d realize that there’s more to life than just the dollar bill. Of course, it’s easy to see why you would only understand the value of the world in terms of the dollar,” he said, staring deep into Alex’s eyes.

“If you see the world the way she wants you to see it, you give her all the power. If you see only money, then those who have the money will own you. You think I am the slave because my wrists are bound, yet I am not the only one.”

Once again, silence filled the room. For once, Alex had nothing he could say in response. Never had someone been so quick, brutal, and effective in confronting him.

Not even the words had gotten to him. It was something about this man that he couldn’t define that was so incredibly terrifying and yet, he concluded that the man’s issue wasn’t so much with him as with the world he lived in. He sat down on the desk behind him, quietly thinking to himself. Is this really who I’ve become? Surely there’s more to life than just money.

There has to be more than that. He tried, but couldn’t bring himself to look the man in the eye.

“I, of course, would like to thank you for that brief, albeit thorough medical exam. It’s been a while since anyone’s checked to

see if I’m still breathing” said the man. Somehow Alex knew he was still under the man’s cold, pensive glare. “It feels nice to know that someone cares, even if they only care about the money I can make them.”

Alex looked up at the man.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to…” He stopped, unsure of how exactly he could put into words what happened. I violated him. He’s a human being and even for a brief moment, I treated him like he wasn’t.

He felt sick to his stomach. This has been the way of his life, treated as a sub-human tool. I will not do the same. I am better than that. He looked again across the room and asked the man his name.

Something in the man’s expression changed. It was like a part of him was visibly relieved that someone was finally making the effort to treat him as an equal. Another part was equally disturbed.

“My call-sign is Camulos”, he stated plainly.

“No. What is your name?

What do you want me to call you?” he asked.

“The last name I had was the name given to me by an abusive drunkard. It brought me no joy… only shame. He wasn’t even my father, but hell, I don’t know who my real father is. Whoever he is, I don’t think he’s alive, so I’ll 13

likely never really know what my name is anyway.”

Alex stared at him, puzzled by the brief narrative.

“For record’s sake, my current name will be Camulos. It is the only name that has ever given me any sort of pride in myself,” the man retorted.

“Camulos it is then,” Alex replied.

“Good.”

“You really want me to call you Camulos?” he asked. Wait, what am I doing?

“Hmm. No. Call me Rollo, I guess, if you don’t want to call me Camulos.”

“Why Rollo?” he asked. I should quit now while I’m marginally ahead.

“Rollo was the name of the first Duke of Normandy. His grandson was William the Conqueror.

His name has power, and yet it is so uncommon that it still holds some value to it. If I’m no longer a slave, then I want to have the name of a strong Viking lord.”

“Oh. That makes sense,” Alex replied, still mildly perplexed.

What a strange person.

“Yes. And since I’m not a slave, I won’t need these anymore,” he responded coolly as he dropped his shackles on the floor.

Alex looked down at the cuffs, then back to Rollo’s eyes.

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“How did you…?”

“I didn’t like them. They were unpleasant, so I took them off.”

“But how?” he asked.

“By removing them. I have certain skills. See, even in the American scheme of valuing things and people, I’m fairly valuable, despite having been a slave these past five years. Why else would Ms. Avery have spent around three million just finding me, then an extra thirteen million on my purchase and shipping? You could argue that most of the thirteen million went to the plane, but its net worth is only six million. Then, factoring in my new salary—as slavery is illegal here and I will not be working for free—you can add at least an additional three million over the next year or two. To her, I’m worth at least 19 million dollars. But that doesn’t even begin to stack up against my intrinsic value or my talents.”

“What?” Alex asked. “I mean, I get what you’re saying, but how does that answer the question?”

Rollo looked at him pensively for a moment, then replied, “I don’t think it really does. I guess I just hadn’t finished my rant from earlier. I used the paper clip I grabbed from the café. The one that held my paperwork together.”

“Ah. Ok.”

“Do you know where I can find a shower, and maybe a razor?

It’s been a while, and as you could imagine, I’d like to clean up a bit.”

“Sure, but I think Ms. Avery would prefer I get some of these tests out of the way first…”

Again. Why must I speak before thinking?

“I’m sure they can wait.

I’m also a bit hungry. They brought me to a café to be purchased and didn’t even get me a biscuit.”

“Ok, but only because you’re supposedly valuable. If Ms. Avery says anything…”

“If she has a problem with good hygiene then she can shove off and eat shit. But yes, if she asks why it’s taken so long to get them done, I’ll tell her how I had a long list of unreasonable demands and how I refused to do anything until they were met.” He looked at Alex, then down to the folder on the desk.

“What are the tests, anyway? What exactly did she have in mind when she bought me?”

Alex picked up the folder and looked through it. It was full of maps, schematics, equations, long essays and journal entries. None of it seemed to fit within any sort of basic field. “I don’t know. It’s sort of all over the place. I don’t know what she wants you to do here.”

Rollo looked at him for a

moment, looking like he was waiting for a serious response. When he concluded that Alex was telling the truth, he rolled his eyes. “Joy” he replied

“There’s a private bathroom back there,” he said, pointing to the corner with the bookcase.

“The bookcase is a hidden door. I don’t know why, but for some reason my predecessor was paranoid about people knowing he had a private bathroom. Just give it a push and it should swing open. There should be everything in there. I’ll call someone and have them deliver some fresh clothes.”

Rollo walked over to the other end of the room and opened the bookcase-door. He turned around and faced Alex. “Thanks” he said, with a look of sincerity that Alex hadn’t expected. Then he walked through the doorway, pulling the bookcase shut behind him.

This will be interesting. It’s not every day you meet a person like that.

15

Slant Alice Gunther

an italic’s just a letter leaning back upon its elbows fastened to the floor with velcroes

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Nostalgia by Ebube Ezeh

Floaters Victoria Snak

I noticed the other day you stopped floating.

Maybe it was the lifeboat holes that drown so many souls in diluted dreams, or maybe you found the air too thin and forgot what really feeds our lungs but either way you sank.

Pouring out pockets to pay meant you fell to the pavement and if I was to be a virtuoso in anything, it would be playing with gravity’s hold.

I would turn the world upside-down so you and I were always, always falling.

I would never have to be told you were indifferent to heights as we’d drop forever into sky.

It’s a funny thing, so many people these days find that fatal.

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Get Up Breshay Wigglesworth Ask her about North Hollywood. She’ll feign to tell you.

She’d rather drone on of drumsticks And glitter, Led Zeppelin, lace and lightning.

Open palms offer callus, not pruned cuticle.

Ring finger unchained, she can kill even The Killer Whale, french the L I double R conductor for a ride across the water.

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A Little Party Never Killed Nobody by Jenn Smulo

Dock nicely in the Caribbean, slurp and swallow maple from bark of palm trees and chase it down with Sunoco fuel.

She does those voodoo warrior witchy things while sinking deeper into the faux leather couch, watching network TV, imagining being better than she is now.

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Dandelion Julia McGuire Reaching out to me, your old, withered hand limp.

But I saw it as strong.

I see no pain on your face.

I see a golden dandelion, carefully created by your gentle brush strokes.

Voices, rushing all around, like petals of flowers on the high wind.

Do you hear my cries or any sound?

You gave me my voice.

Please hear me.

I watch a dandelion bloom from your paint and your brush Bloom from the canvas of earth beneath.

It blossomed, but how did it grow?

I look in your eyes, What color are they?

I hold your hand and whisper, “please don’t let go.”

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The dandelion, so stunning, was beginning to wilt, and slowly was dying.

I see the pain on your face.

It came from your hands, Your sturdy, stable hands, and grew, a vine reaching for me.

Your eyes must have been bright, the dandelion is.

You must have been strong, the dandelion is.

You must be lost, the dandelion is.

And I see you reaching out to me, dandelion in hand.

I remember the dandelion, and with my gentle brush strokes, it grows.

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Amnesia Mike Cicchetti I remember when she heard the news that her Papi had passed.

Her mouth curled and dried up like old prunes.

Her ears turned a bright red, as bright as skin could turn. the bags under her eyes matched the height of her cheekbones.

She didn’t fall apart. Only teary-eyed and sniffling she sobbed.

And I wrapped my arms around her Like her little boy used to do when he was home once in a while.

I remember when he heard that his brother was gone.

We were supposed to go to work that day.

I sat on the couch in an empty house Until they all came up from the basement.

He belted his weeping, strange for his stature and he fell apart in his hands, the pieces too fragile to put back and too many to sort out quick enough.

And I stayed petrified, unsure of what to do Like I always had at that age.

I remember when she died.

I couldn’t feel a thing, any sign of remorse or relief and how could I when all there had been left was now turned as if it didn’t exist?

So I broke and I carried myself home, losing all but a few pieces.

And I haven’t felt anything compelling Like the one time things were ok.

Ok. Nothing ever is.

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Photo by Lauren Webb 23

Bartley Mariel Vazquez He sauntered down the steps, champagne glass in hand. As he brought the bubbly gold liquid to his lips, a satisfied smile broke out across his face and he cocked one eyebrow. Bartley you dignified, glorified fool. You’ve done it yet again, he thought. Pompousness and sarcastic self-criticism were his best known character traits, yet here he was – hosting one of the most populated parties of the year.

Bartley allowed one light blue eye to rove over his extensive tract of backyard. If I die tomorrow, I shall be the most admired bachelor in New York.

Fingering the empty china, he descended the remaining stone steps and approached the table nearest the edge of the gravel walkway. There sat a woman in a light pink silk gown thoughtfully sipping wine. Bartley extended his hand for her to shake, but she would not acknowledge him. He waited a few seconds before waving a hand in her face, and still, nothing. He was taken aback by her effrontery and watched her plum colored lips slow-

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ly sip her wine, methodically, mechanically. Shaking off his sudden feeling of embarrassment, Bartley coughed and threw back his head, listening to the clink of glasses, the music of a falsetto violin, and the chatter and sounds of amusement escaping the guests. All their noise and burps of approval boosted his ego to an infinite degree, which is why he could not fathom this woman’s indecency. Maybe another… more agreeable guest.

Leaving the woman in the silk gown, he indignantly walked up to a tall, broad-shouldered man in a business suit, the gravel crunching under his fine leather shoes. The man was chatting with an older woman of high distinction in the upper class. She was growing gray and Bartley could not imagine her conversation containing any substance worthy of comparison to a conversation with him.

“Excuse me my fine man,” Bartley interrupted with an air of self-righteousness. He tapped the tall man on the shoulder and was again met by stony silence. By now

Bartley was verging on furious as he walked around to face the businessman. He looked him straight in the face… and received no recognition for his efforts. Stunned beyond comprehension, Bartley quickly became infuriated by the man’s negligence.

Just then a tall, slender figure in a floral sundress came skipping across the grass toward him. Her auburn hair and bright smile made him grin with anticipation and delight. Finally, someone with sense. Who made up the guest list anyway? However, as she approached, Bartley realized that her gaze was directed over his shoulder. She sailed right by him in a wave of ignorance of the little man she’d disappointed. Bartley lost it: “What is the matter with everyone?! Have I no distinction? Am I to be overlooked like some low life!” he shouted aloud. Deciding to display an outward semblance of calm so as to encourage those of his sensible guests to think that not even the most paramount of insults could harm his dignity, Bartley

disposed of the champagne glass, thrust his hands in his pockets, and jauntily continued down the gravel path to the end of the yard. Basking in the mid-afternoon sun and his glory, Bartley again lifted his head to the sky to await the curious guest whom he was positive would inquire after his thoughtful, meditative manner.

But no one came. Bartley received no tap on the shoulder, no “why hello there,” no praise for the magnificence of his grand estate.

He was left to his thoughts and quietly stood astounded at society’s callowness nowadays. His anger receding to defeated puzzlement, he jerked his head to the right in order to catch a glimpse of the gathering in his peripheral. But nothing met his vision save the looming figure of a Tudor mansion in the distance.

He turned around fully, slowly, with a dawning expression of wonder.

Nothing covered the vast expanse of his finely landscaped yard, but grass.

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Bottles and Smoke G.A. Demarest It strikes quarter past a nickel Time didn’t pass we just lost it for a while Bottles and smoke, fog and glass All the friends sitting together Talking with each other but not to each other Bottles and smoke, words and gestures Everyone dressed in dress for the occasion Each person looking at the other but not seeing them Bottles and smoke, sight and cloth The head of the girl I adore asleep on the lap of the brother I love Every person seeing, hearing, and patient but me not understanding Bottles and smoke, passion and hands We go through the paces each time Each time is still like new Bottles and smoke, smoke and bottles

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Photo by Ebube Ezeh

Give Me Life Brian Stieglitz I want to be battered I want to be tossed, I want to be thrown, I want to be vigorously ravaged I want to relinquish all my control and mortal interference to the world

around me With the ease of the stoics I want to donate my mind and body to nature I want it to tear down my walls, I want my city to crumble And up from the ashes will come oblivion And while the waves crash against me, and while the wind shatters

my facade And while the rain dances into my soul, and while the sun singes my flesh And while the Earth ravishes my being…

I want to smile I want to laugh, I want to shriek, I want to be loud enough for my people to

hear me And follow me And in this scared hell, and in this tainted heaven I want to be awaken Awaken by the bestial patterns and animalistic havoc that was created by design Shaking me with dread and fear until— at once— this encompassing force dissolves And is blended with, and gradually replaced by, exuberance Exuberance and the reassurance that my mind and body are in the Earth’s hands Until I reach a treaty between contentment and adrenaline Because I know that I am truly and completely alive.

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What If Candace Brown In between is a hard place to be Not necessarily between a rock and a hard place But between what you’ve done and what you’ve yet to face What is done and what is yet to be Who you are now and whom the future will see In between the build-up and the legacy Leaving the familiar for the unknown The immature for the full-grown Dependency for life on your own For the most part anyway, and that’s enough to me To taunt and tease with ‘what ifs’ and ‘we’ll sees’ What if I don’t make it?

What if I don’t succeed?

What if I haven’t learned everything I’ll need?

We’ll see how you do.

We’ll see what happens next.

We’ll see how quickly this world leaves you vexed.

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Photo by Lauren Webb

Confused by how fast everything around me moves Wondering when the hell did I step into these ‘big girl shoes’ Am I really in charge of my life from here on?

It’s that thought that I tend to dwell upon.

I decide whom I’ll turn out to be.

What if I don’t make it?

I guess, we’ll see.

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Birthright Gillie Houston I, being born a woman and distressed was born with fire in me, my birthright flickering through the others, too, born pink, not blue, born with hips and milk and thunder, born to live red: blind, bold, real reckless red behind my eyelids, born a marriage of firefly wing and dusk, born exploding into that deepest, spilt-ink, star-borne sky.

I was born to grow, to find, to need, to live as sea foam—temporary. I was born for this, paper in my fists, born to write this down. Harbor these words I was born with no more. I will shout them. Born with freshly found vocal chords, born an accordion’s sound.

30

Photo by Jenn Smulo

Above the Soil Devon Preston Her body bends into mine, Whisper-thin limbs folded up against the wall, Shivers trickle, water down the panes of a windshield.

‘Are you cold?’ The answer is never acknowledged.

Looking into her eyes, I no longer feel the sun on my back, Our laughter echoing off the walls, Fingers intertwined as we run blindly through the street.

I can feel the cold emanating through a crack in the window, Her bones no longer fit against me, they stab into my side.

‘What happened to you?’ I want to ask.

Why is it that now, When ever I touch you, I’m afraid you’ll break away, clumps of dry sand in my fist.

When ever I tell you I love you, I know those eight letters will fade and disperse in the air.

“What happened to us?’ The thought froths over the brim.

You were my sweet inhale in the morning, Now a heaving exhale.

As I drag your carcass, Across the remnants of life together, Smearing our blood on the pale white walls, Of the life we built as one.

The shovel is heavier than you now.

As I sink its metal mouth into the ravenous earth, The ground eats up your body, Dirt washing over purple fingers and blue lips.

The girl I loved and would have died for, Someone who can’t speak above the soil.

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Zombies: A True Story Julie Pate

Zombies in the horror movies don’t scare me, not anymore. Peeling flesh, snarling growl, lips painted bright red with human blood? Too fake to believe.

I’ve seen the real thing. I have seen both my brothers, taken from me violently, turned into a nightmare.

Jeremy was gone first, and because of him, Brendan too.

I’m talking genuine, honest-to-goodness zombies. Empty bodies with blank eyes. They went in different ways, one scarier than the next.

Neither was in front of me when it happened. That’s how it works in the movies though, isn’t it? The audience sees the virus get loose, or the first infectious bite, but the characters are unsuspecting. They have no idea that life as they know it is about to end, that the world is about to be taken from them. There they are, on a Wednesday morning, just checking their phone or watching the news, when the first indication that something is bizarrely, horribly, irreparably wrong comes to them.

I got the news about Jeremy in the form of sixteen missed calls and one four word text. It compelled me home, shocked and disbelieving 32

and broken at the news.

Then at the train station, another horrifying surprise. Waiting for me in the car, dressed in my brother Brendan’s clothing, was a zombie.

For both, I had absolutely no warning. For both, I had absolutely no idea how to react, or what to do.

I think I reacted like most big sisters would. Then again, who really knows until it happens to them.

I cried. I cried to the point of physical exhaustion.

On the ride home from the train station, I saw the change in Brendan before my own eyes. Not the actual transformation, which had occurred hours before, but that was when I began to notice the differences in him from the boy I used to know. My wired, goofy, active little brother was now a statue of silence and shrugs.

“Who are you,” I wanted to whisper. “I’m so scared.”

We drove home, down the streets I could once walk through safely with closed eyes. I saw the grief in my parents and my little sister as I walked into the living room, pain etched in their faces. Brendan was wordless as he staggered away.

I didn’t see Jeremy’s lifeless body until a few days later.

We were all together, the hu-

mans and the zombie in the same space. Even with everyone dressed in black, it was still so obvious that we were alive and he was now the walking dead—his heart, his humanity, his soul ripped out from his body. He stood with us, even though I knew with certainty that he would give anything to simply no longer exist. What he would give to obliterate this disease, cursed to joylessly wander through a half-life until the day he dropped, his broken body finally joining his long-ago broken heart.

As we slowly shuffled our way inside, I felt the fear growing inside me at the thought of seeing Jeremy for what I knew would be the last time. I saw Brendan, further up in line, and I still could not, still cannot, believe such a fate would befall not one but two of my brothers.

That my family, my town, my community, was devastated by this tragedy.

Now I am in the room.

Now I am twenty feet away.

Now I am ten.

Now I am embracing his biological family, choking out whispers of condolences and shared grief.

Now I am meeting his “real” mother for the very first time, anger burning within me, wondering why it couldn’t have been her and not him.

She, who so carelessly disregarded life, who rejected love, rejected him,

she deserved a fate this awful. How is it fair that this deadbeat woman is still alive while my brothers are not?

How dare she stand here, so close, but eighteen years too late? I turn away from her.

Now I am five feet away.

Now I am staring into his open coffin, looking at a frozen face that is no longer his.

If I turn around, I would see it reflected, so identical it was as if he were Brendan’s mirror.

How could it come to this?

My little brothers. The two inseparable boys. As a big sister, you give and you give. You make brownies and buttery grilled cheese, cut diagonally. You tuck them in at night and wrap the blankets tight before you kiss them, so they can squirm and groan but can’t wipe it off. You watch them dig a hole to China in the backyard and attempt to be skateboarding gods. You tease them about their first kiss and their first hangover. Who would believe these now wordless, motionless boys once lived so fully? Up at six in the morning, watching Saturday cartoons in their onesies, then out all day, long after sunset, playing football and skating and tying the shoelaces of their tattered shoes and throwing them to dangle in the sky.

But for everything you give, you get something back. You learn how to be patient, how to love un33

conditionally. How to put a band-aid on and how to take it off without ripping out half their baby body hair. You get in screaming fights until your throat burns over whose turn it is to empty the dishwasher.

For them, you listen to hours of rap and hip-hop, you write essays on books you haven’t read in years, you do math problems without a calculator.

I know it sounds like a lifetime of memories, but it was only a childhood.

Looking at these lifeless bodies now is a cruel, painful reminder of all the moments we will never have together, moments that have been stolen from my family’s future.

Instead of walking proudly across stage, there will be a gap in the names read at high school graduation. Instead of pounding down

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the stairs and bringing in the mashed potatoes from the kitchen, there will be an empty place at the dinner table. The far-off plans to be each other’s best man on wedding days, godfathers to each other’s children, are now dreams that will go unrealized. I step away from the coffin.

I go back to my brother who still breathes.

He can’t speak or make eye contact or touch me, but he still breathes.

But what is breath without life?

In the movies, some scientist has a cure, or the government bombs the world apart trying to save it.

Looking down at him, sitting so, so still, I know there is no cure.

There is no miraculous drug that can change this. I know that my brothers are gone.

Photo by Julie Pate

Alvida Jaipreet Ghuman Punjabi Bagh was damp with countless tears and the sky turned a murderous gray as the doctor confirmed the mother’s worst fears.

The crematory mob had nothing to say.

She plummeted to the bitter land, not knowing the gods could be so heartless.

Across the body lay a solitary hand.

Frozen, she grieved to a heaven so godless.

No respite was the unwed woman to find.

The scarlet letter, brighter than ever did shine.

Never would it have happened in her right mind.

The town square clock meekly wailed the time.

The crowd cleared out till no one was left behind,

save the mourning woman and her only child.

Keyla by Kay Hopkins

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The Bell Curve Nora Kiridly 1(Begin) Awkward hands, swollen tongues, built up fears Learning the landscape of another Eyes trailing, Ears imagine, the song of guilty pleasure your birds whisper in the rise of morning Your smell- cinnamon, sweet I’m hit and won’t exhale Your voice like water, waves pulling down Your terrain clean of my mark, Guessing the intricate patterns of your footprints in my freshly fallen snow.

2(Enamor) Winter streamed through memories in and out of you Wrapping our limbs to lock out cold It felt like simplicity.

Time, we spent looking at each other Time, felt like no time, to lose, to gain.

Life paused often and carelessly, satisfying our need for movement through each others words At night; we memorized the lines on skin, In morning; we slept through drape distorted sunrises, woke up dreaming.

Learned the other like the backs of our hands.

We merged the days.

3(Slip) Unrecognizable.

Logic lost where thoughts and sounds, twist and combine to form tornados I wanted to evoke your body-bound soul, sip it out, drink down your barriers 36

With a heavy brain your sanity pounded at your skull, something begged to be heard I watched it swimming to your fingertips, crawling onto your tongue Neck aching with burden Eyes slipping in and out, opening to scramble the clocks on the walls Your years began to feel like minutes, days like months You rewound your life, over, over, over I watched you reel out film, light scalding what it held left to compromised chemicals.

4(Deny) Jog. Pick up the pace.

Feet in tune with mind, hitting the pavement step-by-step A hint of a dress, a familiar scent You know what you’re chasing, Crave it, following the chance You The fleeting dress.

Farther, step-by-step.

Climbing ladders, jumping gates, unfamiliar tracks Sunset failing to light the way.

Sprint. Hit a wall. All turns dark.

5(End) Icarus, flying too close to the sun, to feel the strongest fire, before completely melting.

How we yearned for it All, fighting against flame singed wings How we burned, How we fell.

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A Mournful Pair A.M. Graham

Two by two they pass the trees Alongside lover’s lane; Without the fear of an empty chase Their hands do easily share.

Passing kisses with different grins Their joy aglow both out and in Forgotten of this pain, Black and white they rightly embrace With warmth of skin and fairness of hair.

These fingers find their partner too They lock and greet and gaily pursue This love they think they always knew They mold it quite the same; But while to truth they hide their face, To lies they eagerly stare.

The others see naivetĂŠ here And though they scare, they easily fear That madness spreads with each fresh tear That both these eyes give this fresh year

In light of my foolish claim; They laugh in a blinding race

Without the slightest of care.

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But just as now and as before My fingers black but white of core They seek the like and nothing more— They seek the waters of the shore— This hate my hands have worked to store That took my will and left me for The closing of that mournful door Put at my back with naught in fore Has crushed my heart with white I wore— Has gored my sense of common lore— And forced my turn from man to boor And left me pensive deep in your Extensive web while I abhor That look that shows that you adore His everything, that shows that you’re His everything.

Finally the truth they see;

My fingers curl with shame.

Chagrined, yet doleful, for in my case Between them lies the air.

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Melancholy Victoria Lauren Cocolaras If hearts were composed of plexiglass fibers, rather than the uncertain notes of a pianist’s mind, then the night would serenade us.

But the harvest moon awakens shadows that mock the unspoken desires of our dreams, and so, we suffer on in the silence.

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Photo by Nora Kiridly

Saccharine Pt. 15 Breshay Wigglesworth I look at that picture and shut my eyes like prison gates. I imagine how good it must feel to be engrossed, enraptured in your arms.

I feel your heart beat on my back. I taste “saccharine” and you aren’t even on my lips; it’s the pheromones in the air, the lust of life on your sleeves, the rim of your fitted cap turned backwards as not to hit my doughy forehead when you lean into my face.

If you want my kiss you take it. On my cheeks, eyelids, chin, and ears lie invisibly inked notes. Each one reads your name. I’m not accustomed to rounded doe eyes asking for my pucker. Please do, steal it.

Your pecks on my neckline are lethal unless you remember to turn you hat; reasons why I never wear mine, you’ve always got yours on.

I’m remembering that I don’t have the real thing, just this picture. I’m looking at the digital amalgamation of pixels, colors, rivulets of light and shade. I’m staring into media and my mind is turning tricks, my heart catching each one quicker than fire on the end of a match.

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Creation of the Cynic Zach Johnson A silent bluff To kill the mood To stop the billow-hiss and teary-crow An ode of quiet stills and bloody spills Of frothing poison overflow The stake that makes it to the heart And cuts the lover’s beating dream Of streams of beams of vibrant suns We close our mouth We sew it shut These lips won’t move to tell this tale Our stories now are all dried up And silence reigns in soft regimes While no one sees and no one hears The quiet death of plotted words Long written schemes to catch the eye Oh, the ways that lovers die!

Forceful flights to quick-locked doors And sorrow systems shutting down The knife that bleeds the bargain hearts That live inside of fantasies To withdraw ourself from wistful words We close our mouth We sew it shut We clamp our heart We call its bluff The final death of longing looks And mapped-out moves to catch the eye Oh, the ways that lovers die!

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Money Shot [MAC Cosmetics] by Alvia Urdaneta

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Gone Elly Weinstock “Some people, most people actually, they die before they die. And the death of the mind and soul is so much grander than the death of the body,” my Religion professor says as he stands at the chalkboard. I think about death a lot in this class.

My father has been gone long before he will be gone: you can list the things that are wrong with someone, that you can put as symptoms on a solution called Zoloft or Xanax but you can’t put a prescription on a pill bottle for the heaviness of existence, i.e. sadness of never having been in love, sadness of your only daughter moving 3,000 miles away from you for college, sadness of insomnia, sadness of never staying in one place, sadness of being stuck in the mind.

He has known so many kinds of irreversible solace, an isolation of the soul that keeps him at an arm’s distance from everyone even if they hold him. And I know my father died the day he turned 18 and they drafted him for the navy, I know he grew depressed as he saw friends shipped off to leave this life daily, I know he has spent his whole life with every person he never said goodbye to crushing his chest and occupying his mind. I know his spirit is constantly being ground as if he is already cremated, I know there is nothing left for him here.

In some ways, how my father’s body collapses and finally gives into death doesn’t even matter but it scares me more than anything else I can think of, including my own demise from this world, and I can’t bear to see the rest of him go the way he first started fading when I turned five—suddenly, without warning, like an avalanche of snowflakes during a winter storm, it all starts out beautifully but ends up messy and hard to shovel through, and parts of him flicker in and out of existence, but when his arms give and his eyes close, the remainder of him is— well, there’s no good synonym for what the word “gone” means, there’s nothing good about gone at all.

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Photo by Ricky Michiels

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Colorblind Victoria Snak Fall: those pillars are sentenced to death by envious forces whose limbs can’t hold the sky.

In one last storm, the condemned rebel in honorable strifeshields shed their life, scarlet swords drop great heights.

Skeletons bare, ground commanded by decay.

And we are only taught after ruin that trees are red; colorblind eyes can’t distinguish blood from leaf so we never notice Autumn leaves.

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Photo by Emily Davidson

No Such Thing As One True Love G.A. Demarest

The front door of the wellaged brownstone home opened releasing a bright glow into the night.

Sarah stepped out into the bitter Massachusetts winter and away from the warm, bustling party. Her long shadow cast over the dark steps was sharpened by the yellow light coming from the doorway. She stepped across the porch and down the steps to the sidewalk as two other figures filled the door jam with their silhouettes. Maggie stood on her toes and kissed James lightly, falling back on to her heels with a smile, their interlocked fingers resting in between them.

“I love you,” Maggie locked eyes with him.

“I love you, too,” he said, leaning in for another kiss.

“I’ll see you tomorrow?”

She couldn’t wipe the smile from her face.

“Of course. Good night.”

He looked down to the girl on the sidewalk with her back to them. “‘Night Sarah.”

“‘Night.” Sarah turned, almost surprised she had been noticed.

Maggie sprang to her toes again and wrapped her arms around his neck planting one final, hard kiss

on his lips before falling away.

“You sure you two will be fine walking home tonight?”

“Yeah. Go back to your party.” He did.

The yellow glow from the interior lights broke through the windows of adjacent houses and cast eerie shadows along their path.

The two women walked down the lane pulling their coats up to their chins, beginning their short journey along the streets of Cambridge.

It was chilly now, as November faded into winter and wisped clouds blocked out all but the moon’s silver lining. All was still and hushed in a peaceful winter silence, as the women remained in their own separate worlds.

Sarah shivered and popped up the collar of her pea coat. The cold made her feel stiff but her steps were still graceful and light. Her time as a dancer was far behind her but the education had not gone amiss.

She glanced down at Maggie’s hand and then back to her own feet. The illumination of the street lamps lit up her hazel-green eyes. She pulled a hand, clad in a fingerless glove, from her pocket and slid a lock her long earthy brown hair behind her ear.

Sarah couldn’t help but notice that 47

Maggie seemed unaffected by the cold.

Maggie had a skip in her step, the traces of that smile still evident on her flushed face. She kept playing with her hand. Glancing down, smiling, and still imagining his arms around her. The thought of him was the only thing keeping her warm that night.

Out of the dark their beautiful faces were met with a new light, a rainbow of light. Reds and blues and greens. Sarah and Maggie looked up to see the house across the street from them to be fully adorned with dazzling and gaudy Christmas decorations. It was that one house that was already covered with holiday cheer within a week after Thanksgiving. A winter wonderland of lit up snowmen, candy canes, and the usual cheap, department store animatronics were spread about in front of the house. It all lead up to an overly blushed Santa on the roof cracking a whip over his sleigh drawing reindeer. Maggie was drawn in by the whole display, while Sarah on the other hand preferred the simple handmade wreath garnishing the front door. Someone had obviously put a lot of time into that little wreath.

“Hmm. Pretty,” Sarah’s only comment.

“Yeah,” Maggie’s only reply; the broad smile returning to 48

her face, her hands starting to fidget once again. The gold band and modest diamond that now dressed the ring finger on her left hand brought her back to thoughts of the party.

Her mind went back to James. To the party. It was kind of strange; he was never really a people person, so throwing a party for no reason was slightly out of character. But, all of their friends were there. There was food, there was music, and it was all relaxed and enjoyable. Then he stood and asked everyone to be quiet. He got down on one knee, looked Maggie in the eye, and pulled the shiny piece from his pocket. No velvet box, or satin bag: just the ring. Probably from the old family jeweler Sarah knew he still visited on occasion to have his watch looked at. Not an elaborate ring on his teacher’s salary but it was more than enough.

Maggie had gasped as he asked. And she nodded making a sound of agreement that was just short of a squeal, admiring the new beauty sliding on to her finger. People threw up their hands and toasted the happy couple. Even Sarah held up her drink in approval and winked at Maggie. Later she came up to the couple with a mandatory but apparently unforced congratulations and admiration of the ring. Everything said with a smile but she wouldn’t meet his eye. She only addressed

Maggie. Of course, Maggie hadn’t really noticed that until now as the cold began to bite into her. The permanent half smile fell away slightly as she turned to look at Sarah.

Maggie had always been envious of Sarah’s defined features, but now her whole face had a slightly sullen appearance. Her hands deep in her pockets. Shoulders raised to her ears. Eyes unmoving from her ever progressing feet. Not sad, just glazed over and intent. Sarah felt Maggie’s gaze.

“I’m happy for you. I really am. He deserves someone like you.

Someone…stable and loyal. Someone who really loves him, who he really loves.” Sarah looked up, straight into Maggie’s eyes. “You’re a really lucky girl.” Her eyes fell back down to her own feet.

“Thank you. And…yes.”

The compliment didn’t feel the way Maggie expected. These things weren’t being said as an obligatory best friend post proposal script.

Sarah shivered again and rolled her shoulder in place trying to stretch it out. The wound was a year and a half old but the cold brought back the aching soreness; along with the memories, more painful than the injury itself. The simple mistake in judgment of character.

Frank had seemed so sweet when they had started out. Complimented her looks, mentioned her dancing,

always paid, and then in a drunken stupor threw her against a wall like a rag doll.

Sarah had been strong enough to handle the initial aftermath but, of course, James had come to the rescue for the rest. He had always been there, since they met the first day of college. He was always there no matter what she needed. He knew and was there. But she always put something or someone in between them.

They had kissed once, her and James.

He had driven her home from the hospital that night, after the mistake.

It was right after he had met Maggie. He drove Sarah home, put her in bed and sat there with her. He never asked for the Frank’s address or mentioned him in the slightest even though she knew he wanted to. He just sat with her and then kissed her.

It was the only thing he could do to stop her shaking sobs and get her to sleep. But he meant it.

It turned out the old cliché was right. One bad decision lead to another. After she healed physically, Sarah met a guy. And then another guy. And it continued on like this.

And she began to hate being around him and Maggie and their happiness; even despised Maggie for no real reason except that she made him so happy. Yet all Sarah had was a trail of shallow and bigoted men.

Eventually she grew out of it. She settled down to a single life.

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She even became good friends with Maggie. But on cold nights like this one, the soreness returned, bringing back all the memories. She massaged her shoulder and looked over at Maggie.

She was still playing with the ring; her eyes and fingers glued to the shiny metal. But the smile was gone. The perky young expression had been replaced by a pair of pensive eyes. Maggie fiddled with the band as if it were some puzzle lock to a great answer.

Both women looked up and suddenly realized they were at the end of the walk together. Sarah’s house was down the street to the right but Maggie’s was straight ahead four or five blocks. They stopped at the corner; still not looking one another in the eye. The silence was freezing and unbearable.

“You know he’s in love with you.” Maggie looked up at Sarah.

“I know,” Sarah whispered under her breath.

They continued to stand at the street corner. The silence filled the winter night as they stood there for a long time. Maggie turned and walked down the street towards her home. Sarah stood still for a few moments more, then went her own way.

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Deep Sea

by Kay Hopkins

Changeling Lullaby Lucia Palazzo Hum-ho, little imp, sink into your quilt— The mean, freckled girl is tallow and bone, like each feral creature you’ve ever known, and with time she will wither and wilt.

Hum-hey, weensy elf, snuggle out of the chill— The cruel, gangly boy is bruised and alone, like each wounded cur you’ve ever known, that gimps with a limp and a lilt.

Here no one has swords or fancier clothes to slice you to slivers and tear you to tatters, or point out your snub, crooked nose.

Hum-hee, gentle moppet—here none of it matters— so turn off the lights and dream the next chapter of Fairyland’s days while you doze.

Fairyland’s dazed while you doze, my nymph.

They need you to rule as their sovereign queen, while the satyrs dance and the banshees keen, you can hold court and rest in repose.

Not a princess with dewy bow-lips, my witch, but a warrior spellstress draped in furs— you’ll whisk over thatch roofs in silver spurs on a dun horse you goad with a whip.

Here you have swords with runes on the hilt, to pierce them to pieces and mash them to batter, then watch them erode into silt.

Hum-ha, my dear dolly—here none of it matters, so fall into fancy and find what you’re after; little imp, sink into your quilt.

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remember when Elly Weinstock you were a child and the sun was something mysterious, and the light bending through your window in the morning was pure magic, the leaves in the park felt crunchier beneath your feet, the concrete was sacred for chalk and hopscotch, and the world was not heavy like this, spinning so quickly without relief, your smile expanded to the continent farthest away from you, like the sprites in Neverland, all you needed to keep living was to hear the laughter of others, to know someone near here was happy too.

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Photo by Nora Kiridly

The Virgin Promise A.M. Graham

He keeps my breath between his fingers crossed My mouth agape as wonders wake within, And in his winter web I find I lost The purity beyond the taint of sin.

His secret whispers hunt my virgin ears; They stir the dormant hunger wide awake.

While underneath the carnal cloak of fears, My promises to her can’t help but break.

The scent of crimson cinnamon does fall And births a maelstrom made from lakes of flame; Those forms of light above do work to stall This turn toward a path of fated shame.

Yet while I know I lunge away from grace, A guiltless smile does stretch across my face.

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When I’m Twenty-Seven Anonymous I will not tell my mother for ten years since, Not about that time, Not about that night, Not for a long time.

I cannot tell my mother for ten years since, As her feelings of guilt, Her pangs of hurt, Eat her away.

There’s no way I’m telling my mother, For the simple fact, She was molested as a child.

How could I possibly begin to tell my mother?

When she trusted me to make good choices, With my body And who I trusted.

Where do I even begin to tell my mother?

About that night I was seventeen, In room which used to feel familiar, Seemed darker and more menacing.

Who could I tell besides my mother?

When I walk around with this pain, And can’t tell my true best friend.

How can she know?

If all she would think Was that she couldn’t protect me For once in my life.

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Why would I tell my mother?

About that dark June night, When I ran for solace, But he followed anyway.

How could I tell my mother?

If all she knows is grief?

If she would be depressed again?

If it would break her heart?

I can handle this lie, Just not to my mother, Dear God not to my mother.

I lie everyday about that one night in June, So she doesn’t have to know Sorrow Guilt Sleepless Nights Regression And Flash Backs.

I lie everyday so rape jokes won’t offend her, So she can live on, So she can live a healthy day-to-day life.

I lie everyday Because Eight More Years Doesn’t seem too shabby After the two I’ve gone without saying “Mom, I was raped.”

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The Washington Crossing Tavern Alison Allen

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The smell of Marlboro smoke On a cold, windy night Blowing in through the doors And lingering above the cement floor Just outside the library.

It stays there like it’s trapped, Pressing against the window panes.

The scent of my childhood, Rushing back for a split second, As I run between class and dorm room.

A place in my memory fills my eyes.

A tall stool with a red plastic seat, Made of dark wood. It has a back on it, So I can lean. The climb up from the floor Is a hard one, since there’s a step That raises the stools to the bar.

I refuse help. I’m four years old, Didn’t they know? Group laughter From old men with vices Held firmly in each hand.

Glasses and bottles of bitter smells All along the waxed top. While I Sip the only reasonable beverage.

The sugar will rot my teeth, but at least My drink tasted good. Medicine, Bad medicine filled their cups.

A sad truth I now know.

But could I have two quarters, For chips? Daddy said no, Uncle Jake said don’t tell.

And from down the bar, Did I want a scratch-off ticket?

Could I please? Sure. I won Five dollars. I was rich.

Bartender, another of the good stuff

With no ice. Coming right up With a straw in the glass.

The games in the corner, the bell On top of the door, the dim Yellow light bulbs in tacky colored glass With fruit patterns, hanging from the ceiling.

Two sets of red double doors. Stale cigarettes In ash trays. The gravel for a parking lot, On the side of the building, with small logs For markers. The river, a stone’s throw away.

And in the summer, fireflies filling the air At every footstep. A beautiful time, Gone now. It lives in my heart and At the back of my mind. Nine years.

It’s been nine long and empty years Since then. Since they closed her down, The bar, The Washington Crossing Tavern, A piece of my past. I was raised around that, Cheap beer and cheap cigarettes in every hand.

The hands of men who worked hard to live Decently with good hearts. Men who knew They had flaws and laughed at them.

Men who knew that one day, I wouldn’t need To climb up that stool. Who knew, That when that day came, I would begin to look For a man. And they hoped I would look For men like them. Men who use their hearts And hands for good. And should one ever Ill-use his hands against me, they would show him How hard good hearts hit. It was a place where Good men could gather. I cherished that bar, Those stools, those games, those lights, Those doors, and that bell. But it is those men That I miss. I was raised to be strong minded, Smart mouthed, assertive, compassionate, And a hard worker. My mother taught me How to be a lady. My father and his friends, They taught me how to be a woman.

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Alone Anthony Shore A dark crevice in a frozen moment Shivering, staring, searching Surrounded by nothingness And trying to see the light A never-ending sea of people Sailing, sinking, drowning Submerged in emptiness And failing to find the surface

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Photo by Lauren Webb

Photo by Ricky Michiels

Beautiful Strangers Michael Riscica For every what’s-her-name I’ve ever known.

Every facet of your phenotype fascinates; I let my mind make up the rest.

The context clues make a story, bland and boring, like every other lovely nobody.

You are something to you and to your company, as am I to me and mine – myself – but to each other, nothing much.

That’s how it shall remain.

You’ll wake each day in a world entirely apart from mine, save for the rare occasion that my face comes to mind, a mere construct of memory, without want, without reason, and all we’ll be are beautiful strangers.

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Featuring Nelly Nickerson Nora Kiridly Victoria Lauren Cocolaras Batson X. Li Erica Genece Louis St. Pierre Alice Gunther Ebube Ezeh Victoria Snak Breshay Wigglesworth Jenn Smulo Julia McGuire Mike Cicchetti Lauren Webb Mariel Vazquez G.A. Demarest

Brian Stieglitz Candace Brown Gillie Houston Devon Preston Julie Pate Jaipreet Ghuman Kay Hopkins A.M. Graham Zach Johnson Alvia Urdaneta Elly Weinstock Emily Davidson Lucia Palazzo Alison Allen Anthony Shore Michael Riscica

A Production of the Hofstra English Society 209 Mason Hall Hofstra University Hempstead, NY 11549