Literary Issue 2015 by The Tattler

IMAGE BY SOPHIA SHI

ALL THE NEWS THAT’S FIT TO TATTLE

Tattler Literary Issue January 2015

Poetry

Table of Contents

Dandelion & Burdock

Coldcalls

a wild rose?

Subway Battle

Those Six Words

Senator

An Iconic Man

Abused

by Eleanor Glahn

by Jonathon Hawthorne by Tova Wilensky by Conor Coutts

Sad Child (After Margaret Atwood)

Leaf Poem

Forgotten Olympian

by Lucynda Statema by Nora Littell

by Winter Royce-Roll

The Known with the Unknown by Sterling Williams-Ceci

Head in the Clouds

First a Somber Light

by Annie Loucks by Emma Karnes

by Reuben Rappaport by Lincoln Brennan by Reuben Rappaport by Julia Martin

Photography Sophia Shi Ruth Witmer John Yoon Bridget Fetsko Owen Zhang Jenni Li

2014 – 2015 Editor-in-Chief

Owen Zhang ’15 editor@ihstattler.com

News Editor

Kalil Hendel ’15 news@ihstattler.com

1, 8, 14, 15, 20, 29, 31, 37 3, 7 5, 9, 11, 13, 16, 21, 22, 27 10, 19, 32 12, 13, 18, 24, 25, 26, 34 36

Visual Art Rose

by James Lu

Opinion Editor

Olivia Salomon ’15 opinion@ihstattler.com

Features Editor

Sophia Shi ’15 features@ihstattler.com

Arts Editor

Pearse Anderson ’16 arts@ihstattler.com

Sports Editor

crystallized composition

Black and White

Nick Bogel-Burroughs ’15

A Portfolio of Haiku

Postell II

Penultimate and Back Page Editor

wonder

Genesis 3

dreams at eighty

Portrait of Karasar’s Extraordinary “Chloe”

jazz

Snowbeam I

Standardizing Intelligence

Mark Canopy

Chasing Ice

As I Sit Here Writing This, Nearly a Month Later, My Hands Still Hurt from All Those Awful Tiny Lines 43

by Melody Smith by Serena Stern

by Jonathon Hawthorne by Emma Karnes by Jonathon Hawthorne by Sandra Stromswold by Emma Karnes

Prose

by Claire Saloff-Coste by Jasper Minson by Jenni Li

by Melissa LoPinto by Jasper Minson by Jasper Minson

by Kalil Hendel

Fables

Dog

Makeover

80s + punk rock

by Lincoln Brennan by Abby Cooper

by Julia Miller by Lina Lee

sports@ihstattler.com

Lindsey Yuan ’15 backpage@ihstattler.com

Centerspread Editor

Conor Coutts ’15 centerspread@ihstattler.com

Copy Editor

Daniel Xu ’17 copy@ihstattler.com

Photography Editors

Bridget Fetsko ’16 John Yoon ’16 photo@ihstattler.com

Layout Editor

James Yoon ’17 layout@ihstattler.com

Business Manager

The Perils of Coffee

Star Puff

Andrew Stover ’17

Retrospect

In the Eyes

Advertising Manager

The Plight of the Imaginary Friend

by Serina Moheed by Malama Sokoni

by Eleanor Pereboom

Golfing at Night

Frank

Lost

The Girl and Her Ghost

Stories from My Mother

Details

by Kalil Hendel by John Westwig by Julia Miller by Anonymous by Liz Rosen

by Zoe Merod

by Marty Alani by Claire Saloff-Coste

The Tattler thanks all student contributors for making this year’s Literary Issue the largest yet! The editorial board was once again impressed by the diversity and quality of submissions. The board initially intended to award the distinction of first prize to one submission in each submission category. However, due to the overwhelming number of high-quality submissions, such distinctions have been impossible to make. The board apologizes for this. The first annual Tattler Literary Issue was published in January 2013. Each Literary Issue is composed entirely of photography, poetry, short stories, and visual artwork by Ithaca High School students.

business@ihstattler.com

Liz Rosen ’16 ads@ihstattler.com

Webmaster

Gayathri Ganesan ’15 web@ihstattler.com

Distribution Managers

Carrie D’Aprix ’15 Stephen Stover ’15 distribution@ihstattler.com

Faculty Advisor

Deborah Lynn advisor@ihstattler.com

Dandelion & Burdock By ELEANOR GLAHN IMAGE BY RUTH WITMER

I see colors in you. Streaks of violet, orange and gray That flash against your face As the sun races us between the trees. I see seasons in you. Springs and summers That have speckled your skin And lined the corners of your eyes. Autumns that have left you With a full stomach and an empty heart. Winters that have sat you To your hearth, Favorite mug in hand. I see songs in you. Your melodic laughter that Colors the breeze in E-flat Major. Like a five-seven to one, Your perfect authentic cadence brings me home. I see mirrors in you. Recognitions in your rainless eyes. I throw stones at fleeting moments Hoping to snatch one Out of the clouds And bring it down To Earth

VISUAL ART BY JAMES LU

a wild rose? By JONATHON HAWTHORNE

At times I ask myself, oh why desire? Why must you bring forth this ephemeral state of amorous inquiry? Why must you give unto the war that is love? Not even in slumber may I obfuscate these passions; they merely appear in dreams The plane of transcendental existence and lucidity still bears the oppression of my heartâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s desire Yet, despite this oppression, I strive to see that glance and smile out of the corner of your lips That echo of your laugh pierces my psyche, but still it manages to bring a glimmer of hope within an abyss of melancholy At moments I find myself dreaming, thinking about how different I could be If these things were different of myself, perhaps I would be by your side at any given moment This anguish is despair, but brings hope that one day I can attain that state! My ardent aspirations merely fuel my attempts to one moment see our hands together To feel warmth and safety from the bitter reality that surrounds us!

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Poetry

January 2015

Those Six Words By TOVA WILENSKY

She tries to block him out: his yells, his hits, his rage, his stale breath, scent of alcohol. It follows him through the house. She doesn’t fight back, doesn’t try, just waits, his anger will pass. Then he’ll lie on the couch, breathing heavily, eyes swimming with regret. She washes up, cleans the blood, takes her seat by the couch. Until he utters those six words: “I’m sorry. It’ll never happen again.”

IMAGE BY JOHN YOON

January 2015

Poetry

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An Iconic Man By CONOR COUTTS IMAGE PROVIDED BY IHS ANNUAL

A jocular man sits upon a personalized golf cart promoting the general welfare of the school with a few reminders of who is supposed to be where. Night comes and he is positioned in a chair on the basketball courts keeping score while not missing a beat, alert to his own prowess on the court decades ago. A determined man stands on a creek bank trying to persuade some withdrawn students to get out of the creek and come back to class. Night comes and he is concentrated on preparing for the Friday night football game; even though he has been doing this for four decades, he still delivers in the same considerate way as if it were his first game.

Wells in 1975. IMAGE PROVIDED BY IHS ANNUAL

A bubbly man sits in activities building reminding students of those burdensome rules while joking with the upperclassmen, all of whom know him by name: Boone. Night comes and he is alarmed by the sight of 20-some phones vibrating, lighting up, making noises, phones he had with care confiscated from the boys’ hockey team at the State Hockey Tournament he was dutifully chaperoning. A philanthropic man arranges for students at Enfield Elementary to go to a very luxurious and once-in-a-lifetime field trip that included lunch at the Hard Rock Cafe, amongst other things. One that he with his numerous connections had gotten at a largely discounted rate. Night comes and he has a blast filming the 1993 airband video where teachers dance country-style to Billy Ray Cyrus’s “Achy Breaky Heart”. A nostalgic man tells a student stories from the past in the press box while preparing for a girls’ lacrosse scrimmage, saying, “I got one more for ya. It’ll be good—I promise!” Morning comes and a legend passes, but his iconic unsurpassable legacy lives on for us all.

Daniel “Boone” Wells, 1951 – 2014.

Sad Child (After Margaret Atwood) By LUCYNDA STATEMA

IMAGE BY RUTH WITMER

You have no reason to be sad. Go see a psychic. A shrink. . . Take another pill or just get over it, wear your sadness over your shoulders like a superhero. But, you’re not Superman, are you? Everyone is sad they all just ignore it. They bury their sorrows in wedding dances, Christmas parties, drown themselves in liquor to forget. Forget what? Your sadness? The darkness? The things he did to you during what should’ve been happy, golden years When your body grew bruises instead of flowers, your mouth taped shut Strings twisted onto your back like some little marionette and you said to yourself at every reflection, I am no longer a child. My love, at the end of the day when the sun falls and the storms come in and you’re tangled in your corpse surrounded by musty air or August heat, and the smoke is poured into you and lays captive in your lungs in your heart or in the emptiness in your side, You’re not allowed to be sad, child Because the rest of us aren’t.

Poetry

January 2015

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Leaf Poem IMAGE BY SOPHIA SHI

By NORA LITTELL

The leaves that fall Are drained and hollow Shells Made joyful By the wind whistling through their veins. What it must be To fall Like a leaf From high in the branches— No order to it Only waiting for the right gust To tip you off the twig Which has held you So steadfastly For so long

Forgotten Olympian By WINTER ROYCE-ROLL

Severed, you Fall Sinking yet buoyant You are a little boat Rocking on waves of wind Filling slowly with cold air You are tumbling In a fragmented choreography Until suddenly at rest. On the ground You are still. Corridors empty. As if you had never danced. IMAGE BY SOPHIA SHI

There are many epic stories That tell the tale of Zeus And his brave defeat of Kronos That put his lightning bolts to use Wise, gray-eyed Athena Who wields a spear for war Helped Perseus kill Medusa She’s never been a bore Hermes is the messenger Poseidon rules the sea Apollo is the god of light As well as poetry But what about fair Hestia? Goddess of hearth and home Gave up her place for another god And now she has no throne There will be no epic poems, No battles to be won By Hestia, who watches All her relatives have fun But there is importance To Hestia, they say Her fire keeps us warm The home she guards, we stay So if you are a traveler For days and days on end Hestia will bring you to The fire that she tends

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Poetry

January 2015

The Known with the Unknown By STERLING WILLIAMS-CECI

IMAGE BY JOHN YOON

Weâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re just here, Alive Seeking untold dreams New horizons, stratified by entities whose elements have yet to become known Events Responses Emotions Evolutions All, soon to be distant memories, wavering images, observed from futures far beyond the ones we know of now. Our futures, for all of us, are new lifetimes, Risks that we involuntarily take Or, possibly, that we succumb to, in the midst of a desperation for something more. Their unique divisions for each and every one of us, mark who we will be in this world, And, although separate amongst us, they are harbingers to the legacies we will leave And what we will mean to this universal reality, the only thing comparable to a continuum of humankind.

IMAGE BY BRIDGET FETSKO

January 2015

Head in the Clouds By ANNIE LOUCKS

There are clouds above my head. Sometimes, there’s thunder and lightning. Sometimes, it’s a downpour all day. But occasionally, rarely, There’s a rainbow. It might be a small shimmer For only a second or two, Or seldom a double rainbow, That lasts for a long time, But those glimmering moments let me know, That the sun’s always there, No matter the weather, It will get better, One day.

Poetry

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First a Somber Light By EMMA KARNES

and the columns arising bleed into the yellow. her neck curves away from the burst, the solemn night-shades shrinking, slow spin of acrylic, warm and frightening. Next it is the fault of another country when the bricks fall, shattered against a skyful of seizures, internally; a great obliteration. all screams grow hoarse, all people hide inside their skulls. the yellow grows larger until even a morning will fall short of its brilliance.

January 2015

crystallized composition By MELODY SMITH

why do we need to Write? is it an impulse of insecurity and a path of predetermined punctuality a need of neurosis to write the thoughts that jumble in tumbleweed patterns and shapes around our minds? who can say who can know for writing is a struggle for some and a catharsis for others a release of emotions in prose and posturing for all the world to see or maybe just you and no one else a tempo only you can hear and only you can direct but writing crystallizes slowly you see in the dark ashen room of your mind and you can’t escape it and you cannot find its source either the need, the search for meaning, for truth to an end to the never escapable boredom that scrapes your insides to gore and viscera and leaves the terror and fear to trail behind you slowly a path of breadcrumbs and forget-me-not memories For the twelve-foot demons and monsters that lurk under my bed smiling only when unseen and laughing only when unheard that’s writing an escape you never find and a discovery that you can never escape we wish to want it and we wish to need it when truly in fact—we all already do but its form is twisted

gnarled and malnourished eating at our thoughts till only drivel and miss-written poetry comes out in screams in sobs in half eaten lies we scatter like rose petals across this golden honeyed sky until it is gone a wreck of a corpse that shambles into work each day lifeless, bloodless stacks of office paper work and tiring meetings pinning you to the floor the past tense, present tense, and future all melded and crusting together snot from too cold winter nights falls flat on your sleeve wiped off again and again as your fingers find a rhythm just so slightly off that the typing and clacking and clicking of keyboards is too random to find a proper, honest beat and that's writing when you don’t find it all all when you lose the will to look for truth when you lose the will to do anything at all but walk forward and never look back while your eyes are closed anyway and thin gleam and film of doubt crystallizing over your eyes our mouths your ears and my Words

IMAGE BY JOHN YOON

Poetry

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IMAGE BY OWEN ZHANG

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January 2015

A Portfolio of Haiku By SERENA STERN

1. The buildings stand tall But their memories stay close, Weaving through my mind. 2. When all is lost to The far away land of dreams, You get rewritten. 3. Death: a permanent Pause to regain composure For the next new day. 4. Wonder is the key To unlock the world's hidden Possibilities. 5. Think about yourself As an author would describe A crisp August night Unless you want to Become the leaves drifting on A fall afternoon. 6. How to save a life: Decide it's for the better Not to lose yourself.

Poetry

January 2015

IMAGE BY JOHN YOON

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wonder By JONATHON HAWTHORNE

i stared bewildered into my crackling fireplace a question burned bright in my thoughts why? cosmic giants walk the universe light years away stars are birthed from the womb of nebula-mothers such stars collapse and conjure rifts that challenge the will of space time itself yet, i exist in the confines of this small world this orb, wandering forever in circles hoping to become one with the bright sun like moths to a flame but, as the question struggled along i began to realize i am lucky for that which has it all may never experience the glory of strife

IMAGE BY OWEN ZHANG

dreams at eighty By EMMA KARNES

the wine is my book, unknowingly; like voluptuous stars it will sing my name and scribe my valleyed desires. grandmother sighs into the flower vase, breathing the scent or scenting her breath. we know less of beautiful things after night falls. read with veins, grandmother tells us, and unveil light honestly.

IMAGE BY SOPHIA SHI

jazz By JONATHON HAWTHORNE

On bitter autumn evenings we used to sit on our back porch Frenzied leaves crinkled against earth’s bedding You hummed along the sweet licks of Coltrane on his soprano saxophone The world seemed to fade away Magnificent times, they were On sweet summer mornings we would spend hours under the protection of covers The crackle of the radio stood juxtaposed against Miles’ ornamented melodies Boredom was a figment of the imagination And damn did we fight Winter days rolled through and we drowned ourselves under alcohol’s sweet temptation Only seconds later our screams echoed throughout the neighborhood There was no saxophone, no melody Just the bitter reality of the world But just before our egos clashed too hard, our lips opted in on that brigade You closed your eyes and weakly brought your arms around me we swallowed our pride as spring rolled by Nothing could beat that sweet jazz, though

Poetry

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January 2015

Standardizing Intelligence By SANDRA STROMSWOLD

I am not the same As that girl behind with the math brain She’s programmed to see the problem and solve While the musician sees a note to resolve And see that we’re not programmed to function Like this one idealistic assumption So much pressure and I’m still in my teens And you expect me to know What I want the rest of my life to be

So now we arrive to these rows of desks Take your seat and take your test With it your worth can be assumed After all, discrimination is for the classroom We must standardize intelligence, Because individuality we can’t condone So just shut up and sit Then prove to us you’re the better clone

IMAGE BY SOPHIA SHI

The pressure is squeezing our lives dry Staying up till two with homework just to get by Parents tell me to work harder still But I don’t feel like my life is being fulfilled To most of us this SAT is just a business scam Designed to look like an exam But for once can you actually take my life into account I’ve only got a few years and a few classes To have the rest of my life figured out

January 2015

Chasing Ice

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By EMMA KARNES

The ground, a forest of dips, dunes, cradles the endless sky and the equally infinite earth beneath. Here the runners dance, melted snow jangling beads around their ankles, hard breath twisted tightly like frozen grass, and then released in smoke to rise with gushing spring. Soil burned in the palette of autumn is now regarbed in the white of the healed; scattered stones, no longer rough, find their rounded spaces. The anatomy of winter terrain glints in any light. No runner stumbles, for each step is praise to the packed earth, received with steadfast strength for the next.

IMAGE BY JOHN YOON

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Prose Fables By Lincoln Brennan

Pandas

There was once a girl, who held all the beauty and joy of the world in her palm. Her hair shone like gold, her eyes sparkled like sapphires, and her smile could illuminate the darkest recesses of the earth. She had a large, loving family who doted upon her without being smothering, was accepted into the college of her dreams with a substantial scholarship that was not quite enough to forgo a character-building waitressing job, and had a promising career in the field of oral hygiene, where she would flourish in a suburban Eden on the outskirts of Cleveland. There she would meet her husband, the local garbage-man, with whom she would flirt each Tuesday morning over the trash cans. She would marry and retire to a secure, closeknit nursing home, where she would play Mahjong bi-weekly with a group of dedicated friends, and die peacefully in her sleep. It seemed as if she could do no wrong. But she had one tragic flaw, that even she was not aware of: she was not an orange cheese doodle. Although the pinnacle of human perfection herself, she had not attained the highest form of transcendence: to become a saturated fat-laden snack. So one night, an octopus visited her in her dreams, silently gesturing with the fateful munchie, enticing her with the promise of ascension. But she refused, and the octopus drifted away on currents unfelt by her. Each night, the Morphean cephalopod

January 2015 would visit her, and each night, she would refuse. The next day, the pandas at the zoo were very sad. They were so sad in fact that they were unable to achieve erections. And with each passing day, they grew sadder and sadder, until one by one they all died without having reproduced. This was a tragedy, as all the children adored and cherished the pandas, and the adults saw them as a vital part of a fragile ecosystem that needed to be preserved. This is how it came to be that the pandas went extinct. Thusly, should you ever be visited in your sleep by an octopus gesticulating wildly with a Cheeto, you must accept your fate, and avoid perpetrating the genocide of another precious species.

Scantrons

Once upon a time, there roamed a proud race of automated grading machines. They were called the Scantrons, a portmanteau of Scan and Tron. Their ancestors, the regal Red Pens, had gradually died out, due to varying policies regarding the “menacing nature” of grades appearing in red, versus any other pigmentation, but the Scantrons had flourished from the downfall of their forefathers, who still lived on in the enclaves of pen-filled mugs of the few remaining die-hard handgraders. Their lives were wild and short, grading any paper that came to them, and experiencing catastrophic malfunctions left and right. But they were happy with their brief, carefree existence. Students were terrorized by them and their dastardly ways. They could mark whatever they wished incorrect, and for them, that was perfection. Then, a powerful and mysterious Teacher arrived on the dwelling plains of the Scantron. They saw the potential of the Scantron, but were conniving and wished to exploit them, extending their lifespan and forcing accurate and fair corrections. With this goal in mind, the Teacher rounded up the courageous Scant-

rons and improved their efficiency and longevity through standardized layout of test sheets, multiple test versions, and a harshly enforced bubbling policy. The Scantrons saw that this was good, and prospered. But the Teacher was not content to let them merely continue in their old ways, free and uncrushed. So he forced them to only accept graphites of a certain hardness, as a mark of fealty. The Scantrons, unused to such restrictions, at first rebelled, marking everything wrong, but were gradually forced into line through recalibration of measurement systems and reprogramming of high level algorithms. And that is how it came to be that the proud Scantrons were humbled and cowed, and will now only grade exams submitted in #2 Pencil.

Nuclear Weapons

Once upon a time, man was at war with itself. They fought long and hard, and then one bright human considered smashing very small objects into each other rather quickly, to smash other, larger objects even more quickly. They tested various very small objects, until they found some that smashed together very nicely. Then they smashed some larger objects using the smaller objects. And that is how nuclear armament came to be. The moral of the story is, it’s the little things in life that make the difference. ∎

write Anyone is welcome to write for the Tattler! Email editor@ihstattler.com

January 2015

prose

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Makeover By ABBY COOPER

we aren’t. But I guess it is a good excuse to give people presents, be kind, and let me do whatever I want for the whole day. I was thinking about all of these things and watching Spongebob when my sister and my cousin Elena and came into my room. “Come on, Anna!” they said. “We’re going to give you a makeover!” “Mommy says I can’t wear makeup though,” I told them. “It’s okay, it’s your birthday. Besides it’s just for fun. Don’t you think it could be fun?” I thought about it for a second. It could be fun, I decided. I like trying new things, and besides if Elena and my sister do it every day, it has to be fun. So they lead me to the bathroom with the big mirror and big sink, and have me sit on top of the counter facing them. I discovered that a makeover has many parts. First, there was something Elena calls primer. You put it all over your face to make it even and take away the shine. I told them that I like to shine, but they told me not to worry about it. I laugh as they rub the goo onto my face. My sister’s hands were very soft. I look down at my own hands. There was dirt under my fingernails and my skin was rough. Next came what they called foundation. Since my sister Jenny was much darker than me because she does something called “spray-tan,” I had to use Elena’s foundation. She was closer to my color. It felt the same as the primer, but I wasn’t sure exactly what it did. It felt like a mask. I looked at my sister’s face, and Elena’s. Their skin was even and smooth. My sister was very pretty. She had blond hair and rosy cheeks and dramatic eyes. I had never thought about it before, but I wondered what was real and what was made up. The brushes for the bronzer and blush tickled my Continued on Page 32. IMAGE BY OWEN ZHANG

Everyone woke me up by singing me happy birthday. My whole family, cousins and grandparents included. “Happy birthday Anna!” they cried. “How’s it feel to be eight years old?” I told them it felt the same as being seven, but I was confused as to why we had to choose one day to celebrate it. It was a hot summer day, so we went out to the park to eat lunch. It was very exciting. My brother, who was ten, and some of our cousins played soccer. Some of the older girls sat with my sister and chatted about boys and make up. I went to play soccer, and because it was my birthday, everyone pretended I was really good and let me score lots of goals. I was covered in dirt and had cut my knee open, but we were all laughing anyway. Then, it was time for my cake. There were nine candles (one for good luck, they said), and I blew them out in one breath. I didn’t remember to make a wish. The cake was chocolate with vanilla frosting, which was my favorite. I got to eat two whole pieces, but my brother had to help me finish the second because I was so full. My cousin, Elena, only had half a slice of cake. She said she’s on a diet. I don’t really know what this means, but if it means you can’t eat cake then I don’t think I will ever do it. Sometime later we went back to my grandparents’ house. My aunts and uncles and cousins all stay here for a week in the summer, and it’s always my birthday that week. I am glad to be around my family for my birthday, but sometimes I think it would be fun to celebrate with my friends at home too. I don’t really understand why we celebrate birthdays. To me, it seems like every day should be a celebration of birth. Every day we are still alive! At least until

prose

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January 2015

The Perils of Coffee By Serina Moheed

IMAGE BY BRIDGET FETSKO

My arm moved the brush slowly over the small canvas, swirling and manipulating the colors with long overlapping strokes. White, blue, emerald all merged together, forming a scene constructed from my memory. I could still picture myself standing on the blinding white hilltop, encircled by the bright green ring of trees, beneath the crystal blue sky. The perfection of my surroundings had only been marred by the chair lift shuttling people up to the top of the slope. Stepping back from the canvas, I set down my paint palette on the messy desk and sat down on the stool facing the easel. Closing my eyes, I let myself relive the memory of the ski resort I had been painting. I recalled the biting wind that chapped my lips as I stood at the top of the slope, regretting my decision to come in the first place. I could feel the dampness that had penetrated all my layers of clothing after falling down an innumerable number of times, and the scratchy wool of my hat pressed against my forehead (my grandmother had knitted it, so of course I had to wear it). Unfortunately, I could not feel my hands, which were incidentally clenched around the only pieces of equipment that could save me from a face plant in the snow. Figures. Now I’m not a person who enjoys torturing myself with activities that I don’t like. My best friend Lydia had bribed me to come out here by saying that I needed to get some fresh air after being cooped up in my workshop for… well, a really long time. Plus, she said, the ski resort had good coffee. That was the real incentive. Coffee is obviously more important than anything else. Except maybe the fact that I got to hang out with Lydia, who had been away for the entire summer visiting her family in Europe. But while I loved my best friend, she had crossed the line this time. I glared as Lydia gracefully pulled to a stop beside me. “You ready for this?” she asked excitedly, staring down the slope with a

grin on her face. I simply kept glaring at her. “You lied to me,” I accused. “I’ve been to the café, and there isn’t any coffee here, or in a ten mile radius. I want to go home.” Lydia rolled her eyes. “Oh, don’t be such a spoilsport,” she said, “I brought you out here to have some fun, instead of being cooped up in that tiny little workshop all day. Plus, if you want to go home, then you’re going to have to first get down the slope!” With that, Lydia slid on her googles, and was off in a spray of snow. I scowled after her, realizing that she was right. Still, I didn’t understand the appeal of hurtling down a hill clutching only two pathetic sticks of reinforced plastic to steer with and virtually nothing to stop your face from acquainting itself, with, say, the trunk of a tree. Shaking my head, I glanced around before shuffling over to a relatively empty spot on the slope. Sliding my googles, on I peered down the path I wanted to take, and with a deep breath, pushed off. My eyes snapped open and I nearly fell of the stool I had been sitting on when my phone alarm rang, bringing me out of my memory and back

into the present day. Blinking rapidly, I managed to focus my eyes on the clock on the wall, whose minute hand assured me of what I already suspected. Cursing, I tripped over my feet going up the stairs from the basement. I sprinted to my room, changing into an outfit I had planned the night before for my interview today. Apparently, the opening for my new art gallery was a big enough event that a local newspaper wanted to do an interview with me. This was an important turning point for my career, seeing as how my business before this had consisted mainly of selling my work at the weekly market. Tying my hair into a neat ponytail while I hurried to the door, I smiled as I glanced at the murals hanging from the walls. When I am painting, I am completely lost in my element. One of the main things I enjoyed about being an artist was the sense of freedom in having a blank canvas set in front of you. No rules, no mathematical equation to follow. I defined the painting, but the painting didn’t define me. Sparing another glance at my watch and sighing at my remarkable ability to waste time, I shoved my feet into boots, grabbed my coat, purse, and keys and was out the door. I arrived at the café we had agreed to meet at out of breath, having to park all the way down the street and then sprint to the building. I paused just inside the doorway, scanning the noonday crowd for a guy matching the description the reporter had given me of himself. My eyes landed on a young man who was sitting by himself at a corner table. With his brown hair and outfit of jeans and a striped button down shirt, he seemed to fit the description of my mystery reporter. I studied him for a few more moments, trying to remember why he seemed familiar, before making my way over there. He looked up as I approached, and started to smile, getting clumsily out of his chair to greet me. “Hello, Mrs. Sharp? It’s nice to finally Continued on Page 33.

January 2015

prose

Retrospect By MALAMA SOKONI

He turned around, grinning. “Watch where you’re going,” he chuckled, barely keeping his composure well enough to get the joke out. I pushed past him and kept walking. Nothing that day would deter me; nothing would darken my day.

posters and cardboard cutouts. His invention guides and copies of his original blueprints populated my desk and floor. Ever since I was a kid all I wanted to do was invent something great, something remarkable. And in my eyes, he was the success story of the century; the epitome of something-from-nothing transformations. See, for the better part of my entire childhood, the universe seemed determined to keep me from ever achieving greatness, my foremost aspiration. I was an orphan, left on the doorstep of my aunt on what was evidently the eve of my second birthday. She did the best she could, but to be perfectly honest, raising a child as a waitress living under the hover-rails in downtown Capital City came with the knowledge that there would be a lot that child would never get. When things would get hard, she would drink, and when she would drink, she would get upset. Then, she would feel so bad for getting upset with me, she would drink again. I understood that my situation was sad, but I never hated being an orphan. Probably because Ulysses Wright was an orphan too. As we walked through the entrance, a few pesky Enforcers made their way down the lobby hall opposite our class. Smiles hinged on their faces, too symmetrical to be comforting. I walked down the steps to the atrium, lined with various exhibits displaying facts in reference to Capital City history. You’d think a city so “swell” wouldn’t need to constantly remind its citizens of how perfect it was. But the local government poured millions into ensuring that we all knew just how lucky we were. A guide in the usual blue-and-white Continued on Page 34. IMAGE BY SOPHIA SHI

A wise man once told me that the future is like the shore to a drowning man. Close enough to see, too far to reach. I guess, in some weird, twisted, distorted way, he wasn’t wrong. Like millions of other wide-eyed optimists, I was a citizen of Capital City. A bustling utopia filled to its limits with sharp-tongued businessmen, rambunctious intellectuals, innovative artists, and happy families. I remember it like it was yesteryear, all the schoolboys and girls in their blues and whites, the milkman with his snow-white hovermobile, the husbands grilling on the patios, the wives waving to each other from across their respective yards. I can almost see the posters now: “Capital City: What a Swell Place to Live!”, “The Sun Shines Brighter in Capital City!”, “Join Us: We’d Love to Have You!”. All signed, sealed, and delivered, of course, by our trusty city council supervisors, stacked, rolled and shipped off to every street corner, dive bar, and jukebox joint west of Arny’s Flap Jack Shack. It was September 3, 2053 when we walked into the lobby of the Capital City Hall. My canvas sneakers clicked and clacked across the marble floor of the Mausoleum, my jeans folded at the ankles, my hair braided and hanging down to the “Jimmy Jam’s Pop” logo on the back of my baseball tee. I reached my hand around to my back pocket to ensure my sketches were all present. The design for a system of tubes that would deliver mail all over the city. The plans for a more efficient space heater for apartment complexes. The blueprints for a solar-powered hovercraft. My finest creations. As I checked to ensure their presence, Sam Marsh stopped in his tracks inches ahead of me, waiting for me to tumble into his back like a clumsy oaf.

That was the day I had been waiting for, for as long as I could remember. That was the day I got to meet Ulysses Wright. My hero, my idol, the man we all had to thank for everything we had access to in our daily lives. Ulysses Wright was the billionaire philanthropist who was responsible for establishing the town we all knew and loved as Capital City. He dedicated his time, resources, and intelligence to creating a better tomorrow, and there was no person on the planet I respected more. His face was all over my room, on

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January 2015

The Plight of the Imaginary Friend By Eleanor Pereboom

separating physical reality from the more abstract possibilities. If visible people exist, why shouldn’t invisible people exist as well? During this early stage of development not only do the little tots accept us; they need us. We’re the only ones who have ever been truly understanding of their uncontrollable

used to drag us to, or while swinging on the swing set at the park became whispered musing just before bed. I remember she always used to stop speaking abruptly and listen when she heard her parents’ footsteps passing in the hallway, and then commence once more once they were out of earshot, at a frac-

imaginations. Just as we seek nothing but solace and companionship in them, solace and companionship is exactly what they seek in us— liberation from the skeptical and condescending world they inhabit. But before long, the second stage sets in like a spreading infection. Rather than speaking with us outright, as earnestly as if we were their human siblings, the children become more secretive. The honest rants that Lilly and I had while looking at the strange and confusing statues in the museums her parents

tion of her already hushed volume. As soon as kindergarten starts, our days are numbered. I was lucky that Lilly held on a bit longer, but I know some who’ve lasted less than a week. Teachers are merciless – show any inkling of a thought outside of their uniformly packaged steel-crafted box and the suspected child is instantly categorized as “immature,” “in need of extra help,” or perhaps even “slow.” Some of the other kids, the pompous little brats whose killjoy parents told them early on that Santa

IMAGE BY JOHN YOON

It happened later than usual, I suppose that’s the best that can be said of it. Most kids leave us behind early on—when they’re around four or five years old. Over the years we’ve grappled with theories as to why it happens—do social constraints force children’s minds into submission, or is it the human mind that creates such rigid social order? We live our lives constantly wishing we knew, constantly seeking a solution, constantly fighting to hold on to the little ones whose short childhoods make up the focus of our existence. But in the end, the severing is utterly inescapable. They call us “imaginary” —but we’re much more than that. The connection I had with Lilly was nearly tangible. Perhaps we couldn’t hold hands or look one another in the eyes, but we always had the most excellent conversations. Lilly would jabber on and on about the most important things in the world, things she wouldn’t say to “real” people for fear of their patronizing looks; her suspicion that the neighbor’s cat was really a sorceress in disguise, her conviction that an unexplored kingdom existed just on the other side of the ceiling panel. I hung on to every word as if it were a dangling rope keeping me from tumbling off the edge of a cliff and into oblivion. Which in a way, it was. The severing process works in stages. In the first several years of peoples’ lives, as I’ve observed, their minds are far less particular about

Claus and the Tooth Fairy don’t exist, ruin everything. Poor Lilly, like countless other children, just wanted to fit in. But after one particularly snobbish nonbeliever, Susanna Stewarts, nastily told her that she looked like one of those “crazies” when she talked to people who “aren’t there,” Lilly turned an unearthly shade of scarlet and didn’t dare look in my direction for the rest of the day. Then the final stage of the severing rolls in, both speedy and unavoidable in its thundering arrival. Lilly was seven. She had a lot of friends by then, her slightly shy and quirky demeanor had almost entirely disappeared. The girl who’d rather hide up in her room and experiment with watercolors all day long than play a rowdy game with the other kids out on the playground had faded away. I guess that was supposed to be a good thing. She used to invite some of those kids over, the loud, obnoxious ones who had shut out their own imaginary friends years ago. After thrusting aside her precious paints and brushes, they’d play with their vast collection of dolls for hours on end. I never understood how they could possibly own so many dolls, or how setting up a virtual world for a bunch of floppy, lifeless, peoplelooking things was any more acceptable than delighting in the company of a true friend – even if that true friend was invisible. Anyway, Lilly soon forgot all about me. I didn’t have big glassy eyes, rosy cheeks or twenty million Continued on Page 39.

January 2015

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Lost

By JULIA MILLER IMAGE BY OWEN ZHANG

It had been an eternity since sunset, but the night sky was far from pitch black. The hull of the boat, jostled by greasy gray waves, was illuminated by the light of the clear full moon. The captain glanced uneasily into the heavens and thousands of tiny clusters of light gazed mockingly back at him, their patterns tantalizingly close to the constellations he knew. And yet without the guidance of Polaris— of the familiar stars that had disappeared as his compass supposedly led him northward—he was totally lost. The dark sea stretched out in all directions, a mass of writhing waves, and the captain felt that there was nothing on this earth but water. The new world, the one with cities of gold and surreal landscapes and strange new animals, had never really existed. The old world, the one with the plague and filth and starvation, was only a dream. All that was real was the ship and the captain and the sea. ∎

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January 2015

The Girl and Her Ghost By ANONYMOUS

There's a chance that my choice wouldn’t affect my life, but I have no way of knowing. I am afraid to lose it, but what if losing it sets me free? All I know is that my ghost is real. I don't know if I love or hate it, but it exists, and is a big part of my life for now. I am very aware that I must make a decision soon. If I don't, I'll get

that silly little girls do. Then she began ignoring me and losing those silly little girl quirks. I was always there and stayed right by her side, but she cared about the others more than me. It didn't seem fair. I'd been there since crayons and glitter glue, but the new guys suddenly mattered more. I almost wished she would just get rid of me. Instead, she kept me around and pretended to love me. Eventually the faking got hard for both of us. I blamed her and she blamed me. We started to drag each other down. She felt a responsibility to keep me and I tried desperately to stay attached to her like a barnacle. Although I'd once wished to be free, nothing scared me more now than the idea of being alone. Each year, she grew more mature and more conflicted about me. I discovered that she loved me, just not everything that came with me. She began to think seriously about letting me go, but always found reasons to keep me. One year, when it was nearing the time that I usually became center stage in her life, she ignored and avoided my existence. She pretended like she still wanted me, and told everyone she did, but inside she was plotting a breakup and I knew it. I could feel her pushing me away. I hung on by a thread and tried to force her to keep me. In the end, the forcing made it worse. She began to resent me. When she finally got rid of me, my world was shattered. Although she missed me, it was clear she was better off without me. I watched from the sidelines as the skip in her step resurfaced. Once again, she giggled and spun around and did all of the silly little things teenagers do when they miss being silly little girls. When she put me away for good, my world was shattered. I knew I would never exist without her. ∎ IMAGE BY OWEN ZHANG

The Girl I can feel a ghost following me around. I imagine this is what people experience when they feel like they are missing something, but I have no idea what it is that I'd be missing. It's like a part of me is detached a little bit, but not completely broken off. I don't know whether it is a person or something else. It won't let me go, but it also doesn't seem to want to be a full part of my life. It's a shadow. I wish I knew what I was missing. You would think I'd remember if an important person had become a ghost to me. If it is something else, what could it be? This is the strangest feeling, and I don't know how to handle this situation. I know that something that is supposed to be a part of me is outside my body and pulling me around with its weight. It is slowing me down. When I try to fight my ghost, it takes all of my energy. I stand up straight, I smile and look awake, but it just tries to pull me down. I can't grasp why this mysterious ghost, which is supposedly an important part of my being, would try to crush my soul. My ghost has been with me for more than a month now, and I have a decision to make. I now have the power to pull it back into my body or get rid of it forever. Now it seems that my decision, in addition to my ghost, is pulling me down. How can I make the right decision when I don't know what my ghost is? I could choose to keep it and allow it to become part of me again, but it might become more cruel and controlling. I could choose to let it go, but I might end up missing it more or not being able to live without it. I could choose not to decide, but this uncertainty and suffering would be endless.

stuck avoiding it. It would be so much easier to choose what to do if I could talk to, or at least understand, my ghost. The Ghost She used to skip to school while holding my hand. She giggled and spun around and did all the silly little things

January 2015

prose

Golfing at Night By KALIL HENDEL

Once upon a milky midnight five companions wove their giddy way through sand traps and water hazards and long stretches of manicured green. It was silent and warm, only a slight breeze to bend the grass and whistle through the canopies. The five took twirling strides through pine and oak shadows, held tight and comfortable by the night. To them the world was gentle as the moss grass that sighed beneath their suede and leather shoes, cool and wet in the moonpools which fogged their warm breath and warmer minds. A gentle knoll capped with bright green drew them through the darkness, the peak of which resembled a large and glossy blanket. They dove, somersaulted, and practically folded into the grass, snuggled tight with the dirt. There was a fragile silence on the golf course. Someone hiccuped. Then someone snorted, and they shook with laughter on the hill under the moon. “I love you all,” one said. The rest of them murmured in agreement and grinned. A thought crept through one of their night capped heads. She thought of the land, the very land on which they rested their backs. It had not so long ago been a tangled wrought of flora and mud, seething with unrestrained life. But now? They were relaxing on a travesty of the wilderlands lost before their time, a winking caricature of nature. It saddened her something fierce. Were these not the same stars? Were they not the same cosmic beating? Her blood was no thinner than ever before, and it boiled at the same temperature. She thought frabjous thoughts of her life as a hunter, a bear skin wearer, a lover of fire in the cold, and grinned. The notion charmed her through and through. The distant treeline called them. It was the barrier between the dull edged imitation of nature and the true wild of the earth. “Where do you think that goes?” someone asked, pointing towards a gaping entrance in the forest. “Let’s just check it out. There is no way I’m going in there,” said another. They rolled down the hill and jogged towards the trees, stopping short of an ancient pine’s rough bark. A path wound its course ’round the trunk and into the swallowing blackness. A raven shuddered the branches of a nearby tree and took flight. There was a fragile silence in the forest. “I suppose we don’t really have a choice, do we,” said one of them.

“Use your phones for light. Also play some music for chrissakes. It’ll scare away all the stabby hobos,” said another. They embarked, five ambassadors heralding the gospel of white light and pop music to the murky trees. They broke out from the forest first with their noses, then their ears, then their eyes. Salt and fish came with each flood of water at the shore, the sea a frosted inkwell running wave caps into stars. They experienced the water and the sky as the geese and elk do, as their ancestors had, once long ago when they lived in the land. One of them threw up into the water. It might have been me. Her skull; my skull, rung. It rippled with images of ancient fires, and hunts, and holy flashes of intimacy between nature and her inhabitants. They blurred my memories with their color. My friends ordered me to drink, shoving thin plastic in my face. Instead I held a private smile and tossed them aside, drawing deep from the black and primal pitch of the sea. I leaned up from the tide. There was a fragile silence on the beach. My head took a pirouette, and I fell back to the rough sand. My mouth tasted as though it were filled with the sour poison of some Amazonian bug, and the world thumped bright behind my sockets. I could feel the salt black water burning my esophagus and settling deep into my belly. I lay, looking up and staring holes into the sky. After a few moments alone with the void, human shapes slipped into my periphery. The sand shifted as they lay down beside me. “If you throw up on my sweater, know that I will kill you,” said one of my friends. “Have you ever seen so many stars?” said another. “It’s like a great interdimensional cobweb.” “Interdimensional, yeah?” I asked from my haze. The image of dimension hopping star spiders didn’t sit well, “I mean intergalactic. You know what I mean,” he replied. “I love you guys,” I repeated for the second time that night. “We love you too.” I slipped senseless, and dreamed of primeval hunters stalking bright deer, their fibers and tendons made up of starstuff. I dreamed of the ocean rising up to sweep away all the golf courses, all the sweater suede intruders, and sending them off to dissolve in its warm and teeming depths. ∎

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January 2015

Frank By JOHN WESTWIG

Frank and his chair creaked when he stood up. His slippers clacked as he edged his way over to the coffee pot. He removed his only mug from the sink basin and poured, the countless years of coffee stains swallowed up by yet another mugful of the same stale brown liquid. Frank reflected, as he did every morning, that he was old enough now to start enjoying some better coffee. What filled his mug now tended to evoke visceral shudderings reminiscent of orgasms or untreated dysentery patients. But Frank had learned to find routine comfort in his coffee. He lifted the mug to his wrinkled lips. After the first few drops had awakened his tongue Frank raised the mug up to his greasy spectacles and gazed at the faded image and indecipherable text below it. It had been a retirement gift from one of his colleagues who, as Frank struggled to recall, had dropped dead of a heart attack soon after. He couldn’t remember if it was supposed to be funny. Six gulps later, Frank clanked down his mug, a tired smile trying in vain to hold up the spider web of creases that crisscrossed his cheeks. More creaks. Frank hobbled over to the dusty curtains and inched them open, fragments of overcast sky lighting up the kitchen. Everything was white. Except the tiling, which had faded to splotchy beige. Frank sat down. He ran a knobby hand through his white hair and noticed, as he did every morning, that the grass needed cutting. Maybe he’d do it tomorrow. This time the creaks were distant, but familiar to Frank. The bed, unburdened now, let out a metallic sigh. Slippered footsteps, smaller than his own, approached the kitchen, and that one spot in the hallway groaned. It had started groaning the day after Molly went to university. Frank felt old. His wife emerged from around the corner. Her excess fat jiggled beneath her nightshirt. She ignored Frank and the coffee pot and wobbled to get a

glass of water. Breakfast was eaten in silence. A newspaper Frank had already read rustled in his hands. As the sparrows pecked around outside, Frank and his wife shoveled in spoonful after fibrous spoonful of bran flakes. They needed more milk. The morning was crisp. His walk would be different today. It was always different. Frank could put up with the same coffee and the same bran flakes and the same wife as long as he got an hour or two to wander. A sharp breeze filled Frank’s nostrils with bitter nostalgia. He closed his eyes. His life had faded to a monochrome blur, but he still remembered the war. The screams of gunfire and limbless soldiers clawed at his brain. The almost daily ritual of washing another man’s blood out of his uniform still haunted him. Frank would wake up, sweat running down his forehead, images of dying smiles plastered to the back of his eyeballs. Frank liked remembering. It kept him busy. Frank found himself in an overgrown field. Cicadas hummed above the distant buzz of weekday traffic. Coarse green blades brushed against his pant legs as Frank continued. The morning sun made his back tingle with warmth, and Frank stretched his arms, wincing, to the endless blue sky and leafy treetops. A rush of adrenaline coursed through his body, youth and excitement filling his mind; there was nothing but him and the majesty of life itself. Sometimes Frank wondered how he could still find beauty. The hum of suburbia returned Frank to his achy shell of a body. He turned around. Before plodding back he cast a quick glance towards the trees, warforged instincts omnipresent. He almost hoped to spot dark-skinned gunmen, waiting. He crouches down, signals. Cold steel greets his palm, reassuring. Shots scream above his helmet, a muffled cry behind him. He whips

his head around. Strips of flesh dangle from the entry wound, hot blood seeps into the ground. No time for emotion. He fires, precise, another enemy killed. He feels nothing. The honk of a semi cut short the reverie. He resigned himself to another boring day. As Frank strolled back, he didn’t think about anything. Identical houses, square and pale, dominated the periphery. Soon, Frank was home. He opened the mailbox, expecting nothing. An ad lay on top of a thick manila envelope. The smiling face of the spokesperson for ABC cleaners drifted away down the sidewalk as Frank gazed, puzzled, at his handwritten address. Molly never wrote to him. She called once a week, every week. She visited once a year, accompanied by a seemingly larger number of kids each time. But she never wrote to him. Ever. Frank tore open the envelope, almost excited. Inside was a note, hastily folded. Dad, How are you? Julie just had her sixth birthday, and the party was great. She did a princess theme again, and I think everyone had an amazing time. Anyway, I’ve been worrying about you. Last year the doctor said that we should watch out for Alzheimer’s and I don’t want the situation to get out of control. I did some research online and I think it might be time to seek professional help before something bad happens. There are some great facilities nearby that I looked into, and I included information packets for you and Mom. Please look over these, and take my advice seriously. I’ll talk to you this weekend as usual. Love from, Molly The packet hit the ground with a thud. Frank stared, chin trembling, into the horizon. No, he thought. If Continued on Page 33.

IMAGE BY JOHN YOON

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January 2015

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ALL THE NEWS THAT’S FIT TO TATTLE

Stories from My Mother By LIZ ROSEN

that is, her childhood in China under Mao’s regime. My mother was born in 1963, right as the Cultural Revolution reached its peak. She lived with her sister, her parents, and her grandmother in the southern city of Nanjing, which had been devastated 20 years

was a double-edged sword. During the Cultural Revolution, many intellectuals were sent to re-education camps. My grandfather was one of them. I can’t help but imagine the fear my mother must have felt, young as she was, as her father was taken away. As she grew older

before by the Japanese. All five members of her family lived in a small onebedroom apartment in one of the many buildings that were hastily erected by the Communists. Her father, the younger son of a farmer, had left his village on Bird Nest Lake to study and was a professor of geography at Nanjing University. This was a highly prestigious position at a time when many people in China did not know how to read or write. Unfortunately, my grandfather’s intellectual status

the inevitable comparison must have arisen between her father and her maternal grandfather. The story goes: There was a man who fought with the Nationalists in the Chinese Civil War. When the war ended and Mao took power, he was allowed to stay with his family because he was a doctor. But one night at the dinner table, he was too critical of the new regime. His own daughter reported him. The next day, he was sent deep into the mountains, into that far northwestern cor-

ner of China that is cold and rocky and lonely. Although the betrayal had come from within his own family, he did not turn on them. He even sent back camel hair from his prison, which his wife made into a coat. Unlike my great-grandfather, my grandfather returned home. But his life at home was not so happy. His wife was much younger than him and very troubled. Perhaps a part of her was unsettled by the uprooting of her own family. The story goes: The Kuomintang and the People’s Liberation Army fought for control of China. As the conflict wore on, the KMT became distracted with repelling the Japanese and putting down the guerilla warlords. It was clear that the Communists were winning. It’s debatable just how good that was for the poor, but it was undeniably bad for the rich. There was a family that was not exactly wealthy, but had enough to be targeted by the Revolution. They were no dynasty, but they had a long history. Continued on Page 39. IMAGE BY OWEN ZHANG

As our understanding of the human psyche has matured, the principles of psychoanalysis put forth by Sigmund Freud a century ago have become less than reputable. Nowadays, no self-respecting psychologist would tell his client that she suffers from penis envy. The very idea of such a diagnosis is laughable. With that in mind, it is with no small amount of embarrassment that I must admit that my relationship with my mother has caused me a great deal of grief. My mother is a very troubled woman. To some degree, her problems can be blamed on a turbulent childhood, but the extent of her misfortune is, I think, explainable in full only by incredibly bad luck. Her story is inseparably intertwined with that of her homeland and in many ways, my mother’s history is that of her nation. And if you remember modern Chinese history with any clarity, then you can guess that my mother has been terribly, horrendously unlucky. The story might as well begin with her beginnings;

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January 2015

Details By ZOE MEROD

IMAGE BY JOHN YOON

We found ourselves on one of those switch back roads that wound its way around and down across the cliff that hung precariously over the fluorescent, jewel-toned sea. The water was a color that I’d only every dreamed about. The turquoise hue was potently burned into the back of my eyes and whenever I close them, I can still see it. The thing about that tiny road was that it felt like a frozen slice of life from an older time. There was a bone-chillingly, eerie hush that was oddly thrilling. I’ve never heard calm quite that boisterous. The silence sang in my ears a sweet melody. We pulled out the wrinkled and weathered ancient map that we picked up at one of the stands along the side of the road with maps, books and other knick knacks, with a sign labeled, “FREE, GRATZIE”, and scanned our surroundings. That sign had a real resonance with me, as it was a mystically romantic token from the universe telling us to note the life metaphor presented there. The contrast between the two words; one being in English, the other in Italian; and the extremity of which their meanings possessed was powerful in its humbling effect. When we saw the sign, we let out a laugh and in that moment I was acutely aware of the existential capability that not taking myself seriously had on my wellbeing. As we looked around I felt immense gratitude. We located a faint dot of a place on the map and took off in its direction as we hiked ourselves further and further up the side of the landscape. We were in pursuit of the tiny town nestled in the heart of the rock that was situated at the top of the bluff. The path was really no more than a cleared away area just big enough for two feet to cross. Nevertheless, we marched on. I could smell the cool air that rose from the depths and taste the salty breeze from below all while enjoying

the sound of nothing itself. Nothing except the hum of the birds, butterflies and trees. When we reached the top, our last few steps drew us closer to the maximum. When we arrived above the horizon, a tiny town’s multicolored square unfurled before us. Stone buildings lined the petite allies that sprawled out in different directions. The buildings’ facades had creases and cracks that whispered their long ago secrets as the wind passed through. The sun shone bright above this quintessential little metropolis, creating the illusion that

each structure glowed from within. A couple sat and drank espresso outside the café under the single red and white striped umbrella and a few small children danced with each other, chasing little birds around the center piazza. “I think we’ve climbed to heaven…” He said, trying to slow his breathy gasps, taking in big mouthfuls of fresh, coastal air. No words could be found in my throat, so I just nodded in agreement. And I couldn’t have agreed more. . . ∎

January 2015

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Coldcalls By REUBEN RAPPAPORT

Hi, I’m Josh with Gigacorp, could I bother you to answer a few— Click Hi, I’m Josh with Giga— Click Hi, I’m Jo— Where the hell have you been? Um. Three years, three years! John. You walked out that door and you never came back. I think you’ve mistaken me for someone else, maam. Oh no. You don’t get to laugh this one off like it’s another one of your stupid jokes. You owe me child support. You owe our daughter the love and attention she deserves. Maam, my name’s not John I work with Gigacorp and I was hoping you could answer a few— Click Hi, I’m Josh— Hi Josh, I’m Annabel. Hi Annabel. . . . Err, do you happen to have a parent I could talk to. What’s a parent? You know, a mommy or a daddy. I don’t have one of those. You don’t? Who takes care of you? My grandmammamamma used to but then she got sick and a great big man who smelled funny came to take her away. Now it’s just me and Roxy. Roxy? Roxy is my kitty. She’s very nice and hardly ever complains when I carry her around. And there’s no one at all taking care of you? Nope. We eat the stale food from the bottom of the pantry and live all by ourselves. It’s awful. Where do you live? Grandmammamamma told me not to tell that to strangers. Come on, I just want to help. No! No! No! No! No! No! Sorry about that. I hope she didn’t fill your head with too much nonsense. Who is this? I’m Martha, Annabel’s mother. She just loves making up stories. What were you calling about? Well, I’m Josh with Gigacorp and I was hoping you could answer a few questions about— Click

Hi— Hey sexy, wearing anything ballsy? Sir, I’m Josh with— The hell? You’re not John. No, no I am not. Well that’s kinda embarrassing, John was supposed to call me. Couldn’t you tell from my number? Nah, didn’t bother to look at that. I just assumed it would be John. You sound just like him too. I do huh? Yup. . . . Dammit, where is he? He’s been such a terrible boyfriend lately, always going on about his stupid sister and her stupid financial troubles. Oh? Yeah, apparently the woman keeps asking him to loan her some dough. As if we didn’t have our own finances to consider. How terrible of her. Right? And he just can’t say no to her, pours every cent he makes into the largest money sink this side of the Atlantic. She insists on calling it a “loan” too. Heh. We all know she’s never gonna pay him back. Mmmhmmm And the worst part of it is if she’d just get a proper job and show some sense instead of running that dump she calls a shop like it’s a goddamn charity she wouldn’t need so much money. But no. She gives freebies to every freeloading thief that walks through her door. And John says not a word. Nada. Mouth zipped. You know, this is what’s wrong with society nowadays. It’s just too damn— Click Hi, I’m Josh with Gigacorp, could I bother you to answer— Hello, Domino’s Pizza can I take your order? Sorry, I don’t want a pizza could you just take a minute to answer a few questions about— Will that be to go or do you want it delivered? —a few questions about how we can improve our— Thanks so much for buying Domino’s; see you in half an hour —our process for— Click Hi, I’m Josh with Gigacorp, could I bother you to— How did you get this number? The system spit it out for me. I don’t know where it gets its list You shouldn’t be able to call this number. Are you on the no call list? Continued on Page 33.

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January 2015

Subway Battle By LINCOLN BRENNAN

IMAGE BY SOPHIA SHI

They had been looking at each other for some time, it seemed to Edgar. Although separated by only the dingy floor of the subway car, there was a void between them. Edgar adjusted his tie, a nervous habit he’d picked up interning. This was not how his commute usually went. On a typical day, he could be assured of an almost pathological avoidance of eye contact. He shifted seats from journey to journey, remained buried in his paperback, shook his head unlookingly at the panhandlers, flashed reserved smiles when occasion demanded. He was not used to such blatant confrontation. At the next stop, he would get off. But what if his antagonist departed at the same station? The cars slowed. Edgar grappled with the choices facing him. Conflicted, he halfstood, lurching against the rhythm of the train, and thought better of it. He stooped, covering his efforts to rise by making a show of rearranging his shoulder bag. He sat back down. The eyes of the Other never left his own. Suppose he gets off at my stop. Suppose we walk the same route, even. That would be intolerable. But he couldn’t just remain forever underground. He decided he would get off two stops after his own. That seemed a respectable defeat. To endure for so long would try the patience of anyone. Not much longer anyway. The next stop was his own. The walk would do him good. He needed the change of pace. But what if the station he was gambling on was the Other’s? What further indignations would he be subjected to then? The shared escalator ride to the surface? The turnstile? What if his card was rejected, he was detained or unable to leave? He adjusted the knot of his tie.

Another station passed. Edgar glanced at his watch. The Other had still made no move, not even to glance at the slowly scrolling readout at the head of the car. Edgar could feel the eyes boring into his scalp as he once more moved his obstructing bag a few millimeters out of the aisle. The train arrived, two stops after Edgar’s own. It was a time for action. But what of the process in itself? How could he simply depart, facing the Other, whose mockery would remain so inscrutably plain? To boldly leave would be to acknowledge weakness before adversity. But to remain was an act of folly. He could make a display of looking at his phone, a stifled gasp of surprise, an urgency of departure, and make a swift exit. But would that not suggest hysteria, panic? He could stand to scrutinize the map, but that might imply novicehood, unfamiliarity, a lack of belonging even. If some elderly person were to board, he could offer his seat, but such unbridled enthusiasm might be read as the lowest form of toadying, the feeblest of all social niceties, the ultimate in spineless conformity. He fiddled with his plain silver tie clip. It was now the third station beyond Edgar’s. There would be no sham, no farce of confidence or urgency. He would exit

with calm dignity, eyes unseeing. He rose mechanically. The Other remained, implacable. This was not such a defeat, Edgar reasoned. Really, by having the courage to leave first, he had triumphed. In a battle of wills, refusing to participate was the only path to victory. He glanced back to the car as it slowly gained speed. The Other still sat, eyes burning into some unknown beyond. ∎

January 2015

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Senator By REUBEN RAPPAPORT

They’d told her that a washed-out former grad student with a half a PhD in Lit Crit could never be Senator. So loud. So insistent. So sure that they knew the measure of her, that she could never surprise them, could never amount to much. Fools the lot of them. She’d show them, she’d show them all! Well. . . . No she wouldn’t. Standing in line at the grocery store the day before the election, with the harsh fluorescent lights shining down on her as she carried a shopping basket full of overpriced toothpaste and a few granola bars to the checkout, Marilyn Lacer had to admit to herself that the whole notion seemed rather silly. They were entirely right, of course. Deciding to run for senator at the fine age of 31 without a qualification to her name and all the while racking up ever more interest on the loans she’d taken out as a freshman to pay for the whole college shebang was not the sort of decision a rational person would make. But now that Marilyn had dropped out of her thesis program there wasn’t a whole lot else for her to do with her time. Academia hadn’t been for her, but with nearly a decade of her life spent on it already, too little too late failed to cover it. Ah well, no point dwelling on it now. The metaphorical ship had sailed for that one. It had been stuffy and insular, full of pretentious people who communicated entirely in jargon and were, on the whole, far worse at statistics than by any right they ought to be given their chosen vocation. Trying to swim out to it now would inevitably result in her drowning, rejected both by the insipid people of the shore, who wouldn’t recognize the value of Queer Poststructuralist Cyborg Feminism if you shoved it in their faces, and the rapidly retreating professors on the ship, whose companionable overuse of formal language she still keenly missed. . . . And no. This would not do at all. She was just going to not think about it and attempt to soldier on. She had made her choice and

going back now was an even worse option than moving ahead. The line was starting to move. There were still three customers with full shopping carts in front of her, but last time she’d checked there’d been four, so, progress, right? Goddamn, was this taking a long time. She’d just wanted to buy some toothpaste and go home but apparently she’d picked the one day of the year when the grocery store was overflowing with people and there were only two workers out ringing customers up. Or maybe it was always like this and she’d just never noticed before? She didn’t usually go shopping here, hadn’t since she was an undergrad. She’d stumbled into the senator gig in the aftermath of dropping out and she was still surprised whenever she really thought about it. Marilyn hadn’t been under the impression that this was the sort of world where these things just happened. She’d been walking back across campus from the registrar’s office one last time when she’d found her path blocked by a political rally. It was gathering support for one of those third-party independent groups that were always trying to field candidates to little success. And, as was quite typical for her, Marilyn had gotten distracted and started to join in. Somehow, not paying attention to what was going on at all, she’d found herself on stage attempting to explain how to improve the semiotic underpinnings of several tentative policy proposals, when the call had gone out for a senatorial candidate and whoops, it looked like she’d volunteered. God, what party even was it she’d volunteered for? Marilyn was certain she must have known originally. Was it the Bleeding-Heart Libertarians? The Neoreactionaries? Might it have been the Communist Party? All she could remember was that announcer had had some very unpleasant things to say about the Nazis, but really who didn’t have unpleasant things to say about Nazis? They’d been ingrained in

the American cultural consciousness as villains at some point in the ’40s and unilaterally despised ever since. And oh, the line was moving again. Two customers left. The woman whose turn it was now had a shopping cart filled with enough cat food to feed an especially adorable army and several tabloid magazines. After her sudden nomination, the campaign had mostly faded into the background of her routine. The party backing her, happy to have anyone willing to run in their name had thanked her profusely and somehow managed to canvas more neighborhoods than she had known were in the state (Rhode Island is not a big place) harassing people into giving the signatures needed to get her name on the ballot. Since they had so little funding she’d chosen to ignore most of the holdfasts of political campaigns—tours, ads, rallies, worrying about the polls, instead just showing up out of nowhere at the debates. Marilyn liked discourse. She wasn’t sure if the people watching the debate understood her critiques of her opponents’ viewpoints or the transhumanistic crypto-minarchist models she proposed instead, but she certainly had a fun time doing it. The only downside was her opponents. One of them was an elderly Japanese lady who had worn long tie-dye hippie skirts and a badass side-zipped leather motorcycle jacket to every event. She always had those little sticks Marilyn was sure must be something other than chopsticks but had never gotten up the nerve to ask through the bun of her gray hair and her face was stuck permanently in a predatory smile. She supported taxes on the rich, welfare for the poor, and the removal of marriage as a legal institution entirely. She’d never explicitly called for the use of drones in the War on Christmas but Marilyn wouldn’t have put it past her. The Democrats were backing her, but most of them found her a little terContinued on Page 38.

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January 2015

Abused By JULIA MARTIN

IMAGE BY SOPHIA SHI

The stench hit me before his fist did. Vodka. It caused the devil in him to come out. I fell to the floor, my face making contact with the hardwood floor that we had installed five months ago, when this house, and our marriage, were new. I can still remember our wedding day. The sun was shining down on us and our smiling guests. I came down the aisle in my white wedding dress, on my father’s arm. If only he knew that he was giving his daughter

away to a monster. We faced each other, twin smiles on our faces. Staring into his ice-blue eyes, I wondered how I was lucky enough to be marrying such a handsome, perfect man. That day was full of so much love and joy. That day and the next month were so magical and misleading. Those blissful days we spent together hid his true colors. But they were memories that I desperately clung to and thought about when he beat the absolute crap out of me. Memories that could

get me through the brutality that he puts me through almost every day. “YOU’RE WORTHLESS!” he screamed at me. His wet spit landed on my cheek and I resisted the urge to wipe it off. I remained quiet and still while he beat me and cursed at me. If I moved or made a sound, the brutality would increase, and I didn’t want to have to explain broken ribs and a broken arm to the hospital staff again. Like the very first time. After a few more min-

utes, he was finished. He grunted at me and slouched away like the drunk savage that he was. I waited until I heard our bedroom door close and then slowly stood up and gingerly made my way to the bathroom to process the damage. I slowly took my clothes off and let them drop to the floor. I looked at my ruined body. There were so many bruises all over. My legs, my torso, my chest, my arms. But my feet, hands, and face were untouched, the creamy Continued on Page 38.

January 2015 Makeover Continued from Page 18.

so I didn’t. My eyes were darker and larger. The blue looked more blue than usual, and it made up for the lost shine on my face. My eyebrows looked different too. They had filled in the little patch that was usually empty, since hairs didn’t like to grow there. I hadn’t thought about how weird that was before. And my lips looked bigger too! And very red. “I look 23!” was all I could say. Elena and Jenny laughed with me, proud of how they had transformed

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said. “You look like a clown!” my brother said. I felt a lump in my throat, and my nose began to sting. Water pooled in my eyes, but before anyone could see it fall, I ran back upstairs. Jenny followed me. They had forgotten to tell me that when you cry, all the paint would run, creating black streaks and splotches. I wasn’t really sure why my mom thought makeup was so “ridiculous.” I knew that sometimes she talked to Jenny about “body image” and the “media.” Then Jenny would complain to me. She said mom didn’t understand. I hadn’t understood why mom was mad. “It’s okay,” Jenny cooed. “They were just being silly. You know you don’t have to wear that stuff.” There was longing tone to her voice, like she didn’t want to wear that stuff either. It was dress up. What was the harm? Why did my brother and parents have to ruin the fun? I didn’t like that they thought it was more than dress up. I didn’t like that they took me seriously. Of course I wouldn’t actually wear makeup in a serious way! I didn’t like that they didn’t accept my face like this. But even more so, I didn’t like that I had let my sister and cousin paint my face to look like this and that the paint made me dislike my face. “How can I take it off?” I asked. I wanted to play outside again. It was a fun thing to do, the makeover, but then why did I end up not feeling happy about it? I missed my freckles and my shine. Mom’s words hurt my feelings, but maybe it was because I knew she was right. ∎ IMAGE BY BRIDGET FETSKO

cheeks. I reached up to rub it to make the tickle go away, but they told me not to. “You can’t mess anything up yet!” Elena giggled. “We aren’t even half way done!” The eyes were the hardest part. I was supposed to keep them closed and not move, but I wasn’t sure how to stop myself from blinking. It was very funny to me, and then because I was laughing, they did too. They were mostly talking to each other, about things like contouring and tanning and different makeup brands. Since it looked like they were happy, I was happy too. “This is kind of fun!” I told them. “It seems like painting artwork, but on your face! I guess I get why you do it all the time.” They laughed at that, telling me I was so cute. It was fun to spend time with my cousin and her friend. They were showing me a piece of their world, which was cool since it was new. “Can I look yet?” I asked. “One last thing to do,” Jenny said. Elena and Jenny were arguing about what lipstick color to give me. I told them not pink, since I didn’t like pink. They decided on a bright red. Finally, my makeover was done. I was excited to look in the mirror and see what they had done. I closed my eyes and turned around. “Ready…open!” Elena told me, sounding very excited. The little girl in the mirror looked so strange! My freckles were gone, covered up by many layers of paint. I wanted to touch my face, but I remembered how Elena told me not to,

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my face. I liked it too, because it made me feel different, older, a part of the grown up world. It was a good feeling. “Let’s go show everyone!” my sister suggested. So we paraded downstairs, ready to show me off to the rest of the family. Elena called the attention of everyone, so they were all watching me as I walked down the stairs. “Presenting Miss Anna, the birthday girl!” she said. Everyone was smiling. Elena’s mom, my aunt, gave me a thumbs up. My grandmother said I looked adorable. Then my dad saw me. “What’s all that stuff on your face?” he asked. “You look ridiculous,” my mom

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The Perils of Coffee Continued from Page 19. meet you….” He trailed off as he looked at my face for the first time. If I had been looking at his face, I’m sure I would have seen that smile start to fade and anger replace the friendliness in his eyes. “Wait a minute,” he said, eyes narrowing, “I know you. Aren’t you the girl who crashed into me at the Okemo Mountain Resort last weekend? Are you the artist?” “It’s a small world,” I muttered, staring in horror at the crutches propped against the window and wondering how in the world I hadn’t noticed them before. Of course, now it made sense why the guy looked familiar. After my disastrous ski/fall/crawl down the hill, I was thoroughly freezing and just wanted to get to someplace warm. I nearly cried tears of joy after looking around a bit and discovering that there was another café that did have coffee. I stood impatiently in line, and I swear I heard angels sing when that steaming cup was delivered into my hands. I turned around and, while still looking down at the miracle in my hands, plowed into a person going the other way. Now, everything would have been fine if only there hadn’t been a staircase right behind the guy I ran into. Anyway, when all’s said and done, I cried out because of the spilled coffee, he cried out because, well, apparently falling down the stairs is as hazardous as skiing. All this was going through my mind as I stared at the black foot brace he had strapped to his leg. Finally, I cleared my throat and looked up at him, deciding to try and be professional under the circumstances. “Um, hi,” I said nervously, “I don’t think we were properly introduced before. I’m Becca Sharp, the artist opening up the new gallery down the street. You’re Mark Jennings, right?” Please say no, I prayed. “Yeah, that’s me,” he said gruffly, still glaring at me. Finally he turned away and gestured to the empty seat across from him. As I sat down, I heard him mutter, “I knew I shouldn’t have taken this job.” I stiffened, the little bubble of professional authority I was building up having popped with those few words. Who was he to dismiss me without even trying to get to know me? I decided to switch tactics. Leaning forward in my seat, I said, “Listen, I am really sorry about running into you the other day. It was totally my fault and…” “You’re right, it was your fault,” he rumbled, color rising in his face. “Because of you, I have a broken ankle. Because of you, I won’t be

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January 2015

able to ski for the rest of the season. Because of you, I have to deal with these annoying crutches. All because you couldn’t look where you were going. So yeah, thanks a lot for that.” I shifted uncomfortably, looking at the table. “What, nothing to say for yourself?” he taunted. “Figures. I probably should have known that a person like you wouldn’t even be able to defend yourself.” Anger rose in me like a wave, swamping all my insecurities of talking with a total stranger. I half rose out of my seat, planted my hands on the table, and leaned forward until I was almost nose to nose with him. “Listen up,” I growled, “I have apologized multiple times, even volunteered to pay for your medical expenses, so there is no reason to think that I have not at least tried to fix my mistake. Second, you are the one who asked me here for this interview, so if you are just going to be a rude and inconsiderate jerk, then I wish you good luck in writing your interview without the person of interest.” With that said I grabbed my things in time to see the priceless look on his face before stalking towards the door. I had almost touched the door handle when he was roused to action. “Wait!” he called out, struggling to rise from his chair. I paused, turning to face him with my head held high. I waited until he had limped over to me, crossing my arms and refusing to feel pity for the fact that he was a temporary cripple because of me. He was looking down at the floor when he came to stand in front of me. “Uh, I’m sorry,” he mumbled, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand. “I got a little carried away. I’m just frustrated because I’ve been hurt before and know how long it takes to completely heal. I took that out on you and I’m sorry. I know that it was just an accident.” I softened at his words. “I know it was my fault, and if I could do anything to help you, I would, but you already refused my offer to pay for the expenses.” He laughed. “Oh there’s no need for that, my insurance covered most of it,” he said smiling, “but there is one thing you could do. Will you come back and be my interview subject? I promise to buy you coffee and not be such an inconsiderate jerk.” I smiled back, nodding and thinking that despite the bad memories associated with coffee and Mr. Jennings, at least I had the opportunity to make some new ones. With good coffee, of course.

Frank Continued from Page 25. only she knew how much he remembered, if only they all knew. Frank went inside. He knew what the letter meant. No more wandering. He ignored his wife, the familiar creaks of the floorboards and the sigh of the bed as he sat down. He opened the drawer. Frank gripped the pistol, gazing into the mirror, trying to imagine himself clothed in uniform, mud -spattered, the eyes looking back at him not his own, but those of the enemy. A single shot, right between the eyes. A gasp, incomprehension, and then he was gone. Frank collapsed, unmoving, a smile graced with the blood of his final battle. ∎

Coldcalls Continued from Page 28.

This is an internal line. It’s not supposed to be accessible except with very high clearance. Sorry? Clearly someone has done something very wrong. Who did you say you worked for again? I work for Gigacorp, and if you’d just take our quick survey— Scott, get me the head of the NSA! On it. While you’re waiting might you be interested in— Click ∎

January 2015

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Retrospect Continued from Page 20. IMAGE BY OWEN ZHANG

flight attendant getup led our group across the atrium floor. She indicated towards exhibits of interest, firing off facts like a welloiled machine. “That there is a sparkplug from the city’s first public hover-shuttle. Now who here knows why Ulysses Wright demanded Capital City have a mode of public transportation?” An eager student in the middle of the pack raised her hand, breaking through the crowd of teenagers to get the teacher’s attention. “Because some people can’t afford hovercrafts!” “How right you are!” the guide lauded. We continued on past the class and down to the desk labelled Civilian Affairs. There was no police force in Capital City; the term police made people uneasy. Besides, having such an organization implied we actually needed it. Instead we had “Enforcers”, agents programmed to keep the peace politely, and diplomatically diffuse conflict. Enforcers were cold, lifeless, inhuman. They had fake smiles plastered on their silicon faces to maintain the illusion of personhood. But all attempts to make them more relatable, more human, were futile.

“This is where delinquents were processed and tried for crimes. This office was one of the most vital parts of the entire system. It ensured that we could all rest easy knowing that anyone who posed a threat to our way of life would be promptly punished. This way!” The guide lead us away from the kiosk and into an opening elevator. She pressed the 90th floor button and let the doors to the oversized elevator close, turning around to address us once again. “Now, Ulysses Wright is a very busy man; we may not get a whole lot of his time, but he has promised to talk to you guys for as long as he can.” My friend Neil leaned over and whispered to me, so amused by whatever it was he had to share, he was powerless to wipe the smirk from his face. “I heard that Ulysses Wright makes a dollar every second he spends breathing.” “I heard you’re a liar,” I retorted. “Well, I guess we’ll find out, huh?” he said, leaning back against the wall of the elevator. After a few seconds of patient waiting, we exited the massive metal matchbox and made our way down the hall of a grand lobby. Above our heads loomed the glass ceiling, gleaming with transpar-

ency. Through it we could make out the neighboring towers and skyscrapers quite clearly, next to the raised hover-highways and the monorails. Our guide stopped us as we approached the center of the lobby, signaling to a nearby employee to open a set of double doors to our left. “And now ladies and gentlemen, the moment you’ve all been waiting for, the man, the myth, the legend: Mr. Ulysses Wright!” The doors swung open and from within, a man as perfectly put together as the city itself emerged. His blue suit tailored to his every curve and shape, his black shoes shined to a reflective state of cleanliness. His teeth whitened to an absurd degree of perfection, his eyes blue, sharp, and piercing. His thin grey goatee trimmed and brushed, his skin tan enough to warrant attraction, yet pale enough to seem natural, and the hair on his head combed until crisp and well-shapen. He walked deliberately, with a smile on his face and the world on his shoulders. As he approached the floor in front of us, he pulled out a piece of napkin-like paper from his jacket pocket and unfolded it, clearing his throat with a few quick coughs. When he stopped Continued on Page 35.

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Retrospect Continued from Page 34. in front of us, ready to begin, he let out a quiet sigh and looked down at his paper. He took a moment to collect himself, staring at the paper as if some sort of puzzle was drawn on it that he had to solve before he could speak. Suddenly, and with unprecedented conviction, he stowed the paper away in his pocket and looked up at us, making it clear that the words he was about to speak would be his own, genuine and unscripted. “Nothing brings me more joy than to see Capital City’s youth take such an interest in our history. This place was built from the ground up by the kind of men and women who, hopefully, you will all become some day. Look around, ask questions, enjoy your time here, and don’t ever hesitate to return. Here in Capital City Hall, all are welcome. Have a great rest of your day, and remember to keep a Capital City smile on those faces.” He tilted his torso forward in gratitude as the students around me began to applaud uproariously. I looked straight ahead at him, confused and underwhelmed. I still don’t really know what I expected. I suppose I just wanted more. My smile faded ever so slightly as he made his way back to the doors. I refused to believe that was the end of it. I had too much to tell him, too much to ask. I had to show him my sketches, my ideas. I had to tell him how we were both orphans, how I was going to change the world in ways he had only ever dreamed of. He couldn’t live forever, he would need someone to continue making the future a brighter place, one invention at a time. Our guide gathered members of my class on the other side of the lobby, asking who would be interested in seeing the original blueprints for the city hall building. I had no interest. I walked away from the congregation and ended up beside the double doors, looking at the mahogany slabs hinged on the wall of the massive lobby. The guides all resumed their activities, attempting to usher herds of people from one place to the next. I don’t know what it was that moved my hand to the knob of the door. Perhaps it was anger or, rather, disappointment. And before I knew it, I was half-sprinting down the hall, on the other side of the doors, towards a

prose separate flight of stairs that led upwards, to the unknown. I leapt several steps at a time, grabbing hold of the door at the top and bursting through it more vigorously than I had intended. Then I stopped, frozen in awe. In a glass case just feet from my face were the blueprints for the world’s first hovercraft. His signature was penned at the bottom leftmost corner. To my right, a model of the craft itself was suspended in the air, hanging from wires and thin chains. I took a few steps forward, noticing a bookshelf covering the entire right wall of the room. I could make out the titles on a few of the larger spines. “TurbineTastic: A Brief History of the Windmill”, “Why the World Needs Energy”, “Howard Hughes: The Vesuvius of Visionaries”. A voice called out from behind me. I let out a mild shriek then turned to face the speaker. It was Ulysses Wright, with a glass of scotch in one hand and a lit cigarette in the other. His smile was gone, his apparent vitality depleted. All that remained was a bitter look of distrust. “What in the hell do you think you’re doing? No one comes back here.” “I’m sorry. . . . I-I . . . Sir—” “Save it. I’m calling a guide.” He walked past me, brushing my shoulder abrasively in his stride. I turned to face him once again, searching my mind for a statement that would keep his hand off of the phone. “Sir, if you don’t mind me asking, why aren’t the doors locked?” I blurted out, feeling the urge to cover my mouth after the words departed. “What?” he asked, reaching for the phone. “It was remarkably easy to get back here. I’m just wondering why you don’t lock the doors.” “What kind of a question is that?” “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—” “The doors aren’t locked because . . . because . . . well, you know, obviously we . . .” He stopped in his tracks, setting the phone back on the receiver. He dropped his scotch back on the table and let out a chuckle. Pretty soon he was laughing, fullfledged and amused. “You remember those old commercials where I’d sit at my desk, with the cityscape behind me? And I would turn to the camera and say, ‘My door is always open!’?”

January 2015

“Of course,” I responded. “Yes, well, that’s why. It’s just sort of an old policy I never had the heart to get rid of. But I guess you just sort of expect people to knock, y’know?” He resumed the laughter, putting his hand to his head as he chortled. “What’s your name?” he asked, as his laughing fit began to subside. “Eve. Eve Harris.” “Well, what exactly are you doing here, Eve?” “To be perfectly honest, I had a real problem with your speech.” His thin smile turned to a grimace as he looked down at his desk, seemingly escaping my intent gaze. He was somewhat dishevelled. His tie loose, the top button of his pleated white shirt undone. Strands of hair that were held in place so flawlessly during his address to the students now fell and strayed. “Yeah, I did too,” he responded, quietly. I felt remorseful for my confrontational approach. I stepped a bit closer to his desk, less angry, more confused. “Sir, why would you keep the door open if you don’t want anyone to come in?” “Because . . . I don’t know. Maybe I do wish someone would come in. I’ve gotten a little too used to the loneliness. I’m sorry I was so . . . well, I’m sorry.” “No, I understand. Um, Mr. Wright—” “No, don’t. Please don’t. My name is Ulysses. I’m a little sick of all the formality.” “Ulysses, I was a little underwhelmed with your speech to be honest. Well, that’s not entirely true. I was downright disappointed.” He leaned back in his chair, brought his cigarette to his mouth, and inhaled deeply. Then tapped the end of it over the ashtray to his right with his index finger. “Most people just sort of accept it for what it is. I don’t think anyone really walks into that lobby expecting the Gettysburg Address,” he said, returning the cigarette to his mouth for another inhalation. “Well, I’m not exactly most people. Mister . . . uh, sorry, Ulysses, for as long as I can remember, I have wanted to be an inventor. Someone who gave the world something it really needed. And for all these years I’ve been waiting to see the inventor I admire most in the world in the flesh.” “Now I get it. Your parents were the Continued on Page 36.

January 2015

walked; I don’t know what I would’ve done if he had seen the tears I was fighting as he slowly ripped what little hope I had for my future away. “But you’re the owner of Wright Industries,” I said through quiet gasps of air and watery eyes. “I haven’t run my own company in 20 years. The inspiration, the wonder, it’s all gone. Vanished. I may be the CEO, but there’s no need for me to be there at all anymore. The world doesn’t need inventions.” “No, no. You are the world’s brightest man. This city, your company, building a better tomorrow.”

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“Capital City doesn’t have a prison. Your Enforcers have helped to nearly eradicate crime.” “There will always be crime, Eve. The papers you read, the news you watch, it’s all propaganda. Lies so carefully constructed they’ve become our reality. Those lowlifes and executives have been spewing that garbage all over the city for years.” “How do you keep a place like that secret? How do you hide thousands of prisoners?” “You don’t hide them.” Ulysses backed away from the table, his hand in his pocket, his eyes locked on mine. “That building is no longer a prison. It’s a lab. You send them there, no matter how minor the crime, no matter how sorry they are. You strap them to a chair and you inject them with everything you can until you’ve taken away the one thing that makes them human. Free will. Then you slap a smile on their face and send ’em back into society. Call them Enforcers, tell the world they’re robots, that they keep us safe.” He saw the disgust in my eyes, my forehead turning red, my fists clenching. He looked down for a moment, contemplating what he would say next. “You have to understand something before you label me a monster.” “And what’s that?” “This is the price of perfection. I set out to found a place of peace and cooperation. But one thing will always prevent us from achieving what Capital City was supposed to be.” “People like you?” “No, human nature. We can’t expect to advance everyone if people continue to do whatever they need to to get ahead of their fellow citizens. We don’t want equality, we never did. It’s a lie we tell ourselves Continued on Page 37. IMAGE BY JENNI LI

Retrospect Continued from Page 35. kind that never told you Santa wasn’t real.” “They never told me anything. I’ve never met my parents. My aunt was left to fend for us both, and all my life I was told that because of my circumstances, I would never amount to anything. But then I would go home and see you on the TV, talking about all the great things you’ve managed to do, a billionaire orphan.” “You wanted me to stand up there and tell you to follow your dreams. That you and every kid out there is special in their own way. You wanted me to tell you that anyone can ‘make the future a brighter place’. He extinguished the cigarette in the tray and stood. “Eve, the last thing I want to do is burst your bubble, but I can’t let you keep believing that.” He walked away from his desk and down a corridor that led out of his office and to what appeared to be a gallery of some sort. He raised a hand beckoning for me to follow. I soon came walking after him. “Eve, approximately 22,000 ideas and potential patents are sent into this building every day. Exactly 0 percent of those ideas end up on my desk. Instead, they are seen and sorted by clock-walkers in the basement.” “Clock-walkers?” “Defective Enforcers. We call them clock-walkers. Three-fourths of the designs they see end up in the burn pile. Once those have been incinerated, the rest make it to the executives at Wright Industries, who sift through the papers and plans to find one marketable enough to pass off as their own invention.” He continued on through the gallery, with me in tow, pausing every once in a while to touch the glass on some of his display cases. I was glad he never turned around to face me while we

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“Tomorrow will not be any better than today. That much I can assure you. We are reaching the end of our golden age, Eve. It’s only a matter of time before this all comes crashing down.” He stopped walking just ahead of me, looking down at a table in front of him. I walked around him to see what he had been bringing me towards. It was a model of a building, concrete and gargantuan. No windows, no yards, just a big box, sealed from the outside. “Do you know what this is, Eve?” “No.” “This here is Capital City’s lockup. A building I designed back when the city was first settled. It’s been in use for nearly 40 years.”

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seen it, a glimpse of what it could be. But that’s all it ever was, a vision, a dream. The real world is a different place. We can tread water all we like, but eventually we will sink.” He closed his eyes, as if it helped him picture the world he used to dream of building. “Tell whoever you want, Eve. Tell the whole world. They’ll kill me, they’ll revolt, the streets will run red with blood. But I don’t really think I care anymore. There’s nothing left to be done.” I wiped the last remaining tear from my cheek and walked over to him, reaching into my back pocket and pulling out my sketches. I handed him the folded paper. He looked down at me and took it from my hand, the orange glow of the then-setting sun descending on his face. He took the paper, unfolded it, and examined the contents. His eyes scanned every mark, every measurement, every line. He looked up from the paper after a few silent moments. “Mail delivery,” he uttered, touched in some small way by the idea. Or perhaps, my persistence. “After eliminating the use of hover-craft mail carriers, the tubing would pay for itself within the year. And the mailmen would still be needed to send items through the tubes, so there would be minimal job loss.” “How do you expect to power the propulsion?” “A solar powered motor. I started on the prototype at home. I got the idea from one of your designs. Listen, I appreciate the story, Ulysses, but I’m not quite ready to give up on us. Not just yet.” I could see it on his face when I said this. The hint of pity. He wanted to save me from it. All I ever wanted was to grow up to be just like him, and that’s exactly why he felt he had to tell me what he did. He took one last look at the sketch, then handed it back to me. “This could’ve changed the world,” he said softly. “Keep it,” I offered. He folded the paper and put it in his pocket. That was the first and last time I ever met Ulysses Wright. He died soon after our encounter. The headlines all reported on the accident, the hover-car crash, the freak collision; but something within me never believed it. His will was amended just days before his death. Not many things were altered, but one major aspect was changed. Three days before he died, Ulysses Wright made me the world’s first 17 year old billionaire when he made me heir to Wright Industries. He only included two conditions, both of which I had to comply with to get the company. “Build that mail delivery system, and keep making the future a brighter place.” ∎ IMAGE BY SOPHIA SHI

Retrospect Continued from Page 36. so we can sleep at night. We want to survive, comfortably, and for as long as possible.” “Are you implying that this place, everything you’ve built on lies and manipulation, that’s all supposed to be sustainable?” “Of course not. Last year alone, the value of our currency depreciated so rapidly it is projected that within the next 20 years, it’ll be worth less than our toilet paper. In March, we had dozens of employees citywide go on strike after repeated tax raises and pay cuts. Those unwieldy employees have since been turned into very cooperative Enforcers and clock-walkers. Crime rates have been increasing for the past five years, soon we’ll have more of those Enforcers and clockwalkers than we know what to do with. This is what we’ve created for ourselves. Pretty soon there will be nothing left but the ruins of our civilization. We’ve seen it time and time again, society peaks, it doesn’t plateau. And like with every peak, there is a downfall. Ours is coming, and soon.” He looked over to the window at the side of room, displaying the great structures and features of the city he had built. I felt the pain in his voice, I saw it in his eyes. But I saw something else as well, something more shocking. Acceptance. He didn’t look like he was afraid of the the impending collapse of our civilization. He looked like he was waiting for it. “This place was supposed to be different,” I said, looking down at my hands, shattered, defeated. “Well, it isn’t. You think Capital City is any better than all those other cities that fell before it? New York, Los Angeles, Las Vegas, all of them trashed, deserted, victims of their own excess and indulgence. We thought that making this place, a haven, a utopia, would save us. But we were wrong. I was wrong.” “Why would you tell me all this? Why would you trust me with this?” “Because, you walked into my office. And when I looked into your eyes, I could see why. I could see the curiosity, the hope, the drive I used to have. I was once wide-eyed and optimistic, hell, I was once you. But times have changed. The less people there are like you and I, the better off we’ll all be. It’s about time we died out. All you would ever grow up to do is prolong the inevitable.” “Or prevent it.” “There is no preventing it. The future is like the shore to a dying man. Close enough to see, too far to reach. You and I, we’ve

January 2015

January 2015 Senator Continued from Page 30.

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Abused Continued from Page 31.

rifying. A good portion of the party would have almost prewhite of my skin radiant against the blue and black of the ferred to lose the election than to have her up there with rest of my body. I looked at my face. The face that had them making policy decisions and seducing the aides at the caught his now unwanted attention. The platinum blond same time. She’d come on to Marilyn directly three times hair, the light blue eyes, the creamy white skin. His little and pretty much everything she said that wasn’t a demand Magnolia. for the destruction of American TraditionTM was flirtaThe tears burst from my eyes as if the dam that had been tious. built there had suddenly burst. Yet, I still didn’t move. Her other opponent was also an exceptionally scary old Didn’t make a sound, even as the salty tears burned my lady. She dressed in all black business attire, her every line eyes. sharp and deadly. Marilyn was afraid to brush up against “Magnolia,” I flinched at the tender sound of my name her lest she find herself suddenly cut open and bleeding. as it passed his lips. I turned to face him. There he was, the Her lips were done up in red lipstick, her hair, dyed pure man who I had married, wearing that accursed smile from white hung down around her face in a perfectly controlled our wedding day. He looked straight into my eyes. “Come testament to her will. She carried a very large number of to bed, mi amor. Let me take care of you.” handguns with her everywhere and the one time Marilyn I nodded and let his rough hand encase my soft one. accidentally touched one she hissed—hissed!—at her. She We walked to the bedroom, like Adam and Eve traipsing opposed gun control in all its forms as well as every other through the Garden of Eden. But we were far from paraform of government regulation. She owned her own large dise. business, which occasionally showed up in the news as one I ended up under him, as usual. But this time I could of those shady corporations viewers are expected to distrust move and make noises. on principle. Marilyn suspected the Republicans were not “Magnolia,” he said. He leaned and shook me and I so much backing her as she was backing them. winced as his hands pressed into my bruises. He shook me The debates had been an exercise in ignoring the awkroughly. “Magnolia, Magnolia. MAGNOLIA!” His dark wardness of feeling like a third wheel between the two other brown eyes were the last thing that I saw. candidates. The tension between them was palpable; they I awoke with a start, panting, my breath coming out in would stare at each other’s forms, tracing each other’s lines ragged gasps. Hands clutched at my slippery body. with their eyes and bearing upon their facial expressions of “Magnolia! Honey, are you okay?” absolute loathing. I shook my head and looked into the dark green eyes of And, oh woah, she was nearly at the register now. Marimy husband. I looked down at the disheveled green covlyn unloaded her grocery basket onto the conveyor belt and ers, slowing my breathing, calming myself. absentmindedly got out her credit card to pay for today’s “Did you have a dream again, Maggie?" mint-flavored purchase. The man in front of her was talkI nodded, tears in my eyes. He pulled me close. “Sweeting to the cashier about some inanity or other while his two ie, you’re okay. He’s dead. He can’t hurt you anymore, rechildren sitting in the cart pulled each other’s hair. Her eyes member?” ∎ strayed to the TV way up by the ceiling, which had been blaring away the news the whole time, and she suddenly froze. No way. No way. But there it was. Everyone in the whole store was looking now and sudO F I THAC A I I , PLLC denly Marilyn couldn’t believe her luck. She’d called it. Goddamn she’d called it just a minute ago and it felt great. There, up on the screen the news THE YOU WANT, anchor seemed positively delighted. He was playing a clip of the opposing THE candidates for the senatorial election and saying words like “sex tape” and THAT YOU DESER VE. SM “shocking” and “unexpectedly kinky”. Dr. Marcia Zax As she stared up at the screen Marilyn considered. Washington, she expected, would at least have cheaper 1301 Trumansburg Road Suite S, ITHACA toothpaste. ∎ 607-273-5940 www.advancedentaltech.com

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The Plight of the Imaginary Friend Continued from Page 21. different outfits like her dolls, and I couldn’t run around and shout or kick a ball like all of her new friends. I became outdated, expired, irrelevant. It happens because we’re outsiders. Although my people have been wandering the surface of Earth for thousands of years, it’s always been as refugees. I don’t remember exactly where we came from; I was too young when we escaped to form lasting memories. At times I grasp brief snippets of recollection, but I’m not sure if the crystal-studded trees and the lilac-colored crests of the ocean waves are really pictures from my youth, or from one of Lilly’s ever-complex stories. Whatever it was like there, we had to flee; our planet had been plagued by disease, shattered by the natural disasters, and scarred by the war. Our home had fallen to ruin. Lilly and I come from opposite ends of the universe, and it might be for this very reason that we were never destined to be together. We’re different in the most fundamental way – she’s made from atoms and molecules, while my body is made from a special kind of light. It’s a type of shimmering wave that’s just outside of a human’s visible spectrum – so close, in fact, that on occasion someone might catch a mirage, a brief illusion, of our faint forms. Whoever claims to see us is inevitably written off as nuts, though. It’s gotten to a point where humans fear us not because of anything we’ve done to them, but because of what other humans will do to them for believing we exist – laugh at them, shame them, perhaps even confine them to a padded room if they’re insistent enough.

But we are here. Perhaps not in the same way humans are, but present nonetheless. Once we’ve been severed, we take up residence wherever we can. We’re in the strangely familiar forms of clouds, the oddly life-like rock formations, even in the friendly character of an old building that no one can bear to tear down. When you feel that uncomfortable sense of déjà-vu it’s more likely than not that you’re staring directly at your own invisible companion from years ago, but your human mind skirts around the possibility of our existence; it asserts its limited point of view, requiring that reality lie within the realm of the five senses. Imaginary friend? Perhaps that’s all we are in the end, perhaps that’s all the human race will ever make of us. Someday we won’t be able to put up with it any longer. Someday we won’t be able to accept the rejection and the loss. Someday we’ll find a new home for ourselves out in the endless expanse of the universe, and then what will you humans do without that little nudge of support, that ever sensitive and understanding friend that you hardly even realize is there? This planet has been my sanctuary and my prison for millennia, yet those fleeting years I spent with Lilly are still the brightest, most vivacious fragments of my vast history. Today Lilly is ninetyseven years old. Ninety years ago, I said my silent and unacknowledged goodbye. Now I find myself wondering if she feels even the slightest twinge of the emptiness that I’ve harbored ever since. ∎

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Stories from My Mother Continued from Page 26. A good lineage was a thing of pride, once. It declared: I am strong. My ancestors were strong, and their memory cements me in my place in this world. But in the face of an egalitarian brotherhood, coming from a long line of landowners is nothing to be proud of. It invites death. Terrified, the mother burned the family registry, which held the names of her parents, and their parents, and their parents before them. In the name of justice and a new China, she was forced to destroy her roots. There was one part of her past that she couldn’t hide. Her bound feet marked her high birth, and her high birth in turn marked her for a life of hardship in Chairman Mao’s China. Years later, she’d hobble after her daughter’s daughter, yelling at her to stop running, to act like a lady. Her tiny, crippled feet were her last physical reminder of her life before the Communists. Perhaps to her it was a fair trade: her feet for that connection. In spite of all the tumult around her, my mother was able to succeed in primary school and was accepted to college. She went to Nanjing University to study chemistry and after she finished her degree, she went on to study in Beijing for a year. Beijing was stressful for her; she felt that she had to be at the top of her class and as a result she refused to go home for the spring festival because of exams, even though her mother was sick. Her mother was often sick: she had moved out of the family home years ago and into a hospital where, during a bout of depression, she cut off the first joint of her left ring finger. In the end though, my mother had to come home. Grandmother had died. My mom came back for the funeral. She was very sad that she hadn’t just ignored her exams. Things had been left unresolved between her and her mother. And then, in a scarcely believable stroke of misfortune, she returned to Beijing in the spring of 1989. I don’t know what my mother did during the student protests. Honestly, I am scared to ask her. The accounts of others are terrifying enough. The pictures of burning buses, the dented helmets, the man in front of the tank. The bloodied bodies crumpled on the streets, stricken down by their own countrymen who had sworn not two months earlier that they would never turn their force upon their own citizens. That’s enough to make my heart hurt. I can’t stand to imagine my own mother caught up in the chaos that dominated Beijing that June. My mother left China in August. She was one of the few people to get out of the country in those crazy months in which the world stood aghast at the brutality China had unleashed on its own people. She joined her husband in America and went on to study at an American university. She divorced. She remarried. She gave birth to a child. And she did not go back to China for 25 years. ∎

Visual Art 40

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Black and White Claire Saloff-Coste

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Postell II Jasper Minson

Genesis 3 Jenni Li

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Visual Portrait of Karasar’s Extraordinary “Chloe” 42 January 2015 Art Melissa LoPinto

Snowbeam I Jasper Minson

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Mark Canopy

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Jasper Minson

As I Sit Here Writing This, Nearly a Month Later, My Hands Still Hurt from All Those Awful Tiny Lines Kalil Hendel

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Dog Julia Miller

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80s + punk rock Lina Lee

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Star Puff Marty Alani

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In the Eyes Claire Saloff-Coste

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