LITERARY AND ARTS MAGAZINE Volume 7 Spring 2017
LITERARY AND ARTS MAGAZINE Volume 7 Spring 2017 A Production of the Hofstra English Society
CONTENT WARNING:
Some pieces featured in Font 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 instagram.com/hofenglishsociety issuu.com/hofstraenglishsociety Cover art: “Undefined,” Mary Zaleska
STAFF MANAGING EDITOR
EDITOR-IN-CHIEF
Erinn Slanina
Brianna Ciniglio
DESIGN EDITOR Regina Volpe
HEAD COPY EDITOR Sarah Robbins
COPY EDITORS Hannah Aronowitz
Dana Aprigliano
Delvin Rennoldson
Samantha Storms
GENERAL STAFF Julia Gomel-Dunn
Andrew Dillingham
Jess Kurtz
Sarah Massoni
Hannah Dolan
Kayleigh McClean
Nick Rizzuti
Madeleine Skelly
SPECIAL THANKS
Eric Brogger Craig Rustici Scott Harshbarger Denise DeGennaro Hofstra University English Department
Jessica Zagacki
LETTER FROM THE EDITOR-IN-CHIEF When beginning this Editor’s Letter, I found it difficult to put into words how vital art, poetry, and prose are. They are some of the only physical things in the world that do not grow outdated, are not reserved for one class or group, and can make a lasting impact on a person’s life. Art can reveal more about an individual than any biography, resume, or social media page because in art, we don’t have to be reserved or fake; we can be loud and blunt and real. Although we had to be selective in order to create this magazine, we appreciate every single piece that we had the pleasure to look at or read during the submission process. This magazine couldn’t have been created without the talented artists and writers who shared their work with us and all of our readers. A professor of mine once said that as soon as someone’s work is published, it is left free for the public to interpret. I hope as you all delve into this magazine, you find meaning in these pieces that connects to you and your lives. This is for you. Brianna Ciniglio Editor-in-Chief
CONTENTS Breakfast at Sunrise Blowing Smoke Siren of Fire Bitter Talking Heads Sphinx Buys Bread Obituaries Water Drop A Rite Twin Insidious Geometry Toxic Softboy I’m Meg Ryan: A Monologue Universes Under the Bed Witch Orientation: Hofstra University, 2014 It’s Stupid Really Highline Fruit Basket from the Farmer’s Market Charlie Nick Rizzuti, Bird Appreciator In n Out Jewish and Christian Relations with Dr. S Sarah’s Smokin’ Man Glamazonians The Grand Place Wolf Watercolor Luv from Abuv Mermaid Girl Brenda Song
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Regina Volpe Jessica Feinstein Delvin Rennoldson Jessica Feinstein Danielle Ribaudo Nick Rizzuti Amelia Beckerman Hayley Pudney Peter Soucy Hannah Aronowitz Jaipreet Ghuman Jess Kurtz Robin Deering Gabrielle Dina Allison Wolf Foyinsi Julia Gurrola Hayley Brennan Danielle Ribaudo Hannah Aronowitz Nick Rizzuti Mika Hawley Sarah Robbins Mika Hawley Sharon Rus Amelia Beckerman Ava Pietruszewski Mika Hawley Robin Deering Genesis Ibarra
Hayley Brennan Jaipreet Ghuman Rose Sheppard Hannah Aronowitz Victoria Snak Sarah Robbins Robin Deering Regina Volpe Hayley Pudney Ava Pietruszewski Danielle Ribaudo Hannah Dolan Mary Zaleska Martha Morton Josh Wilson Jessica Feinstein Elly Belle Elly Belle Julia Gomel-Dunn Hannah Dolan Allison Wolf Archmage Uriel Mycenseen Martha Morton Allison Wolf Amelia Beckerman Hayley Pudney Samantha Storms
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Recreation of the Cliff Walk at Pourville Beach Yoga at Sunset A List of Forgotten Things Frieda Talons Two Twenty (Two Two Zero) You Got My Letter Dead Flowers Bridge of Flowers Canyon Fourteenth 11/9 Squid Ink Revolution Body Armor Popping Pills Like Candy 4 Years of List Making A True Story ( קפסDoubt) Sunday Morning Caribbean For Ryan, a Bro from Home, No Homo Spring Cleaning Sandy Hook It’s Time to Dance Molly Word Play
CONTENTS
BREAKFAST AT SUNRISE Regina Volpe
Orange streetlights hum in unison, their shift ending as the sky brightens. The sun still hesitates below the horizon orange-breathing bodies walk through its rays. We choose our booth and defrost in fake orange heat. Graying blonde and orange and brown heads scramble to deal plates with orange-slice smiles, to pour coffee for camo-vested regulars. You get fruit, but say the orange slice is “too ripe.” But snort as I mist you with its dull peel. Our waitress enters the perfume cloud, winks, puts two juice glasses down, “two orange on the house.” You steal sips of coffee from my old mug I drink your orange juice since you’ve always hated it.
“Blowing Smoke,” Jessica Feinstein 10
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SIREN OF FIRE Delvin Rennoldson
Molten rays, casting beauty with each drip, illuminating her metallic grace of silver hair and copper skin and glistening gold scales. The maiden of water and woman of fire sitting here under the heavens, whose light was her own, her power and looks, her passion and love, here on this stone, hard and unmoving her pedestal alone. Risen higher than the rest, championing her torch as those molten rays ignited her argent locks afire and gilded spirit ablaze. This maiden of fire and woman of water. This girl of smoke warm to the soul. Ethereal mind, body eternal, cold to the touch, ready to burn.
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“Bitter,” Jessica Feinstein
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“Talking Heads,” Danielle Ribaudo
SPHINX BUYS BREAD Nick Rizzuti
It doesn’t matter what a sphinx means, it matters that it’s a goddamn sphinx, standing in defiance of nature as you ring up its groceries, unblinking, unresponsive to the obligatory cashier small talk. Miracle? Abomination? No, you’re missing the point, it’s right the heck in front of you. Reach out and pet its goddamn tiger body. Stare into its eyes and feel the weight of countless empires, and don’t feel anything about the geopolitical complexities or major exports of those empires. Don’t even bother asking it if it wants cash back. If you’re doing this right, you shouldn’t even feel the entire grocery store recede into mundane nothingness. If you’re an astronaut, you should die standing on the moon, transfixed by that gorgon’s eyeball the Earth.
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OBITUARIES
Amelia Beckerman Five months before the first anniversary of her second divorce, she sat on the bow of the boat her grandfather left her and told me that the first person she ever loved left her for the idea of a better place. When I look back on that moment, I can’t seem to remember if she was talking about how I moved to Michigan in the eighth grade or how her mom left her at her grandmother’s house seventeen days after her third birthday or maybe how her first kid died four hours after being born. The trouble maybe isn’t that I can’t remember because maybe she never told me, which would mean that I don’t know who the first person she ever loved is which makes me feel like ants are crawling all over my ears. I haven’t seen her since then because she said she needed time to herself and also I remind her of middle school but yesterday I bought a plane ticket to the only place where I ever really contemplated the existence of God and it used to feel warm here but now the sun is too close and my skin feels like it’s peeling off because maybe it is and what if she moved house again and there’s an old man living at the place with the blue door and what if she’s married to him? The woman sitting next to me, by the window, is too skinny with big eyebrows and I have to lean over her to see the tops of the clouds as we climb higher. She asks me what I’m going to do in the city and I tell her that I’m going to take a train to my hometown and she smiles but her fists clench at her sides and I think about how her father probably left when she was younger and her mother took up drinking or maybe the other way around. She was probably really good at drawing or maybe trombone and she wanted to go to an arts college but instead she went to the community college in her suburban town and became a dental hygienist even though she hates teeth and that’s why she doesn’t really like the word “hometown.” She tells me she has a Labrador named Sadie. After we land I wait next to the baggage claim and the young looking man next to me starts pulling luggage off for everyone else and so I move to stand in front of him but when I see my bag it’s already too late and he’s hoisting it off the conveyor and I don’t know how to tell him it’s mine so I don’t and I just walk away. I think maybe he’s paranoid because he lost his luggage once and it had all his clothes in it and also the birthday present he had bought for his niece and then, on the way to his sister’s house, the driver got distracted and rear ended a car and he never felt the same again. I wonder what he’ll do with all the towels in my suitcase. The arrival gate is crowded with people holding signs with names that don’t matter to me and men with flowers and women in short dresses and none of them are waiting for me but for some reason I expect them to be because I am here and maybe the people they’re waiting for aren’t coming at all. I remember when 14
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I got on the plane headed for Michigan in the eighth grade and I turned around because I thought she would be there to stop me but I was thirteen and she was fourteen and probably didn’t have anyone to drive her to the airport. I take a white taxi to the blue-doored house and I wait outside on her porch for three hours and then a little boy runs over and I think “this is her son” and he tells me that I’m in front of his house and I ask where his mother is and he runs inside and when he comes back out he’s with a woman except it’s not her and also the woman is linked arms with an old man in a Hawaiian shirt and I can’t tell if it’s in a romantic way or not. I think about the last time I saw her and she was with an older guy too except he was wearing a black suit and her nose was dripping and I touched her neck and he said it was getting dark and I don’t know what to do so I run away from her house and the little boy and the woman that’s not her and the man who doesn’t belong. I end up on an old path that cuts through the woods and comes out behind a strip mall which is where she used to smoke and I lay down in the grass and in my dreams she’s behind a bar and I’m 6’ 2’’ and her lipstick isn’t smudged and she pours me a beer and slides it down the counter and I tell her that she’s my idea of a better place and when I wake up there are ants crawling all over my ears and I am not breathing.
“Water Drop,” Hayley Pudney SPRING 2017 15
A RITE
Peter Soucy Trembling before the tantalizing woods, my three-foot self pictures monsters from my books. “It’s fun!” the neighborhood kids reassure me, “in our fort of twigs and vines covered in leaves.” I pace the bluestone wall where salamanders thrive. “Pete, there’s nothing to be scared of. We’ll be your guides.” I dive head-first into the sea of bark, nerves like spark plugs igniting my heart. I start to enjoy them, these dark depths, the dirt, oblivious to the den where death lurks. I stop to sit on a fungus-rank stump. The fresh air becomes spoiled. Then someone yells, “SKUNK.” I pray my legs become wings and fly me over wet leaves. Away from this demonic aromatherapy. We crash land on the screened-in porch: a fallout shelter. Our t-shirts our noses’ corks. The creature limps over our first line of defense, the bluestone wall and our salamander friends. Every black step it takes poisons the sacred green. “I think it’s dying,” an older boy says and flees. He follows its stench to the next yard over and calls back to us, “come here, come closer.” We watch through a suburban shrub lens, four sets of eyes witnessing the end. It takes one last rotten wheeze and turns to us as it collapses dead, down in the dust, dead in my shaman neighbor’s yard, an offering turkey vultures will rip apart. 16
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“Twin,” Hannah Aronowitz
INSIDIOUS GEOMETRY Jaipreet Ghuman
Trace my edges, like you never have before. Flesh out my corners, like an artist in a trance
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TOXIC SOFTBOY Jess Kurtz
I never meant to give my vulnerability when I wept balmy drops of shame, telling you about small Jason’s suicide. I never meant to give you my plans for us, meeting your flawless brother, flinching with inferiority. I never meant to give my support, defending your shitty singing. I never meant to give my body, we both know I was an unripe apricot, you a green tomato. I never meant to give leverage over my identity, shifting and adjusting myself. You were a never ending encyclopedia and I merely a pocket thesaurus. Caught up in your cowardly words, they still take me back to feeling strange in your room, uncomfortable lying on your stiff blue sheets.
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I’M MEG RYAN: A MONOLOGUE Robin Deering
“I’ll have what she’s having” is not my favorite line from When Harry Met Sally. I don’t think it’s yours, either. Granted, I don’t know for sure—I haven’t asked you yet. I’ll probably get around to it weeks from now when I’m thinking for the millionth time how to start the day’s conversation. The thing is, if you understand the importance of the line, you know the backstory. How it was Meg’s idea to actually fake it, and it’s Rob’s mother delivering the line, and yada yada yada. You know this. I know this. And the mere fact that you know this indicates that this would not be your favorite line, and the mere fact that you know this indicates that I probably am going to fall for you, but I haven’t fallen for you because that would be ridiculous. You know just as well as I that we can’t possibly pull off a “You’ve Got Mail” stunt. Not because emailing is outdated and ours would have to be renamed to He Snapchatted You First Today, but because you know that You’ve Got Mail is just a remake of In the Good Old Summertime which is just a remake of The Shop Around the Corner, and a fourth remake would just be pushing it, don’t you think? And the mere fact that you know this indicates that I probably am going to fall for you. But again, I’m not falling for you. I’m not dreaming of the “top of the Empire State building” moment where Sam finally meets Annie because we both know our story would end up paralleling that of the original. One would become disabled, while the other remained in the dark until everything got resolved with a painting. And the mere fact that you know what film I’m referencing by that vague plot description indicates that I am probably going to fall for you. But I can’t fall for you, and you can’t fall for me because that would just be too crazy. Right? 700 miles away, brought together by someone who has since fallen out of the plot, now unlikely friends, both looking for love but in separate cities? Neither of which are Seattle, might I add. It sounds like a Nora Ephron plot. It is a Nora Ephron plot. But Nora Ephron is dead and therefore cannot write the end of our love story. And therefore I cannot be falling for you because though we’ve nailed the meet-cute, we’re utterly lost on the scene to bridge to the end credits. “When you realize you want to spend the rest of your life with someone, you want the rest of your life to start as soon as possible” is not actually a line Nora Ephron wrote. Billy Crystal came up with that one. You’re bad at writing dialogue, I’m bad at spelling, and Nora Ephron is dead. Maybe Billy Crystal should write our ending.
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UNIVERSES UNDER THE BED Gabrielle Dina
Lonely ghost of a girl, hiding under beds when the lights are out and the occupants asleep. listening to those dreams, those ether-dust-dark whisperings escaped from sleep slacked lips, sounding like: rose bushes, porch light, home. How many beds has it been? how many empty wooden floors dust bunnies curled in blankets over one prone form, whispering forever. And look how we blame the hungry. You feared the dark when you believed its tiding brought forth dreams more than nightmare, terrors in the night and frozen bodies on the bed. You blamed her, poor sad girl, sitting on your chest, eating her fill. But I could count her ribs. And you. Face thyself; thy name is hypocrite. Taste that mirror hunger in your breast, winding down, empty. And what do you think of the night now? I, too, have migrated. Crawl space to empty floor, under the mattress, slipping past spaces of the ribs. Tell me again why you cannot sleep. I will sing you a song and you will know it, dear one, a song of the night, the empty human heart. It has been long since I have eaten. I can wait. And this is what we learn from bedtime-stories: (love is a ghost under the bed holding tight to your ankle, saying I will never leave you, goodnight, not even if you scream) under the bed it is infinite; billions upon billions of beasts, and stars. 20
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“Witch,” Allison Wolf
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ORIENTATION: HOFSTRA UNIVERSITY, 2014 Foyinsi
Me, alone, the only face of color. I’ve studied with white people before, one too many times, one too many experiences. Sometimes experience is the only way to study people. Is there really a color for ignorance when it hurts others? I can see that they’re not ready. The class is titled Poetry Writing. That is, a study of what happens when experience and emotion amalgamate to form the subjective reality. A study which lends itself more to the act of sorting: whether feelings or happenings, so that at any one moment the poet is both categorizing and gathering. A lost art aiming to find the extra in ordinary occurrences or to make more widespread the message: one of resistance, defense, and militancy. For now, in this classroom, the discussion of rhymes, lines, and language passes over our heads. Suddenly, language is an ungraspable concept, the way lines and words form to give meaning to the abstract. I look down at my page, as frustrating as the life I’ve lived. The rest, the ones who think nothing of the skin
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they’ve been cloaked in, get into a discussion of clichés and overused topics. You are the light of my life. Love as a double-edged sword. No hard times or deceptive Founders come up; as usual, race is a lawn with a “Beware of dog” sign, the dog is the guilt of knowing that one was born with an unearned head start in this race of life. Another cliché. It’s clear that, for some, life is a white parent’s attempt to shield their child from this moment: when a black girl walks into a room full of the oblivious and she makes it her mission to show them what is going on. Remove the blinders, so to speak. Another cliché. After class, a girl walks up to me and says, “You’re from Nigeria right…?” she pauses waiting for confirmation. I nod. How does she know this about me? “Oh cool! I visited South Africa last summer” I pause. Surely there’s more to this story. This is not the first time I’ve heard about this sort of experience but never before have I been the main character of such a microaggression. As if Nigeria has anything to do with South Africa. Setting out, I decide not to be the first to tell her. Me, alone. . SPRING 2017 23
IT’S STUPID REALLY Julia Gurrola
It’s stupid really. Sam is chopping vegetables for dinner, the simplest task Roy delegated to him, when he accidentally slices his palm open. “Shit,” he mutters. He drops the knife right away and makes to go get the first aid kit, but the sight of the small splatter of blood on the cutting board startles something in him. He stares at it and then he’s back in Iraq—blood splattered on his hands and on the camo of the soldier he’s kneeling over. He calls for a corpsman — screams into the goddamn radio but all he gets is static. It’s okay, it’s really not that bad, he tells him. Jones is young — barely 18, fresh out of high school, got a girl back home, a winning smile. Sam keeps his hands pressed on the wound, but blood keeps coming, keeps leaking through his fingers. Jones? Jones? “What? What, Sam? Your goddamn hand is bleeding.” Sam blinks and he’s back here, back home with Roy. Sam can’t find the words to answer him, they’re caught in the back of his throat, caught back in Iraq, somewhere outside Baghdad, caught where he lost one Jones, not here with another. He looks around frantically, blinks, forces himself to breathe — in and out, slowly, in and out — and focus on the things that are real. He’s here. In Boston. It’s 2017. Roy is here. Roy is touching him — a gentle hand on his shoulder, fingers of his other hand wrapped carefully around Sam’s injured hand. He’s talking to him — his soothing southern accent and voice drowned out by the sound of blood rushing through Sam’s ears. It’s slow, but Sam comes back to himself. “I’m…” “It’s alright. Lemme get you cleaned up.” Sam lets himself be lead into their bathroom, lets Roy rinse and clean his cut, lets himself be sat down on the toilet, Roy sitting on the edge of the tub with Sam’s hand in his lap. Sam expects him to give him his sideways grin and say goddammit Sammy, I gave you the simplest job there is to cooking and then they’d laugh about it and Sam would kiss him. But Roy doesn’t say that and they don’t laugh and Sam doesn’t kiss him. They sit together in silence, letting everything remain unspoken between them. 24
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The thing is, Sam realizes. The thing is, is that this could have been either of them. Sam could be patching up Roy right now. Roy could have been the one who had a flashback while prepping dinner. If their positions were reversed Sam doesn’t think either of them would say much about it either, though. It’s been awhile since it was this bad for either of them. Usually Sam knows what might trigger him so he can avoid those things; other than the nightmares. But he hasn’t dreamt of Iraq in some time. Sam pushes those thoughts out of his mind and focuses on Roy. How gentle his hands are even though they shake ever so slightly as he wraps up Sam’s hand, how his brow is furrowed in concentration, his curls messy now that it’s the end of the day, the silver band on his ring finger glinting the bathroom light… “Sam?” “Yeah?” And Sam knows that Roy can really and truly see him; can see past his façade, his gaze piercing through to the simple man he fell in love with — before either of them went to war. “How’d you cut yourself ?” Roy says instead of what triggered your flashback. I t’s stupid really, Sam thinks, instead of the blood splattered the same way as it did on the uniform of a man I lost with your name and I thought for a moment I was really back there, back in the middle of some fuck up of an invasion and— “It’s stupid really,” he starts.
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“Highline,” Haley Brennan
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FRUIT BASKET FROM THE FARMER’S MARKET Danielle Ribaudo
An apple is a treat on a balmy July day; it’s sweet like you— with a sour bite that makes my nose crinkle. It stings like you do. I bought bananas for Momma; the potassium lowers blood pressure. I buy her a new bunch every week— they bring me hope like you do. I playfully place a raspberry on each of my spider fingers, I bite them off, one by one. They are keeping me young like you do. Blueberries are baked into your favorite pie for forty-five minutes. My plastic knife reveals steam to keep me warm in the spring, like you do. I find the saddest avocado and mash it with salt for my toast. It watches me burn my tongue on coffee, laughing at me just like you do. The dragon fruit you insisted I buy waits on the counter to be devoured. It rolls around, taking up room in my eyes, singing like you do. Cantaloupes are best from June to August, but you can find them all year-round. They are not the best every time, but they’re unwavering, like you are. We always argue about tomatoes; you say vegetable, I say fruit. We eat them at dinner; they tour with seeds. They’re trouble making, like you. In Sardinia, peasants worked long days, preparing farmers’ markets. They kept their lives in balance; they did everything— just like you do.
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“Charlie,” Hannah Aronowitz
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NICK RIZZUTI, BIRD APPRECIATOR Nick Rizzuti
The fog is dead clouds and in the dead clouds, black eaters of the dead perch in dead trees: the evening is rhyming with itself. I try to rhyme my life with the evening. I defile my body with the flesh of the pig. I cut my hair, sacrificing my magic holy powers for a fresh new style. On the inevitable business cards of my future the words “Nick Rizzuti, unholy emperor” will be printed, and they will be printed in the sky and on the bodies of my subjects. For now, I am wearing a tshirt that says “Nick Rizzuti, omen swallower.” Reader of the dead perched in the dead concrete tower. The only one who realizes that the Earth is a mirror perched above the mouth of a dead language. The only one who notices the moist fog on its pristine surface.
“In n Out” Mika Hawley
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JEWISH AND CHRISTIAN RELATIONS WITH DR. S (FALL 2015-?) Sarah Robbins
The next time the “holiday season” rolls around, I’m thinking about petitioning Starbucks to write “Christmas is a Capitalist Nightmare” In white text, across black coffee cups In class my teacher asks us to discuss How Christianity has become secular, and patriotism has become a modern times religious ideology The stars and stripes as the new cross that bears Jesus I have a deep-seated fear that America will buy the stars in the sky And start turning them off One star at a time because They didn’t pay the electricity bill on time I love the big dipper and I Am tired of explaining where I come from
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“Sarah’s Smokin’ Man,” Mika Hawley
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GLAMAZONIANS Sharon Rus
It was known throughout the kingdom of Glamazonia that Princess Chryses refused to marry. King Auror desperately wanted to see his eldest daughter happily married, but he feared her fiery temper. If he gave her away without her permission, Chryses could raise a rebellion against him. The King pleaded with his daughter for three days and three nights until she finally gave in. While Chryses still did not wish to wed, she also did not wish to break her father’s heart. She wrote out a royal decreeAny suitor -regardless of rank, stature, nature, or wealth- is invited to fight for the hand of The Glamazonian Princess. Whoever should want to wed her must complete three tasks:
First, find something or someone that the princess judges to be lovelier than she. Second, find something or someone that the princess judges to be more powerful than her tiger. Third, find something or someone that will make the princess laugh. Chryses, pleased this was impossible, delivered the parchment to the king. That night she and her younger sister, Naomi, cracked open a bottle of wine. They toasted themselves and dreamed of ruling Glamazonia alone. 32
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The news spread far and wide. Princes marched with parades of elephants, lords rode in on the backs of lions, and merchants trickled in with their jars of spices and stardust. Few managed to pass the first task. Chryses did not think any stone shone brighter than her. She did not think there any women fairer than her, and, frankly, she refused any man who dared to insinuate there was. Even fewer passed the second task. On her command, the tiger ripped the throats of lions and bears and even one timid dragon. Then her tiger presented the slain beasts at her feet like a cat presented a prize to its master. None could pass the third task. The princess would not laugh or chuckle or giggle at any jest. The ice queen of the desert, they called her, whose heart was cold even in this land of sun and sand. Only in her chambers with her little sister Naomi did Chryses laugh. They laughed at all the riches their kingdom had gained. They laughed at all the men who boasted so proudly and failed so miserably. They laughed at their golden success. Soon, the number of suitors dwindled. Until, finally, there was no one left but a common boy from the streets. He carried with him nothing but a tattered bag. The king had grown tired of this game, but he invited the street boy
inside. King Auror promised the boy that he could stay the night and try his luck in the morning. The boy, to Auror’s surprise, hugged him as though he knew him and promised that he would only sleep in this room for the night and then, after that, he would sleep with his bride. He introduced himself before the royal court as Amir -what a royal name for such a common boy! - who had lived on the streets of the palace. Amir had traveled the world and now returned to win the hand of the eldest. Princess Chryses crossed her arms. She had refused princes and lords and sultans before- why should this street boy be any different? For the first task, he reached down into his bag and pulled out a raggedy carpet. Princess Chryses scoffed. Before she could signal the guards to escort him out, Amir had climbed the steps to the throne and offered her his hand. He promised to show her something that would take her breathe away. There was something in the glint of his eyes that made princess Chryses curious. Here was a boy with nothing but a bag over his shoulder, and yet, somehow, confidence in his smile. Cautiously, she took his hand and sat on the tattered rug. The whole court gasped as the rug rose from the ground with one flick of the boy’s hand. A magician! A magyk! A Merlin!
They circled around the palace and then the carpet flew into the clouds. The princess gasped, wrapped her hands around the street boy, and buried her face into his shoulder. “Look and see her- the only woman more beautiful than you,” Amir said and grandly gestured downwards. There, glittering below them, was the Kingdom of Glamazonia. Chryses had no choice but to admit that the boy had passed the first task. The princess was not so vain as to claim that she was more beautiful than her own country, especially not in front of the Glamazonian court. Still, she was sure that Amir had nothing in his tattered bag more powerful than her tiger. Princess Chryses whistled softly, and he jumped up to kneel before her throne, faithfully nuzzling her side. Amir reached into his bag and pulled out a mirror. When he handed it to the princess, once more, she flushed in fury. “After all,” Amir explained smoothly, “The only thing stronger than the strongest army is the man who commands it. And do you, princess, not command this tiger?” This boy had bested her twice now. If princess Chryses was to claim that the tiger was more powerful, she would have to admit to the whole GlamazoSPRING 2017 33
nian court that she could not control her own pet. The King was on the edge of his throne. The youngest princess Naomi squeezed her older sister’s shoulder. There was only a couple others who had made it this far. Still, Chryses was sure that Amir had nothing in his tattered bag that could make her laugh. The princess pursed her lips. She was right; Amir threw his bag aside- it was empty. Yet, he strode confidently up the throne steps once more. The guards rose, but the eldest princess raised a hand as she waited to see what Amir would do now. Those twinkling, clever eyes made her heart twist and turn, and princess Chryses found herself faintly hoping he would pass where all the others had failed. She had seen those eyes somewhere before. A dream? Or a forgotten past? Amir held out his hand, but, instead of taking the eldest daughter’s hand, this time he took hold of the youngest’s. Then, he presented Princess Naomi to Princess Chryses. Not a single person in the court could deny that anything or anyone made Chryses laugh more than her sister. Chryses, cheeks flushing for the third time, laughed in astonishment at the peasant boy with the name and the mind of a king. The whole court was on their feet now. King Ru yelled that 34
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it was over“The princess has been won!” Yet, even odder, the boy did not seize her like any man might do. Instead, Amir kneeled before her and asked for princess Chryses’ hand in marriage. What could she have said but yes? They were wed that evening with the sun full in the sky and a banquet full of food. The minstrels sang merry songs, and the children danced throughout the streets. It seemed that everyone in the kingdom was happy but for Chryses. While Chryses looked so lovely, she cried bitterly behind her veil. When Amir heard, he knew why. He leaned in and promised his bride that no man would ever rule over her, and, though she didn’t know why, Chryses believed him. They retired to Chryses’ bedchambers full of furs and priceless paintings. Oddly enough, for such a common boy, Amir did not stare at any of the finery. Instead, his eyes were only on the crown jewel itself- Chryses. She flushed as she pushed back her wedding veil and unlaced her corset. The gold of her gown glimmered as, behind them, the sun slipped away. As it did, Amir undid his suit. When the last traces of sunlight disappeared, the boy’s skin started to glow. Then Amir’s face became softer, chest fuller, and hips rounder in the darkness. This was no beggar boy! No, this was her childhood friend Amira that
had mysteriously disappeared. They embraced tightly and kissed. Amira explained that she had been cursed by a wizard and forced to wander her days as a man, and, only in darkness, could she take her true form. She had been searching the world for a cure, but, when she had read of the contest to win Chryses, Amira had rushed back to Glamazonia. Thus, Amira knew the answer to all three questions.
The King Amir and Queen Chryses were loved by their people, and, till the end of their days, they loved one another dearly.
The princess rejoiced because she would never have to bed a man. Instead, she happily bed her wife. While King Auror and the kingdom all believed she had married some clever boy, Princess Chryses knew she had married her clever Amira.
“The Grand Place,� Amelia Beckerman
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“Wolf Watercolor,” Ava Pietruszewski
“Luv from Abuv (censored),” Mika Hawley 36
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“Mermaid Girl,” Robin Deering
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“Brenda Song,” Genesis Ibarra
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“Recreation of the Cliff Walk at Pourville,” Haley Brennan
“Beach Yoga at Sunset,” Jaipreet Ghuman SPRING 2017 39
A LIST OF FORGOTTEN THINGS Rose Sheppard a grocery list abandoned on the sidewalk medium: pink post-it notes a train whistle some thirty miles away medium: cloudy north carolina air a boy (?) carries an umbrella every day to class medium: preparedness three young women heels in the sand, feet in the surf medium: nostalgia clarity the idea that everything will be understandable medium: the unknown
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“Frieda,” Hannah Aronowitz
TALONS
Victoria Snak You may have a tally of kill count by talons your tactical taste for a heart ripped and ravaged. But as you circle back again and spot me in presumed chagrin know birds of your feather can’t hunt that which is dead. I’m calculated, exposed for your liking of red and the second you dive in that soundless pursuit likewise, without word I will ruin you. SPRING 2017 41
TWO TWENTY (TWO TWO ZERO) Sarah Robbins Early at night (Often around 8pm) I hear the soft but sure pitterpatterpitterpatterpitterpatter Very quick from one end of the hall to the next Though that girl is not moving fast (She just has to take a lot of steps, For she is very small) (I know that woodland critters Sound similarly strange) And not too long after I hear only the creaking of floorboards As the person who now steps Does not make sound when her feet hit carpet But makes sound because she bears the weight of the youth in her arms (I imagine that this sure-footed being Surely knows all my secrets) (And likely, All of yours as well) And next there is a heavy sound Echoing up the stairwell As each step is accompanied with a sigh An admittance that exhaustion wins out every time Over whatever late night TV was on (I imagine that Poseidon walks in a similar manner, When forced to trudge upon dry land) And lastly, much later, There are quick and loud sneakers stepping up the stairs Walking right on her toes with a purpose Tired toes indeed, they can still move with fervor She turns on the bathroom light Which shines directly at my eyes And I can see her feet As she removes her shoes And still manages to walk loudly (That’s all her feet know to do) (I think she sees me too We share a moment before she closes the door) (I wonder if they think about my gait, But I wouldn’t blame them if not: I used to go to bed so early) 42
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“You Got My Letter,” Robin Deering
SPRING 2017 43
DEAD FLOWERS Regina Volpe
I. Fragile spring baby buds tentatively plucked from their youth, gently wrapped in a dining hall napkin, just to be flattened in between the worn pages of an old earth science textbook from a flea market. II. A bouquet of worn white blossoms, baby’s breath, and dull crimson roses is half swallowed by an empty bottle of Barefoot pink moscato. They sit undisturbed, left to the elements streaming in through the broken screen of my window
“Bridge of Flowers,” Haley Pudney
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“Canyon,” Ava Pietruszewski
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“Fourteenth,” Danielle Ribaudo
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11/9
Hannah Dolan Everything after was the same. The sky was a solid gray but it never rained. Wednesday morning coffee was still bitter and the commuter rail was still a few minutes late. But somehow the atmosphere was altered. The nation reeked of fear and confusion. Glazed eyes darted back and forth, refusing to meet the words on the front page of the Times. Solemnity seeped from the ether into the skin of the city. We would be loud later but for now our silence was in unison. Our silence was in unison and billowed out into the streets, like smoke from the subway grates. A shattering realization spread among the city dwellers. The lights of skyscrapers that hid the stars at night had also obstructed the reality of other American’s strife and hate. And now we must all accept the results. My father tells me he does not know what planet we’re on. But as the days slink by, it seems that the sun still rises here too.
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“Squid Ink,” Mary Zaleska
REVOLUTION Martha Morton
The industrial revolution is hiding in my stapler. It’s all there—the monotony, the metal, the click of ingenuity, the monotony. The blood, the injustice of an honest mistake. The absolute contentment of lying in bed, staring at the dark ceiling, knowing the job is finished and reassured by the clicks echoing off the inner walls of your head. All this is anxiously compacted, crouching in wait within the stapler sitting on my desk, just an inch and a half away from the desk lamp.
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BODY ARMOR Josh Wilson
I wore you proudly. You masked enough of me so that I could still leave something to their imagination. An impenetrable vest, which turned beatings to boom baps and made hollow echoes croon until they reached the daylight. Underneath my coarse, rigid, rouge rests a pinkish hue so stretched and subdued that even you could no longer hang on. When I died, I didn’t need you any longer but I wish you would have stuck around.
“Popping Pills Like Candy,” Jessica Feinstien SPRING 2017 49
4 YEARS OF LIST MAKING Elly Belle
But really what do you end up with after everything? 5 friends An empty room A blank pink polaroid and a broken camera A bottle of red A black and white painting from a back alley in Brooklyn A wrinkled map of Manhattan And a place where the world is quiet I don’t have a lot of boxes to take this love and laughter in, or the carved sidewalk the punched holes in walls, familiar spots in the sun But I can leave here and take myself But I think it’s okay, because I have become home and anywhere I go from here will be home too. 50
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A TRUE STORY
Elly Belle
The moonlight is petty she reveals us like the sore green thumbs in gardens made of rust and ash that we are Ask someone to tell you a true story and they’ll lie. Ask someone to make up a story and they’ll betray themselves. So I don’t know what any of the poetry meant in the first place what it means to say she glistened or gaped or gazed at me I know she existed the story of her came later the story created her I just did the talking Too many times my love has exposed me as a cup that runs over, The fact is a heart can only hold so much. Turns out my own truth was mistaken. So I take credit for my Samson-esque silence, I cut my own tongue out to try to tell you what I didn’t know. Ask someone to tell you a true story and they’ll lie. Ask someone to make up a story and they’ll betray themselves. I have been revealed.
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קפס
Julia Gomel-Dunn Out in the desert, away from the campfire, I squinted at a city smaller than my thumbnail. I wondered if it was Jerusalem, and remembered how I cried the last time I saw it.
Where are You? I whispered – or maybe I didn’t. There was no answer, not even the wind. Something unseen made a noise; maybe a camel, maybe a cat. I was only a little bit scared. A small light blinked in the distance, and then another one. Like stars, only closer. I wanted to believe. If God was anywhere, it would surely be here? A boy called my name, walked in my direction. “Where’d you go? Are you still out here?” Was I? “Look at those lights,” I said, lost and sad and searching for something that probably wasn’t there. I think they’re angels. The frat boy, with whom I had shared a pair of headphones on the bus, replied, “I think those are headlights.” And I felt embarrassed because he didn’t understand me And I didn’t understand myself. (I wanted so badly for those lights to be angels as I waited for the car to pull up.)
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SUNDAY MORNING Hannah Dolan
The air felt stagnant in my bedroom So I nudged open the window with my feet And let the ether wrap around me. The colors go in through my nose And out through my mouth as I breathe, The way my psychiatrist (okay, my yoga teacher) told me to. I had been starting everyday backwards, Which, if you think about it, is the same as starting the day forwards— Just with heavier eyes and a darker disposition. The morning light is hazy, slow, empty. Your arm is draped over me, but when I lift it up You turn over to face the wall, Breaking the connection between our skin.
“Caribbean,” Allison Wolf SPRING 2017 53
FOR RYAN, A BRO FROM HOME, NO HOMO Archmage Uriel Mycenseen
Hey yo, my dude, O lovely Majesty: (I call thee thus for thou art like a king) Thy noble arch’t brow and Spirit zesty Inspire mee to outward, high-voiced sing: O Ryan, supple skin well-moisturized Like fine Venetian silks from far-off Lands Carried here the way Zephyrus flies, If only I could hold thy manly Hands And feel the tender Touch of such a Bro. Alas, thy goodliness surpasses Mine; Of my Unworthiness too well I know, And so from far-off York, I, lonely, pine. High and low are sep’rate. So are wee. Enamoured mee and Godly beauteous thee.
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SPRING CLEANING Martha Morton
One day, I will take a toothbrush and scoop the gunk out of my brain. I will fill a pan with vinegar and soak my brain for a half-hour. I might see worries float to the surface, or quadratic equations or the names of all six Brady children, or whatever chunky, green goop that memories I want to keep get stuck in. One day, I will open my brain’s filing cabinets. I will throw everything that’s old and useless into a cardboard box and donate them to the salvation army. I will alphabetize what remains, leaving some room for what I might end up with later. I will dust the tops of the shelves and write out new, crisp labels. One day, I will call a handyman to come and give my brain a tune-up. I will be sure that I can think as hard and process as fast as any new model that they might come up with could. All the gears will turn without a squeak and the breaks on the conveyor belt to my mouth will always work. One day I will take a towel and massage my brain. And then maybe I’ll get to my heart.
“Sandy Hook,” Allison Wolf SPRING 2017 55
“It’s Time to Dance,” Amelia Beckerman
“Molly,” Haley Pudney 56
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WORD PLAY
Samantha Storms semicolon she connects two things similar in thought and meaning she suggests a stronger connection period dash
the bottom of my coffee cup an end to the forever I spent three days convincing myself was real you cut me off every time I had something important to say
question mark s-shaped and swirling like the sting you left on the back of my right thigh Imperative to keep up the mood. Directly objecting to everything I ever did. A case of being too possessive. The third person you’ve been with this month. Dangling on the edge like a modifier. You left me stuck playing with words.
SPRING 2017 57
Disclaimer Font exclusively features the work of Hofstra University students. Each staff member reviewed and ranked submissions blindly.
Font Literary and Arts Magazine. Volume 7, Spring 2017. Hofstra University. Copyright 2017 Font Literature and Art. All artwork and literature contained in this publication are copyright 2017 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