THE IHS TATTLER
LITERARY ISSUE o
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JANUARY 2018
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TABLE OF CONTENTS ALL THE NEWS THAT’S FIT TO TATTLE
SHORT FICTION
POETRY Staff 2017 – 2018 FIRST PLACE Editor-in-Chief
Vaynu Kadiyali ’19 editor@ihstattler.com
News Editor
Julian Perry ’19 news@ihstattler.com
Opinion Editor
“a song in the spring” by Chloe Moore p. 11
SECOND PLACE “Alone Together” by Gus Kuckes p. 6
Isaiah Gutman ’19
THIRD PLACE
Features Editor
“dust” by Abigail Glickman p. 36
opinion@ihstattler.com
Sveta Reddy ’18 features@ihstattler.com
Arts Editor
Alexandra Gibbons ’18 arts@ihstattler.com
Sports Editor
Justin Heitzman ’20 sports@ihstattler.com
Literary Editor
Thea Clarkberg ’18 literary@ihstattler.com
Back Page Editor
Sophie Wray ’19 backpage@ihstattler.com
Center Spread Editor
Joseph Yoon ’19
centerspread@ihstattler.com
Copy Editor
Jenny Yoon ’18 copy@ihstattler.com
Photography Editor
Geneva Moreland ’20 photo@ihstattler.com
Layout Editor
Francesca Chu ’18 layout@ihstattler.com
Business and Advertising Manager
Lucy Wang ’18 ads@ihstattler.com
Webmaster
Tony Yang ’19 web@ihstattler.com
Distribution Manager
Aurora Wulff ’19
distribution@ihstattler.com
Social Media Manager
“The Elf Queen” by Ava Cohen p. 25 “My Lion, My Sky” by Magdalena Smith p. 26 “Fogging Mind” by Guinevere Fullerton p. 32
THIRD PLACE “Foot Holders” by Rosa Bradburn p. 18
“Grandfather” by Isabel Rubin p. 37
“Breaking It Off” by Anna Westwig p. 9
“Old City” by Scilla Gazave p. 12
“Ibtida the Chinchilla” by Joshua “J.T.” Stone p. 39
“Seven Years Later” by Charlotte Hoekenga p. 13
“Shiny Arc” by Carla Martinez p. 18
“where the alpacas graze” by Abigail Glickman p. 40
“Stardust” by Harry Sauer p. 16
“Dragon Landscape” by Scilla Gazave p. 25
“Lucifer, the Angel Who Fell” by Ava Cohen p. 45
“Stink” by Timothy Diemond p. 28
“Hanahnanah” by Rosa Bradburn p. 31
“Evermore” by Ava Cohen p. 29
“Abstract B&W” by Chloe Moore p. 36
“Break” by Cora Easton p. 31
“Babbe” by Rosa Bradburn p. 47
“Alone” by Charles Andrulis p. 41
“Self Portrait of a Hidden Face” by Chloe Moore p. 48
“Fall” by Owen Crane p. 15
Untitled by Ana Luisa McCullough p. 47 “Villanelle number two” by William Vanderlan p. 47
“Why calculus, why?” by William Vanderlan p. 18
“i am” by Chloe Moore p. 48
“Corrupted Words” by Tessa Amici p. 20
“On the Court” by Tessa Amici p. 54
“Little Red Riding Hood” by Anna Westwig p. 51 “The Bench in the Park” by Charles Andrulis p. 59
“The Conservationist’s Awakening” by Chloe Moore p. 24
Madelyn Kuo ’18 sm@ihstattler.com
Faculty Advisor
Deborah Lynn
advisor@ihstattler.com
IMAGE BY BELLALUNA BRIGGS
THIRD PLACE
SECOND PLACE “Girl by the Sea” by Guinevere Fullerton p. 4
“Chapelle des Fonts” by Scilla Gazave p. 6
“Rising morning” by Fiona McMeekin p. 5
“Treading Water” by Ava Cohen p. 17
“Noa, My Neanderthal Baby” by Wynne Williams-Ceci p. 55
“Still Life” by Scilla Gazave p. 37
“Train Ride” by Magdalena Smith p. 19
“Sun Bathing” by Guinevere Fullerton p. 5
“Blue” by Charlotte Littell p. 17
SECOND PLACE
FIRST PLACE
Untitled by Petre Tumbar p. 33
“I Am From” by Tessa Amici p. 4
“she has a face of the sky” by Abigail Glickman p. 7
FIRST PLACE “The Man with the Smile” by Ava Cohen p. 34
ART
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Untitled by Carla Martinez p. 54 “Jackolynn Pumpkin Summoning Comic” by Guinevere Fullerton p. 58
Untitled by Magdalena Smith p. 39
“Okay, Take a Break” by Jefferson Sheng p. 60
Untitled by Jeremy Sauer p. 20
“Marble Eyes” by Ingrid Comella p. 43
Untitled by Magdalena Smith p. 61
Untitled by Jeremy Sauer p. 20
Untitled by Bellaluna Briggs p. 43
“Counter Productivity” by Jeffferson Sheng p. 61
Untitled by Bellaluna Briggs p. 21
Untitled by David Sheng p. 44
“Brooklyn Bridge” by Ingrid Comella p. 62
Untitled by Bellaluna Briggs p. 21
Untitled by Aurora Wulff p. 46
Untitled by Zoe Gras p. 22
Untitled by Aurora Wulff p. 46
“Gorgeous” by Zoe Gras p. 22
“Aspen” by Gus Kuckes p. 49
Untitled by Bellaluna Briggs p. 23
Untitled by David Sheng p. 49
Untitled by Bellaluna Briggs p. 23
“Things Fall Apart” by Jefferson Sheng p. 50
“Caustic Climate” by Jefferson Sheng p. 26
Untitled by Aurora Wulff p. 53
Untitled by David Sheng p. 28
Untitled by David Sheng p. 53
Untitled by Jeremy Sauer p. 29
Untitled by Rotem Leshed p. 54
“Rain Drops” by Zoe Gras p. 30
Untitled by Jeremy Sauer p. 56
“Moist” by Jefferson Sheng p. 30
Untitled by David Sheng p. 57
Untitled by David Sheng p. 34
“Seattle Pride” by Ingrid Comella p. 57
Untitled by Magdalena Smith p. 38
“The Path” by Lillian Hwang-Geddes p. 58
Untitled by Rotem Leshed p. 38
Untitled by Magdalena Smith p. 58
Untitled by Magdalena Smith p. 38
Untitled by David Sheng p. 59
Untitled by Magdalena Smith p. 39
“Squirrely” by Jefferson Sheng p. 60
PHOTOGRAPHY FIRST PLACE Untitled by Rotem Leshed p. 40
SECOND PLACE “Silver Falls” by Ingrid Comella p. 1
THIRD PLACE “Fog” by Gus Kuckes p. 32 Untitled by Bellaluna Briggs p. 2 Untitled by Jeremy Sauer p. 5 “Before the Storm” by Zoe Gras p. 7 Untitled by Aurora Wulff p. 8 Untitled by Rotem Leshed p. 10 Untitled by Aurora Wulff p. 10 Untitled by Jeremy Sauer p. 11 Untitled by Jeremy Sauer p. 11 Untitled by Magdalena Smith p. 14 Untitled by Jeremy Sauer p. 15 “Ohanapecosh” by Ingrid Comella p. 15 Untitled by Rotem Leshed p. 16 “Glass Sheets” by Lillian Hwang-Geddes p. 19 Untitled by Jeremy Sauer p. 20
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MUSIC FIRST PLACE “Fusion” by Fritz Marohn p. 63
2 “GIRL BY THE SEA” BY GUINVERE FULLERTON
I AM FROM [TESSA AMICI] I am from a window From a kitchen filled with food and a living room filled with warmth I am from the small, loud, and welcoming sounds Sounds that are filled with my music I am from the Weeping Willow The Willow I once called the Golden gate The Willow whose long gone limbs I remember I remember them as if they were connected to my heart
songs I sing The songs that filled the silence I enjoy I’m from the winning soccer games, the playing outside during the winter, and trust I’m from goodnight hugs with my Dad I’m from the springs of snow and Germany The Italian and American foods From the 1st children died Like my brother and cousin I am finally from my memory box The one hidden in my closet
I’m from the busy summers and loud mornings From my brother and sisters I’m from the long car rides, worrisome days, and from the clam o
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SUN BATHING [GUINEVERE FULLERTON] The Sun bathed the land with anger and loneliness, his rays bathed the trees, bathed the people, and bathed the animals. His emotions bathed planets that surrounded him but never came to have a conversation. His rays, the Sun’s, were more for the Moon to bathe in than the others. The Sun wanted his arms to bathe the Moon in more warmth than anything had ever felt. The hottest strength and emotion wrapping the love of his life. But the Moon bathed in the Earth’s fine breeze and waves. He danced with the grooves of the water. The Sun’s anger came from jealousy, bathing the others with his thoughts. A painful aura that we all witness and feel everyday. Every night the Moon reflects the emotions the Sun lends him, but that does not stop the Moon’s dance. He, the Sun, burns himself away bathing everyone around him with his distraught, yet he will never give up.
RISING MORNING [FIONA MCMEEKIN] Mildew glistens on grass Quiet sunlight peers over the hill A bird sings his song
BY JEREMY SAUER o
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ALONE TOGETHER [GUS KUCKES] What unites us, are Red numbers on a page, Hatred of a world that we don’t understand, That doesn’t understand us Because we don’t understand us
But you say we go home Separate every night, cry into Different colored pillows, wearing different colored pjs Suffering different break-ups by eating different flavored oreos The wonder is that we don’t talk about it I wonder why we don’t talk about it I wonder how I can go to school every day Watch you seeing me and never know what you see Never hear you hearing me, never know your knowing me always being alone, together
“CHAPELLE DES FONTS” B Y S C I L L A G A Z AV E
I want to ask you why we soothe the ache with ibuprofen hookups Numb it by drinking, and then take actual pills Stay with the guy we hate until he goes too far And then stay with him until we hate ourselves
I don’t give a damn that you don’t even like me just slap me hard when I say this, let me feel the Ringing in my ears and the pain in my jaw Proof that you hit home Proof that were once connected
I want to ask you Why we do this Why we ignore each other, why we Stab each other with solitude And walk away
I want to feel something real, something that’s not bubble gum or styrofoam or porn Like all the smiles you give me and all the posts you make, Like the business never-casual connections you try to make, Because they all told you to, And because it’s easy
I see a different world, I see A place where we broke all the rules for each other, Rapped and painted wild murals for each other, Sat under the bridge under the stars at 3 am- with each other And without needing to know what love is, loved each other
I could give a speech about the problem, but you wouldn’t really listen, I could paint a picture but you wouldn’t really look at it, I could sing this to you, but you wouldn’t really hear me, I could play it for you, but you would just clap politely, And I think the ache would only increase.
I do it because this is what we could be, this is the succulent life we can live while unripe, this is the having our cake and eating it, Baking another and serving it Before everyone else is awake to grab it.
And so I will just ask you to fight it If not for me, then for yourself Because one day they will leave you too, out in the cold And you will die shivering, More alone than the stars in the boundless firmament o
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“BEFORE THE STORM” BY ZOE GRAS
SHE HAS A FACE OF THE SKY [ABIGAIL GLICKMAN]
she has a face of the sky sunlight peaks through the heavy gray clouds that guard her from hurt clouds that protect, but also isolate because when they block the light all that is seen is an approaching storm
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BY AURORA WULFF
BREAKING IT OFF [ANNA WESTWIG]
“Soph.” His words are tender, and a month ago it would’ve made me melt. Melt straight into his traitorous arms, but I won’t—not now. “Don’t call me that,” I say, my voice steely and unyielding. I cross my arms. “Soph,” he repeats, his brown eyes wide and pleading. I don’t move; I’m done with playing games. “I said,” I’m angry now and there’s no hiding the rush of feelings, “Don’t call me that!” “Ok.” He starts nervously tapping his fingers on the armrest of the couch. It’s his tell; I knew that. I’d figured it out when he told me he’d stopped drinking, told me he’d stopped being with her. “Sophia,” He breathes out heavily, “I love you.” I stop, and for a moment I’m stunned. I’d wanted those words for so long. But I won’t forgive him, not after all that had happened. “I bet you tried that on all your other busty blondes hanging off your arm,” I sneer. “I don’t love them, Soph.” I turn towards him, glaring, “Sophia,” He amends. “I don’t love them like I love you,” he repeats leaning closer. I make it blatantly obvious how I move away from him, from his arm dangling, ready to fall behind my back when I give in. If I give in, which isn’t going to happen. “Don’t bother with me Raymond, I’m not your girlfriend and I never will be again.” “You always were my girlfriend. I loved you… not them.” He waves his hand dismissively. “You seemed to be having a mighty good time with my sister’s friend,” I mention, refusing to let my hands ball into fists. I will not lose control.
“She was just a distraction,” he begs. “She tastes like dust, like nothing. You taste like apples and cinnamon, hot cider in the fall…” He continues waxing on poetically. “Oh, please,” I interrupt, sneering, “Spare me the poetry.” A month ago I would’ve loved being compared to autumn. Not now. “What was Lala, Summer?” I ask raising my eyebrow, “Sheila was probably winter.” I smirk, “The frigid bitch.” Raymond laughs, thinking I’ve gotten out my anger. That I’m going to let him get away with it one more time. “Next girl you get,” I say, the words edging their way across my lips unwillingly, “compare her to spring. You can have the full set.” “Oh, I don’t think I’m going to get another girl.” He leans closer to me, his arm reaching to encircle my waist. I stand up. “Of course you’re going to get another girl,” I growl, “And then you’re going to come groveling back asking for forgiveness, and if I give in, the cycle will just repeat.” “Not this time, I promise.” He manages to look so pitiful when he wants to, “I promise, Soph.” “I hope you change, Raymond, and you manage to settle down with someone.” I shake my head, “But that won’t be me.” “Soph.” He stands up from the beer-stained couch, “Please.” “No, Raymond.” I shake my head. “No.” I walk out the door my head held high.
BY ROTEM LESHED
BY AURORA WULFF o
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A SONG IN THE SPRING [CHLOE MOORE]
rain on rooftops is a steady rhythm a bassline accented here and there by a kick-drum clap of thunder and joined by chords of lightning akin to a synthesizer morning comes, the first notes of the keyboard dancing in the dewdrops on the grass reflecting the strings of a violin played by a shaft of sunlight and the wind is strumming a guitar through the trees a chorus of birds joins, weaving harmonies as thin and strong as spider’s silk there is no rhyme and no reason, no score and no libretto but it is enough mother nature sits back from her painting and smiles, tucks a strand of hair behind her ear yes, she thinks it is enough
BY JEREMY SAUER
BY JEREMY SAUER o
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OLD CITY B Y S C I L L A G A Z AV E o
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SEVEN YEARS LATER [CHARLOTTE HOEKENGA]
Two girls, walking to The Cafe, stop in front of the charred remains of a house. The roof has fallen inside and the windows are shattered across the yellowed and crispy grass. They shine in the late afternoon light. It has been five days, and the period of mourning for the innocent death is over. People are once again allowed to talk while passing the house and can briefly discuss the events without fear of the law. Soon work crews will tear down the house and build a new one, almost identical to the last. The girl on the left has stopped to stare. Her hair is black and smooth, her eyes dark brown. She was fortunate enough to be blessed with one of the Hair Colors at birth. Someone could have Uniform Black, Uniform Brown, Uniform Blond, or Uniform Red hair. Whichever hair color was closest to the person’s natural hair or their family’s hair. At eighty, a person’s hair would be dyed Uniform White. Hair was uniform in its diversity, cut to three different lengths for women and three different lengths for men. “Do you know the story?” The perfect girl asks her imperfect companion. The other girl was a mistake, standing out in an otherwise spotless family tree. She was the result of her mother’s brief affair. Instead of having straight blond hair like the rest of her family, she was born with dark copper curls. Instead of blue, like the rest, her eyes were hazel. At five years old they started dying and straightening her hair. She wore colored contacts and nobody sober talked about the mistake that she was. The mistake blinks her eyes three times to clear them and runs a hand once through her abused hair. She nods quickly. o
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C O N T I N U E D O N PA G E 1 4
C O N T I N U E D F R O M PA G E 1 3 “Yes. There was a rebel, hiding there. I heard,” The two lean close in unison, dropping to a government regulated conspiratorial whisper. “That it had blue hair!” The perfect girl gasps at just the right time. “No!” She says. “Despicable!” “Yes,” the mistake agrees. “Despicable. And I heard that it was planning a recruitment party.” “Good thing They got to it before it did! Who was the innocent?” “I heard that the innocent was its boyfriend.” The perfect girl sighs, a sad, pitying sigh. “Let him rest in peace, and may the rebel burn in its afterlife. Now, shall we be going?” “Yes,” says the mistake. They’ve spent their five allowed minutes in front of the burned-out house. It was time to move on. “Let’s go.” The two girls leave. A piece of the house falls and hits the ground, breaking into smaller pieces with a loud thud. The two ignore it. (Seven years later and the mistake wonders, not for the first time, why. She had spent time with a group of drunken relatives and her mother had said, loudly, “Oh, I wish you weren’t born.”
The mistakes father and grandparents agreed. The mistake wonders why she has to abuse her hair and hurt her eyes and wear boring clothing. Seven years and three months later and the mistake stands in front of a group of outcasts. Their hair is not the correct colors, their clothes are bright and dark and clash with everything. The way they don’t hide their flaws excites and terrifies her. They offer her something she has been waiting for, something she has wanted for a long, long, time. Eight years later and she is dead, her copper curls splayed around her head and her hazel eyes wide open. Her hand is still clasped in her ‘innocent’ lovers hand, though both are unmoving. The mistake wears a jagged green shirt and baggy brown pants. Her body burns wearing her favorite outfit. Eight years and five days later and a pair of girls stand outside, in front of the burned building, discussing the events with clear disgust in their voices. After five minutes, they move on. The roof collapses and it is the mistakes only burial. The two girls outside continue to walk on.
BY MAGDALENA SMITH
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BY JEREMY SAUER
FALL [OWEN CRANE]
Leaves fall in the wind Landing quietly and calmly A crisp fall day’s sound
“OHANAPECOSH” BY INGRID COMELLA
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STARDUST [HARRY SAUER] A cylindrical ship glided through space, its pointed prow slicing through the emptiness. An observer might dismiss this ship with its elegant swept back wings and smooth, silvery hull lacking any visible cockpit as a large probe aimlessly wandering through the galaxy, its destination unclear. Slowly, a speck seemed to detach from the web of stars as the ship continued forward. The speck grew and grew until a planet was visible. This was no ordinary planet with trees and oceans. The ground of this planet was a great, pointy gray and spiky mass with a greenish gray smog clinging to the lower parts of the spires. As the day-night terminator crept across the surface, the gray spikes began to glow with artificial light. This planet was a city with great towers that grasped at the atmosphere. It quickly became apparent that it was a hub in the center of the galaxy as ships darted to and from the surface and hovered in orbit. The cylindrical ship did not seem out of place at all in the traffic. Slowly and gracefully the ship slid through the lines of congestion. As the ship entered the atmosphere, it began to pick up speed. Suddenly, small panels on the ship’s hull swung open. From these small openings spewed a bluish gas that streaked behind the ship, following its airflow pattern. The ship continued to sprint around the equator of the planet, all the while spewing its blue gas behind it. Eventually, the ship returned to the place where it had originally entered the atmosphere, directly above a grand and flowing tower. Once over the tallest of the spires the ship mysteriously stopped. After a brief pause it began to rise. Slowly it climbed until it reached the edge of the atmosphere, where its pointed nose aimed directly towards the building covered ground alongside the tower. The ship leapt forward, its engines spewing pure energy as it clawed towards the ground. Suddenly, the klaxons and alarms began whooping, and red lights started to flash in aggressive patterns. When the craft finally slammed into the lower buildings, a shock wave emanated outwards from the crash site, shattering windows up the towers surrounding the impact area into sparkling mists that rained down from above.
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BLUE
TREADING WA T E R
[CHARLOTTE LITTELL]
[ AV A C O H E N ]
They lashed cinder blocks with heavy chains and strung them around her neck. They told her, thank you, and we love you, as they tossed her frail body into the waves.
Treading water, fighting despair Alone at sea, in this nightmare, Wave after wave crashes overhead. The sky is dark, the water dead.
Her legs beat wildly against the cold blue and her hands spread wide, allowing the silky smooth surges to slip through her fingers. She wondered how long her body would betray her, how long until it would let her surrender.
Lunar tide shakes my very core, Treading water, show me the shore! How many days, how many years Must I wait ‘till my heart is yours? In the waves my heart crashes down As you look at me, watch me drown. Treading water, pain like a knife. Treading water, I search for life.
Bursts of fire flashed through her muscles, as she watched the jagged rocks bob up and down on the shore. The chains felt tangled over her stretched skin. The mechanical chaos of her flailing frame finally gave in, and she, a speck of dust in the boundless water, opened her mouth to let in the deep as her small gasp disappeared beneath the surface.
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WHY CALCULUS, WHY? [WILLIAM VANDERLAN] “SHINY ARC” BY CARLA MARTINEZ Why calculus, why? It’s time to confess, I’m going to die. Thought I didn’t have to try. Thought I could finesse. Why calculus, why? Couldn’t skrrrrttt by. Failed tests, but I digress. I’m going to die. Pepe, what a guy. Thicc curve, failed less! Why calculus, why? I don’t want to lie. It’s time to address. I’m going to die. No AP credits for I. If I had to guess. Why calculus, why? I’m going to die.
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“GLASS SHEETS” B Y L I L L I A N H WA N G - G E D D E S
TRAIN RIDE 3
[MAGDALENA SMITH]
Ragged jeans, rough, wispy brown hair, piercing blue eyes. The scenery outside my train car stretches on for miles. My eyes wander to the window, the desolate fields of corn, and back to her. If I had to guess, I’d say she’s around five-four. She sits halfdraped in a light green windbreaker, staring off into nothingness. Her lips, perfectly bow-shaped, are chapped and unpainted. Her back is perfectly straight. She reminds me of stone statues in museums, regally postured, serene. Perhaps she is a daughter of royalty or of politicians, trained to maintain perfect self-possession under a spotlight. Perhaps she’s from a family of drug lords or prominent bankers or computer technicians. The aura of serenity about her entices me. I wonder what her
purpose is riding this desolate train. I feel as though she’s watching me from the corner of one eye. I wonder what she sees. A commuter? A traveler seeking a new life, without a family tying her down, too old to still have the world at her fingertips? With my business suit, impractical heels, and leather briefcase, I wonder if I am part of the corporate landscape to her, an executive with expensive priorities, fancy lunch meetings in smoke-filled coffeehouses, empty corporate language. That’s how I see myself sometimes. I wonder if that is what I’ve become. The woman twitches, wrenching my attention away from her face to her hands, tapping incessantly. Long, bony fingers lay listlessly on her lap, entwined like a vine o
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on a wall. She’s tapping her narrow ring finger on her other hand at the pace of a heartbeat. The fingernails are humble and brutally close-cut. The waiflike girl, who can’t be more than 25, carries herself as though much older. She possesses a dreamlike quality, almost ethereal, metaphysical, like smoke. I want to delve inside her mind, to view the world through her gaze, and discover if she sees it in shades of black and grey. I wonder what tragedies have impacted her perception, and what circumstances have seated her on the gnarled, sunken seats of this train, inhabited by transient figures, bodies of smoke each possessing their own stories, conundrums, and desires, their imprints already fading.
CORRUPTED WORDS [TESSA AMICI]
Words of the mind are broken over the days that a heart never sees They are the words that can be the death of us Only if we let them. But if we think of them strangely If we move from those words Our hearts can see again They can see all of our days That is what a true soldier is That is what a true soldier is capable of doing If someone is like that Good for them Because no one in the world Can just move themselves away from those words
IMAGES BY JEREMY SAUER
BY BELLALUNA BRIGGS
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BY ZOE GRAS
“GORGEOUS” BY ZOE GRAS
BY BELLALUNA BRIGGS
BY BELLALUNA BRIGGS
T H E C O N S E R VA T I O N I S T ' S AWA K E N I N G [CHLOE MOORE]
we are inconsequential experiences are sequential cause and effect until we feel something elemental we are detrimental we take and we break and we relentlessly expect to be treated with reverential fear, but why do we not fear the end of our existential regime on this planet of monumental mountains and lakes and celestial places, why do we seek to make it comprehensible when the pain we cause is so immeasurable we have become beyond reprehensible we should exit now, we have become inessential, everything is circumstantial we have no substantial cause for existing, we wreak unprofessional destruction on our irreproachable planet, it’s time for our less-than sensational exit, we don’t deserve anything more distinguishable humanity out, the sooner the better unless we manage to effectively understand on a basic level the effects of our heavy-handed battle against the forces of nature, primordial and if we do that maybe we can press the brake pedal and go back to respecting what is good and natural to become more beneficial become less superficial get less materialistic focus on regaining some state of nature remember that we are hardly crucial when looked at on the oceanic scale, we cause too much pain for a species that has evolutionary inefficiencies we are so cruel but we have so many deficiencies we are so dependent so irreverent when it comes to questioning the worth of human existence it’s incredible that we haven’t been sent to the universal penitentiary but for posterity’s sake, let’s acknowledge these imperfections practice self betterment we depend on it the earth depends on it we have a time limit for amelioration work for protection practice conservation it’s time to awaken before we burn up in the arching firmament o
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“DRAGON LANDSCAPE” B Y S C I L L A G A Z AV E
THE ELF QUEEN [ AV A C O H E N ] Who stirs this frosty air tonight? Riding fast, the winds dare not bite This beast; a shadow all alone Except for a child five years grown He is unaware of the fright That takes him deep into the night.
“No! Man who seeks the might of god! Like Lucifer, you are so flawed!” Caressing locks of golden thread The Elf Queen woke the boy from bed “I’ll take you back, I will maraud! Son, this is the Devil’s facade!”
“Be you man or be you spectre! Halt! I am that child’s protector!” Through the icy wind he stumbled Breath steaming, his mind was jumbled “Do you seek the soul, the center? The man screamed, his voice no sceptre.
“Father, Father, please do not cry! The Elf Queen will not let me die!” The child smiles, safe in her arm He knows the Elf Queen brings no harm. “Father, father, morning draws nigh! The Elf Queen rides under night sky”
“You are mine now, sweet child of light. Wait, wait until we end our flight.” Through the snowy forest they ran. “Do not fear me, child of man Do not fear this dark wood tonight” The Elf Queen rides right through the night.
The father cries as dark turns bright The Elf Queen goes when skies turn white. He blindly searches for his son Despite knowing the Elf Queen won The father searches through the light The Elf Queen rides into the night. o
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MY LION,
MY SKY [MAGDALENA SMITH]
Beautiful, golden lion! Like a brick of gold, a forest sunset, desert, a whisper of caramel across the horizon. Her mane mussed by the wind, it carries the scent of woman and man and neither and all. Deep sad eyes, red orange jigsawed masculinity, after all, pink was once for boys. He is plain cougar fur; he matches the cubs, the pack. A broom in his hand, a strained smile in his teeth. But wait! Now he is a blue jay, delicate summer days for one more week, a blend with a vibrant cloud and the promise of rain. In his feathers snow, a wind, a sunny hail. Black eyes without pupils survey us, interrogating who, what are you on the inside? Which? You must know! What is it, they cry, we need to tell them apart! You may fly in exactly one half of the sky. I am the wing of the jay, a snake’s scales, the mane of the lion. My mane shall be womanly, its coarse hair the mark of my soft beauty. The fur of a lizard, the white fox spines, the leaping snail. The earth within me soars above the sky. Find my sky. I stretch my wings out to touch the infinite beauty of my possibility, freedom, endless, myself, all. But I’m in captivity. The atmosphere closes around me, dribbling laughter. Bars extend down to the core of the earth and they tug at me, they approach, they reach out to squeeze me, and they dance in grotesque shapes. I huddle towards my wall, my back, my floor― I can’t breathe, I can’t stand, the world tilts, my cage is a circle. The circumference of this perfectly spherical prison revolves as I turn to gage my surroundings: the code rewrites itself to counter each thought that enters my mind, morphing and adapting to each desperate, half-formed thought that emerges to the surface of my mind. What irony gender cannot do the same! The spherical cell has no air, it is white but it has no color, the only gravity I know is the denseness of the world; my prison. I am powerless to stop the oppressive nothingness that engulfs me in its grasp. There it eliminates my functionality, mystifies my close relations, and most likely invigorates the power-holders who amplify the insidiousness of the prison that parasitizes my community. We are confined in a sphere of shame and silence. My sobs are the air, oppressive nothingness my everything. Do I constitute me? My body is not me. I can make it an imitation, but never a perfect comfortability. To all my elders, siblings, and the future generation, I salute you. To those of us successful and educated, disenfranchised, persecuted, incarcerated, stripped of health care, homeless, in poverty, working in the sex industry, imprisoned in Chechnyan concentration camps, murdered, and silenced, I salute you. My sky is an entrance wound, my lion a suicide statistic. I am nothing. I am all. o
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CAUSTIC CLIMATE BY JEFFERSON SHENG
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STINK [TIMOTHY DIEMOND]
My feet begin to ache; we have been walking for hours. The cave itself has the odor of stinky socks. Joah smells like stinky socks too. We have been walking for probably two stinking hours; I don’t blame him for stinking. The air and ominous fog in the cave is so thick, one could cut through the stink with a knife. It’s boiling in here, like a summer so hot that there would be no ice-cream to stink; because it would be all melted. I felt melted, huh, the cave looks a little bit melted. No, maybe I am just starting to hallucinate it’s so hot. I smell myself, and I also smell like stinky rotten socks. The smell is hanging in the air like a coat hanging on a coat rack, the melted wax hanging from the candle. I begin to question whether or not there is an end to this elongated, melted cylindric tunnel. I begin to see a faded grey light coming from the end. As we walk I get paranoid from listening to our footsteps, thinking there’s someone behind, or in front of us. I listen to the squish squish of our footsteps through the stink, and finally we have escaped the
tunnel of long, raw, melting stink. Now, staring out of the end of the melting tube, we are greeted by mount upon mount of stink and waste. We stop quickly for lunch in an impossible place to eat, Joah pulls mount upon mount of a large sandwich he packed before we left the apartment. Joah loves big melting sandwiches. I always consider it impossible for someone with a body type such as his to eat such a monster of stink. Monster... Wait- what did I just hear coming from the end of the tunnel? Did the stink catch up to us after all? Did we not escape the melting walls like we had thought after all? We must think on our feet, what are we to do? There is only one thing to do, that I don’t want to. Joah had the idea quicker than I, he started digging in a large heaps of melted trash, and raw stink, to hide his stinky self. ‘There’s no time like the present’, I think to myself as I hide in a pile of stinking trash, watching the melted monster come toward us.
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BY JEREMY SAUER
EVERMORE [ AV A C O H E N ]
I am alone. Alone in a forest, a forest made of black trees, and black bushes, and black dirt. It swirls, and it warps, and it changes evermore. And the sky, ominous and swirling and deep violet, looks down upon this hell with indifference, with everlasting silence. And silence is everywhere, only broken in my mind by the sound of blood in my veins. And the blood tinges the air with a salty stench; the sticky, crimson tide of life gushing around my feet, gushing from the black heaps, gushing from the corpses. Decapitated, burned, strangled, hung, stabbed, shot, poisoned; men and women and boys and girls lay silent in heaps, heaps of sorrow, heaps of extinguished life, their faces frozen evermore. Their final moments
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are fossilized in their cold, stiff forms; their rotting, stinking forms; their bloody, torn forms; their lifeless corpses in terror evermore. The world around me is black, black, black evermore, with a violet sky and a crimson river. I stand alone on its banks, and silence is my companion. Silence from the forest, silence from the corpses, silence from me, silence evermore. I am calm; it is the world that is moving. I am still; it is the world that is twisting. I am sane; it is the world that is crazy, this black world, black and swirling, black and violet and red, swirling and swirling and twisting and turning. And here I stand, still and quiet, here I stand evermore.
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“RAIN DROPS” BY ZOE GRAS
“MOIST” BY JEFFERSON SHENG
BREAK [CORA EASTON] She enters the house, leaving her father to close the door. Her face is stretched into a beaming smile. She is tired, and walks upstairs to go through her daily ritual before bed. The bathroom is cold and the tiles shine a pearly white. She sits, but a spot of red catches her eye. A red stain, dark on the inside with a brownish coloring of the dried blood. She shouts for help, her parents rushing to the door. “Are you alright?” Tears form in her eyes, embarrassment flushing through her with a burning heat. “I’m bleeding.” She hears murmuring, and one pair of footsteps leaving. “Look under the sink. There should be a purple box.” The girl grabs the box, filled with pads. She hears steps returning and retreating once more. The door opens slightly, her mother’s arm appearing holding a garment, like a flag of surrender. “Here. Put this one on, and then put on a pad.” The moment of silence, as the girl takes the garment and the door is closed once more. “You’re going to be all right.”
Her smile falls as he laughs. He grips his sides; bent over, struggling to breathe. Tears form in her eyes. When her laughter never joins his, he looks up with droplets clinging to his lashes. “You’re joking right?” Her heart shatters, the pieces glistening on the floor. The boy waves his hand in front of her eyes. “Hello?” Her fists curl up in her purple dress; fighting back the burning behind her eyes, willing herself to stay together. “I’m fine.” He shrugs, the smile returning to his face as he leaves her behind. She walks into the bathroom, locks the stall and lets go. Her face becomes red and blotchy. Her makeup runs, staining her cheeks a muddy grey. She hears a group of footsteps enter her white sanctuary, laughing. She puts a fist in her mouth, stifling her sobs. The group’s jovial noises cease. “Hey. You alright?” She takes a deep breath, shakily she assures them she’s fine. “Come on out here.” She stands and joins the group outside. The tallest lady takes her hand and leads her to the sink. “Let’s get you cleaned up, sweetie.” The ladies surround her, comforting her and cleaning up her makeup. “You’re going to be alright.”
“HANAHNANAH” BY ROSA BRADBURN
wind pushes the hat further into the road. Time slows down as she watches the boy leaning down, putting his purple cap back on. She runs, praying that she reaches him in time. The boy looks up, he sees the car, he freezes; a deer in fast approaching headlights. A shove, a fall, a crash, a crunch… a siren. He sits on a pristine white gurney, a red blanket wrapped around his shoulders. He sees his friends being held back by police while a paramedic finishes checking him over. When they’re finished, his friends race over, stumbling over each other both verbally and physically. “Are you alright?” The paramedics said something about shock. He remembers. A woman shoves him, a woman dies. He’s on the ground, mere feet away. He can’t see her under the car, just a growing pool… He shakes his head. His friend pats his shoulder, going in for a hug. “You’re going to be alright.”
She wobbles in her heels, regretting the drinks. She waves goodbye to her friends and makes her way to the street crossing. She opens up her phone and fishes out her headphones. She plugs in her earphones and looks up, the light just turning green. She starts walking forward, trailing just behind a group of rowdy teens. One boy hits his friend’s purple cap off his head and retreats from scolding swats. The others jog forward with the assailant, leaving the boy to grab his hat. He lets out a laugh and starts after them. A gust of o
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FOGGING MIND [GUINEVERE FULLERTON] My failures burn in mind, fogging any bright memories; my guinea pigs, to start, are my escape and keeping them healthy makes my mind clear; we all have something to clear our mind, like the art that one makes, long drives, or even just reading; the failures that keep me here surround me in their dark glow and make the salt plunge into the wound, the sparks jump on the skin, and the water brim the lungs; but his scent still lingers, the monster that I keep close to me at all times, with his warm and enchanting embrace, keeps me in the darkest hole I’ve ever known; his love that is obviously a farce, a show of malarkey and dancing fire; I jump around on his hot coals of trickery; his flame smokes and fogs my mind of any happiness, any focus on myself or any other than him; I have lost the ones I love from his romanticized flame, enticing and painful; thoughts train off into new clouds in the mind of my own suffering; his touch brands me with his name, his possession, and his games; I love him with everything I have and am not scared to lose anything, but him.
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[PETRE TUMBAR] Rainfall, mountain’s veil Obscuring secrets within Wonderful and Odd
FOG BY GUS KUCKES
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THE MAN WITH THE SMILE
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[ AV A C O H E N ]
I live on the upper east side of New York City. One of the most affluent districts, my neighborhood is home to those who rule the playground of the one percent. Hotel Suites, grand chambers, chandeliers, fine dining; you name it, it’s here. Although I could fill an entire journal with stories of those who live here, my purpose today is to introduce to you one man; one fantastical, obscure, diabolical, eccentric, and utterly insane man. This man lives next door to me, and although it has been this way since he moved in two years ago, I still know little about him. I know only the observable traits, such as his cowl-like hood, hunched frame, and heavy clothing regardless of the weather. Most remarkable is that after two years of politely greeting him in the hallway or the parking lot, he is never once responded. Frankly, I don’t know why I still greet him, but I find myself doing so uncontrollably. Never speaking, never inviting me into his home, this man was clearly trouble, and yet I found myself inexplicably drawn to him. However, one day, the silence broke. It was cold when I got home from work that day; the kind of cold that turns your blood to fire as it desperately tries to warm you up. I was rushing into the lobby with my hood up and my scarf around my face when I ran straight into him. Wincing from the pain from the collision and falling to the ground, I began to get up, not expecting any help, but it was then that he silently offered me his hand. Shocked, I accepted, and I followed him into the lobby, into the elevator, and onto the 27th floor. I turned to go down the hallway to the right towards my front door but I didn’t get farther than a few steps before he grabbed onto my arm. Still silent, he stared into my eyes with a blank expression that turned my fiery blood to ice. My heartbeat quickened as I, as if under a curse, found myself following him down the left side hallway and into his apartment. First impressions are important; they
are relics of our ancestors that warn us of dangers. The impression I got from his apartment was not a good one. First off, it was clean. Unsettlingly clean and sparse. The walls were plain white, the couch black leather, a TV, table, chairs, kitchen and that was it. No bookshelves, no rugs, paintings, pictures, statues … nothing. Despite him living here for two years, it looked as if he had just moved in. Second, it was cold. Not temperature-wise, but cold as in it gave me a feeling as if all the life had been sucked out of me. It was around this time when I heard a rustling; the man was taking off his outerwear and putting it in the closet. As if controlled, I began to do the same, and soon I found myself sitting in front of the TV which was showing a soap opera. Ten minutes passed with him staring at me while I tried to focus on the mundane program before I finally broke. Suddenly angry, I yelled at him, asked him why he never spoke, why his eyes were blank depths, why his face never moved. And for the first time, he smiled. I was surprised that this, but something shocked me even more. As he smiled, the skin around his lips beginning to crack. Wider and wider his smile grew, and the cracks grew with it; they spread to his eyes, temple, cheeks, and ears. He held up his hands and walked to the bathroom. A few seconds later a figure appeared, but the man who came out was not the one who went in. As he tossed aside the hooded jacket, I gazed upon my neighbor’s true form for the first time. His pale skin was almost transparent under the bright lights, and now, no longer slouching, he stood at least six and a half feet tall, but his form was oddly thin. His hair was pure white despite him not being over 30, and his eyes were large icy blue orbs with tiny black pupils, giving him an inhuman appearance. But the most striking thing about this man was that he was still smiling. Not a warm smile, but a wide, o
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twisted sneer that peeled his lips away from his teeth and stretched way beyond the borders of a normal person’s mouth. Still silent, the wide-eyed man gestured with his long fingers, and once again under his curse, I followed him into a small elevator. We rapidly descended before reaching a sudden, jolting halt. Somewhere along the line, he had donned a white lab coat, and it billowed out behind him as he exited the elevator. We were in a vast stone cavern seemingly well underground. Wires crisscrossed the walls, floor, and ceiling, and fluorescent lights illuminated the earthy room. This seemed to be some sort of laboratory, as computers, tablets, papers, books, machines, instruments and tools decorated the area. However odd this was, what froze me solid was something I saw for a split second out of the corner of my eye. On a metal operating table lay the unmistakable form of a human child. Her blonde hair splayed out around her innocent face, creating an ironic golden halo as she rested in the devil’s lair. The second I gasped, he, with remarkable speed, crossed the room to cover the corpse with a sheet. The sight … who was this man with the smile? Was he an underground doctor? A psychotic lunatic? The devil himself? Whatever he is, I didn’t want to know. I am content with my life working on Wall Street as a stockbroker; I want nothing to do with this. So, slowly, I began to back away. My fingers frantically groped the wall for the elevator controls, and I took an inward sigh of relief as the button responded to my touch. I spun around, ready to jump in and close the doors, but they were already shut, and I was on the wrong side. Everything after that happened in a blur: I repeatedly slammed my fist on the button with no avail, I screamed in pure fear, then something pierced my skin and the world turned to shadows.
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“ABSTRACT B&W� BY CHLOE MOORE
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DUST [ABIGAIL GLICKMAN] sometimes i wonder where the dust comes from and how it came to rest atop a pile of yellow-paged books sitting on the shelf i wonder if i sat in front of the pile and watched it always would i see the dust collect and clot like a body working to heal a wound or does it just appear one day and settle at once arriving to greet the books o
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1 “STILL LIFE” B Y S C I L L A G A Z AV E
GRANDFATHER [ISABEL RUBIN] Holy crosses mixed in with Taj Mahal paintings because He believed in All of them cheap Wine stacked on The greasy cupboards Of the kitchen Where he sat Wool sweater hearty laugh And all Somehow he still smells Of the pipesmoke he Quit years ago Holding the secrets of The world he never wanted To stop learning about. o
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BY MAGDALENA SMITH
BY MAGDALENA SMITH
BY ROTEM LESHED
BY MAGDALENA SMITH
BY MAGDALENA SMITH
IBTIDA THE CHINCHILLA [JOSHUA “J.T.” STONE]
Chinchilla named Ibtida used to live in Ithaca Tons of fur on his skin and it’s making me purr. But if it wasn’t for me he’d be stuck livin’ in a cage So it’s up to me to keep him just as stylish as a sage. Now that’s the truth-truth-truth... Yeah Ibtida he’s here-here-here... Oh my God, Super fluffy and oh so cuddly And as he walks he wags his tail. Plus he don’t care about no haters Especially because he’s perfect And everytime I see him after school he’s like, “meh-meh-meh-meh-meh-meh-meh.” Oh my God... look at those ears! Oh my God... look at that tail! Oh my God... It’s IBTIDA! o
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WHERE THE ALPACAS GRAZE
1 BY ROTEM LESHED
[ABIGAIL GLICKMAN] if you have been there you know how the stones skip across the pond leaving behind the creaking screen door the pots on the stove the books that flood the coffee table and Prince’s voice as it fills the living room they leave your toes and the soles of your feet damp with cool dew the stones travel far past the swarm of tadpoles and the tall grasses that attract dragonflies even if you have been there you don’t know where they go
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ALONE [CHARLES ANDRULIS] The Being floats through the skies, alone. His tale is a sad one. In the beginning, He was alone. He hated being alone in the vacuum of space, so He created a planet, one that He could lose Himself in. It did not take long for Him to tire again. There was only so much enjoyment one could gain from watching the milling ants. The Being looked towards the heaven and cursed the uncaring universe. ¨YOU WOULD HAVE ONE OF YOUR CHILDREN BE ALONE? WITHOUT SOMEONE TO SHARE THE YEARS WITH?!!!¨ The Being roared, His rage shaking the planet He himself had created. In His rage, He struck the ground, and split the land that he had created on the planet. In doing so, He ensured that life itself was different, and that the creatures which roamed the land were more intelligent, for the survivors of that mighty blow knew how to adapt. When He saw the destruction His blow had caused, He wept, His tears carving great furrows in the land and raising islands in the sea. He then saw the restoration He had caused and smiled, the curve of his mouth like the sun, peeking over the top of a hill. His joy was great, for he now knew what he needed to do. He found a spot, willed his body into existence, cut open his skin and dropped C O N T I N U E D O N PA G E 4 2
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C O N T I N U E D F R O M PA G E 4 1 some of his blood on the ground. On that spot, a spring grew into existence. It was no normal spring, but rather one that smelled tainted to the beasts that roamed there, as if its very existence was anathema to the land. Again despair overtook Him, that He might be alone in the universe. Although He might be powerful, He was not omnipotent, and had no way to guarantee companionship. Then, a creature approached the spring. It was tired, chased by one that would prey on a predator such as it. It knew that the One who Chases would not follow it there. Tired, hungry, and thirsty the creature ate the berries growing on bushes around the spring, and delighted in the round blue treats. The flavor was like nothing it had ever tasted. On impulse, it ran to the spring, dark hair flapping in the wind as its body bunched and extended in the gait of one who has been running all its life. It kneeled and cupped its hands, drawing water from the spring to drink in its hands, filthy from the forest. That was when it felt something change within it, and it became a She. She was tall, with a coat of golden fur, and a longer, darker mane of black hair. It fell about her shoulders carelessly, and she wore no vestments. When He first saw her He rejoiced, for He was no longer alone. They revelled in their time together, growing close as any in their situation were wont to do, and eventually She bore Him children. They were imperfect imitations of the divinity bestowed upon the Two, but they loved their children all the same. Their Children walked upright like they did, had claws like their mother, and skin like their father. They stood no higher than a small boulder and delighted in all that was natural. As time passed it became clear that the Children, unlike their Mother and Father were mortal, and succumbed to the passage of time. They had children of their own however, and each child bore a tiny spark of divinity in them. The Children were more and more violent the less divinity they had. Instigated by those who wished conflict they fought amongst each other, and the Two despaired that their children killed each other in Their name. That was when The Others arrived. They were different from the Being and his Mate, but carried the same fire of Divinity. They were jealous creatures however, and sought to destroy any like them. They approached the Being and his Mate, bearing gifts and holding daggers behind their back. While their leader treated with The Mother and The Father, the Others went to the Children o
in disguise and told them that only one group of them could ascend to be with their Parents in Divinity. The Children had no way to know that a Divine could lie, as the Two had never lied to them. So they turned on each other, and fought with a ferocity that made the previous wars seem like playground brawls. When The Father and the Mother noticed this, they sped to stop their Children, and when they discovered the reason their Children were fighting they were consumed with rage. That was when the Others struck, they pulled a stone from the distant reaches of space and brought it down like a hammer on the Earth. It struck so fiercely that almost all life was extinguished. The Two wailed, stricken with grief as they felt their children perished. But there was something the Others forgot to account for as They drew power from their worshippers, but the Children drew power from their Mother and Father. With the death of the Children, all the sparks and embers of divinity that had been amongst the children returned to their parents and they grew terrible in power and wrath. The Others banded together before them, only to find the Mother keeping them focused while the Father scoured their worlds in grief. While She fought the ones who destroyed their children, He killed their followers, the beings they had found and raised to worship them without question. Even as He drained their power, The Others grew desperate. They unleashed a great evil that would destroy all of their worlds, knowing that the Father and Mother could not abide by it. They struck as the Two cleansed the blackness. Killing the Mother and injuring the Father. They built a Vault of Stone, twisted into a mockery of nature with their dark powers and sealed Him inside. He wept, trapped in the darkness of His prison as His foes faded from knowledge, lost without their followers to sustain them. The disappearance of the Others weakened the Vault over time, allowing the Being to strain against His bonds. When at last He broke free, the world had changed. His children had survived, and multiplied in a new form. But they knew nothing of Him, or of His mate. In desperation, He searched for Her. He looked for ten days and ten nights, crossing the world ten times over, and seeing nothing of his beloved. Turning His back on His children, who now have so little divinity He would not even be able to light a spark. He rises into the skies, consumed once more with grief. The Being floats through the skies, alone. 42
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“MARBLE EYES” BY INGRID COMELLA
BY BELLALUNA BRIGGS
B Y D AV I D S H E N G
LUCIFER, THE ANGEL WHO FELL [ AV A C O H E N ]
One moonless night he rose from hell He climbed the stairs up to the dawn. Lucifer, the angel who fell. From death to life he climbed the stairwell To earth, and heaven shuddered, for on One moonless night he rose from hell. Seeing him, angels rang heavens bell Warning of the return of the foregone Lucifer, the angel who fell. Mankind, between hell and citadel Felt their world shudder, when thereupon One moonless night he rose from hell Bringer of light, pride before fall, swell in his castle, child of dawn. Lucifer, the angel who fell He fell to hell, to heaven farewell Forgotten by God until upon One moonless night he rose from hell. Lucifer, the angel who fell.
BY AURORA WULFF
BY AURORA WULFF
UNTITLED [ANA LUISA MCCULLOUGH]
A boy is expelled for finger guns The news won’t drop the story for a week, He’s just being a boy. Two towns over a high schooler shoots his girlfriend. She cheated, He said she had it coming. Her parents mourn He switches schools and moves on. No whisper of her name in the papers Her life doesn’t matter.
VILLANELLE NUMBER TWO [WILLIAM VANDERLAN]
Villanelle number two. Had to send on sight. Oh, word. True. The outline I drew. Helped to ignite. Villanelle number two. To think of something new. Has to sound tight. Oh, word. True. Thought the stanza through. Almost… Not quite. Villanelle number two. Nothing left in the queue. A poetic plight. Oh, word. True. The end is in view. Turned out alright. Villanelle number two. Oh, word. True.
“BABBE” BY ROSA BRADBURN
I AM [CHLOE MOORE]
i was not born in the sense that i did not spring from the womb with a fully formulated consciousness, a sense of identity, or even an inkling of who i was to become since then i have dragged this form across a bleeding terrain of questions i cannot answer, of parts of myself that i do not know, of hate that cuts like glass and love that warms like fire only to discover that i am the granddaughter of witches that couldn’t be burned and i am the son of my own thoughts i was a seed and when they buried me i grew i am a line of heroines that culminates in feet on the pavement, walking and walking for change, and i am recycled matter shaped into the form i desire by the the thoughts that i have dared to think, by the notions that i have dared to create i have carved this body out of cold hard and unforgiving marble sculpted it out of old and new parts so that i am both the car and the mechanic i have dragged this form across an endless terrain of existence until my arms are burning with new strength and new soreness and i have discovered that i have built myself into a creature worthy of existence i am the product of her history and the proof of his here and now, and i have hated this body but i have also built it and painted it and now no one no one can tell me otherwise
“SELF PORTRAIT OF A HIDDEN FACE” BY CHLOE MOORE
“ASPEN” BY GUS KUCKES
B Y D AV I D S H E N G
THINGS FALL APART BY JEFFERSON SHENG
LITTLE RED RIDING HOOD [ANNA WESTWIG]
Ruby stared at herself in the dirty glass. Green and grey bruises mottled her ivory-pale face and she winced as she saw the cut stretching across her cheek down to her lip. She dabbed a wet cloth to her lip, clenching her fingers at the sting. The bruises would be easy enough to cover with some concealer, but blood was harder to hide. She eventually covered up everything except the cut and left it visible. Her grandmother already knew it was there; she had done it to her. She exited the bathroom, padding quietly down the hall. She winced as the wood creaked beneath her bare toes. Ruby was probably fine; her grandmother was likely in an alcohol-induced sleep. She still paused, her heartbeat kicking up a notch. She could just pretend to be going to the kitchen. She peered around the corner to her grandmother’s supine form stretched out on the couch. A half-empty bottle of gin was next to her on a wooden side table. There was no glass. She snored softly, one arm curled protectively around the black shotgun, the other flung across the back of the couch. Ruby took a turn into the entryway, glancing back quickly to ensure her safety. Her grandmother stirred slightly and grasped the gun a little tighter. Her grandmother had always said there were wolves outside of the cabin. As if these wolves could be stopped by a shotgun. She rustled through her grandmother’s woolen coat for her metal keepsake. The smooth surface of the iron cross seemed to tingle against her skin. After stealthily grabbing her red cloak, Ruby slid the deadbolt slowly open and crept into the outdoors. It was close to sunset and the sun was just brushing the tips of the trees. Even though the sun had not yet set, the pale orb of the full moon was visible in the sky. The door closed behind her and she let out a relieved breath. The barest hint of wind nipped at her forearms, but Ruby relished the sensation of the open air. She fumbled through her coat for the items: a patch of purple silk, a lock of her mother’s hair, a vial of her blood, and her grandmother’s cross. The Faeries bargained not with money, but with memories. She C O N T I N U E D O N PA G E 5 2
C O N T I N U E D F R O M PA G E 5 1 took a winding path through the woods. The sharp scent of pine increased as she strode deeper into the woods. Bramble thickets lined the thin snaking dirt path and the taller trees blocked out the sun. She was getting closer; she could feel it. The air tingled and the hairs on her forearms prickled in anticipation. Something tangy crackled on her tongue and the sun fell like spun gold on the treetops. She broke into a clearing filled with baby blue forget-me-nots. Their scent was unusually cloying and Ruby sneezed. She marveled for a few seconds at the ethereal beauty of it all. Besides the scent, the clearing was inhumanly gorgeous. The treetops were gilded and shadows fell lightly on the forest floor. Sunset seemed halted and the clearing was stuck in an eternal dusk. It was quiet, unnervingly so. Ruby crouched to the ground placing the blood and the auburn locks in between the flowers. And she waited. It was almost fifteen minutes later that their glowing eyes appeared. Gold irises ringed with black peeled out from the surrounding brush. The lithe forms of the wolves padded closer with sinuous grace. “Greetings, small one,” a lazy masculine voice issued from the largest wolf. “Greetings, faerie,” Ruby mimicked his lilting speech. The surrounding wolves let out a low rumbling guttural growl. Ruby’s heart thumped quicker, something she was sure the wolves could hear. Faeries had keener senses than humans. “So, what do you want from these . . .” he paused, lowering his muzzle to the objects Ruby had left. “. . . gifts, little one?” “You know the cabin in these woods three miles that way.” Ruby gestured eastward trying to stop her arm from trembling. “I know all that goes on in these woods.” he let out a low laugh, “I know what you seek to stop, but I do not know how you wish me to accomplish it.” With a sudden steel to her words, Ruby said, “I want her dead.” “Such bloodthirstiness for one so small. You would make a good wolf, little one.” He crept closer until she could feel the heat of his breath. It smelt like meat and pine and something distant she couldn’t name. “I will not kill her for you though.” Ruby’s dark eyes narrowed. “I will give you the power to do it yourself.” “And if that is not what I wish?” She
asked impetuously even as she struggled to stand steady. The remaining wolves’ eyes flashed warningly. “Then you can walk away with your blood and hair. And your grandmother will keep on it ‘til the day she dies.” The wolf’s voice grew cruel, “You can sport those bruises you tried to hide every day until they become a part of you, until you end up just like your grandmother. Just like your mother.” Ruby bristled at the mention of her mother. “My mother was not—” she was cut short. “Who do you think came to us say 12 years ago and asked for her to be killed hmm…” He sank down to his haunches, still alert. “That is beside the point,” anger bled through Ruby’s words. “You, faerie, are more cursed than I am. Do you think no one knows how you and your pack,” she spat, “got here? Halflings, half-breeds.” She said scornfully. At that, the wolves lunged forward white canines gleaming in the half-light aimed for her throat. Ruby turned stiff, unable to move. She could hear her heart roaring in her ears. “ENOUGH,” The leader’s voice echoed through the grove and the wolves froze. Ruby’s mouth opened but did not let any words out. “All I am saying, human,” the word was spat at her like poison, “is that you cannot hide blood. You are just as cruel as your grandmother in that sick little heart of yours; you just haven’t found it yet. So you can either take my offer or leave it.” Ruby paused and thought for a few long seconds. They seemed to last for ages and every breath seemed to pound against her ears and the rustle of the leaves as the wolves shifted their weight. Unease shifted in her gut. This was a faerie; the ability to kill her grandmother could be anything. What could she lose though? Her life was already a living hell. “I accept your deal,” As she said them the words seemed to hang in the open air, the last syllable echoing in her ears. “I need a name to seal the deed.” The wind suddenly seemed to enter the grove and leaves were torn from the trees to flutter down in between their feet. “Red.” She said after a pause, because she knew that you never gave a Faerie your real name. “Very well then, little Red.” He smiled,
if wolves could smile. “Good luck.” His golden eyes flashed pure black and Ruby felt as though she were swallowed by the darkness. Suddenly Ruby’s vision shrank and her senses became overloaded. The saccharine scent of the forget-me-nots became even greater and the shadows cast by the tall pines grew clearer. She was confused, unsure of what had just happened. She was now eye level with the wolves she reached out her hands to push herself upright, but she had none. She looked down and two furry forelegs were placed in front of her. She opened her mouth to ask what he had done to her, but only a pitiful yap came out. It was clear now, of course, that he had turned her into one of them. “Little Red,” he said sympathetically, “You and your little red riding hood should’ve known to never trust a faerie.” She growled in response marveling at how threatening it sounded. Perhaps, this wouldn’t be so bad. She did have the power to kill her grandmother, but more importantly, she couldn’t be hurt by her grandmother. Ruby knew, for a faerie could not lie, that her grandmother’s shotgun couldn’t hurt her. If it could, she would not have the power to kill her grandmother. It was with that thought that she broke away from the clearing giving only a second glance to the faeries. The wind swept past her fur as twilight set in full force. She knew it was doubtful she would ever be human again. Somehow that fueled her and she sprinted faster down the path the long dirt driveway came into view. Anger pulsated through her. Revenge. It was what she had wanted for so long. She would wreak what her grandmother had done to her ten times over. Every hit, every angry word, every cut, and scar would be avenged. The deadbolt to the door was already unlatched and Ruby tore straight through the wood. Splinters exploded hitting Ruby like pinpricks. Her grandmother awoke from her drunken stupor shotgun raised, her hands trembling. Her dark eyes were opened wide and Ruby could see the tears pooling in them. Ruby bared her teeth, satisfaction gleaming in her eyes. Her grandmother would feel fear for once in her life. This is for everyday of my life, she wanted to scream. This is for the living hell. As Ruby lunged forward her grandmother wrapped
her bony finger around the trigger and shot. The bullet just missed Ruby and she landed on her grandmother pushing her to the ground. Her hand released the shotgun and it clattered to the floor. Ruby hesitated for a moment letting the adrenaline pump through her heart. A bolt of pity struck her, regret even. Anger and a kernel of instinct in the wolf won and she sank her teeth into her grandmother’s throat. It was at the salty, fiery taste of blood in her mouth that she jolted back. The deed was done. Her grandmother spasmed on the
floor for a few seconds and Ruby turned away. “I see I’ve held up my end of the bargain.” The faerie leader ambled into the disturbed room picking his way through the rubble nonchalantly. “Now, as much as I’d hate to ruin my reputation, I can show some kindness.” He paused letting the silence fill the room. Ruby let out a low soft growl revealing her blood-stained canines. “Oh spare me little Red,” He chuckled, “You’ve been wanting her dead for years. It makes no difference that you’ve done it.
BY AURORA WULFF
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How it’s done should not weigh more heavily on your heart than another.” But it did and it would. “Say what Red, I’ll let you be human again, but every full moon you turn back and belong to my pack.” Ruby slowly bobbed her head. In a mere instant, Ruby was human again wrapped in the tattered shreds of her riding cloak. “Thank you,” she muttered and thankfully realized the metallic taste of blood was no longer on her tongue. “You’re welcome, little Red.”
BY ROTEM LESHED
ON THE COURT [TESSA AMICI] The other team starts with the ball I miss the rebound This other girl gets it She throws it Without trying for the hoop I think she was scared I get the ball I shoot from half court I make it I check I pass The other girl leaves I’m opened My team shoots The other team gets the ball I take a breath It hurts
I can’t breathe right I keep playing I keep thinking I should’ve been on the team The one for school My team gets the ball No one guards me No one passes to me I check I look at the teams I’m the only girl The game ends My team lost I take the ball from someone I do a slam dunk Then I fall I can’t breathe at all BY CARLA MARTINEZ o
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NOA, MY NEANDERTHAL BABY
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[WYNNE WILLIAMS-CECI]
“You have to send her back!” They all agreed, but I continued to argue, my Neanderthal toddler Noa clinging tightly to my shirt with wild, terrified eyes. “No, she should grow up here with me, and when she’s old enough she can make her own choice.” James looked at me impatiently. “Let her decide? She’s just an animal! The humans should be the ones making the decision.” I turned to him and asked, “But James, what does it really mean to be human?”
I turned off the light, stumbled backwards and tried to run, but I was blocked by a pair of hands. Behind me I could barely make out James, the wealthy businessman-adventurer sponsoring our group, with his jaw hanging open. He’s the type of person I can’t stand, who buys his way into everything he wants. His knowledge was pretty much limited to how to make a profit in any situation. “What are you doing here?” I shouted at him as I continued to back up. “They sent me to check on you!” he responded. “You’ve been gone a long time!” I shoved past and continued running. I did not know if the Neanderthals might become violent, given that I had outright invaded their territory. Once I was a safe distance away, but still in shock, I begin to process what I had seen. James joined me, obviously recovered, now yammering on with his typical spiel. “Sarah, all we’d have to do is capture a few and bring them back to a zoo. Think of the revenue they’d generate!! Think of the publicity! None of us would have to work another day in our lives! The world has never seen an animal like this, everyone thinks they’re extinct!” I saw a sick twinkle in his eyes and I knew I had to set him straight. “James, listen carefully. These are humans, not animals. We can’t imprison them in zoos for people to observe. It’s immoral. They have obviously survived on their own here, doing fine, and we don’t need to expose them to the world--we just have to let them be.” He seemed disgruntled, adding insincerely: “Okay, Sarah, whatever you say. But we have to tell the others.” We made it back to camp and collapsed from exhaustion. The next morning, the rest of the group, although somewhat skeptical of the story, all agreed we should not upset the natural balance. Everyone continued working at the dig site for the rest of the day. The following day, the sun was blazing, and I sat on a dusty rock, watching the dirt float and settle as I kicked my foot. Suddenly, I saw other members of the group craning their necks and I looked up. Soon the ground started lightly shaking, and into view came four helicopters, all slowing to a landing in the direction of the Neanderthal habitat. Everyone was perplexed. We were not planning to leave for another ten days, so I instinctively looked at James, knowing he had caused trouble. He exclaimed, “Well, what can I say? You were all being ridiculously blind to this opportunity.” “What have you done!?” another member of our group cried. “I did what is clearly best for all of us,” James argued. “None of you knows it yet but you’ll be thanking me later on! We will all be so wealthy--do you understand the kind of price tag we could put on these things? I
The story of how Noa came to live with me is long and painful, even though Noa herself is sweet and beautiful. It started with a telephone call from my former professor, a world-famous anthropologist, inviting me on a field dig. As a primatologist who has spent most of my career in office G1020 of the Smithsonian, camping on an exotic island across the world was a stretch for me. But when one of the most eminent anthropologists in the U.S. invites you to a project on a remote South Pacific island, you don’t hesitate. We set up camp on the first patch of clear, dry land I had seen since the Washington, D.C. airport. Next, we divided chores, ranging from fire-builder to water-finder. I was named “trailblazer,” meaning the one who has to walk straight through the jungle, setting markers as I go, until I find a clearing where we can dig. “Wonderful!” I thought. At least it gave me the opportunity to try my satellite phone to call my family--especially my baby daughter, Tia, who was spending her first nights without me since birth. After three hours I had barely made it one mile, my path blocked by heavy vines and swarms of bugs. It was late and getting dark, with no moon. I almost turned around, but then I saw what looked like a clearing up ahead, and out of excitement I broke into a jog, not even worrying that I might fall. Despite what I had been told about the island being uninhabited, this area was obviously lived in. Mud-and-stick huts filled the clearing. Out of curiosity I stepped forward, immediately regretting the loud noise I made by snapping a twig. I saw a human-like figure exiting one of the huts. “Hello!” I called. No response. I tried again, this time cupping my hands around my mouth to help project, but still no answer. The figure slowly walked toward me, a shadow in the semi-darkness. I grabbed a flashlight from my backpack and shone it ahead of me, and what I saw next was very clearly a Homo neanderthalensis, with trademark stocky build and coarse hair, but very human characteristics. I was absolutely shocked and started doubting myself. How could I believe what was before my eyes when my education told me it was impossible? Out of instinct I threw up my hands in surrender, hoping the gesture would be mutually understood. o
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C O N T I N U E D O N PA G E 5 6
C O N T I N U E D F R O M PA G E 5 5 had to call my contacts and have them send us cages!” Not wanting to hear any more, I grabbed my pack and started running, hoping to make it before the helicopters did. When I reached the clearing, I knew it was too late. Several of the previously intact huts had been demolished, and blood trails covered the ground. It appeared only a few Neanderthals had been captured; I saw tracks indicating many ran off. Just then I heard shrill squealing, sounding like “Noooahh, Noooo-ahhh.” The sounds reminded me of my own baby daughter back home. I followed the noises, and looking around in the dense forest, I spotted a Neanderthal baby, clearly injured. Instinctively I reached for it, a baby girl, wrapping her in my jacket. She drew up against my chest, clinging to me, and I carried her back to our campsite. No one complained when I said she needed to come back to the United States with us or else she would die--except James, who agreed but emphasized that as soon as “it” was nursed back to health and was old enough to be independent, it should be returned to his possession. I named the baby Noa. I arrived home nearly two days later, and I could tell from the look on my husband’s face that he already knew what had happened. This didn’t surprise me; our find was the big talk of worldwide news. Almost every headline read something like: “Pacific Archaeological Dig Results In Discovery Of Neanderthals--Once Thought To Be Extinct.” Due to jetlag and all that had taken place, I was physically and emotionally drained, so I went to lie down, baby Noa still next to me. I wondered what my own baby daughter, Tia, would think of Noa when my husband brought her home from daycare. I woke up to a knock on the door. It was James, there to talk as always. He explained that he wanted to set up a webcam so people could pay to log on and watch Noa growing up. He said all the funds raised from public display of the Neanderthal tribe should go to his company, considering he was “the one who discovered them,” but apparently more people believed the money should be used to fund research at the Smithsonian, where many of the scientists worked. I was still exhausted, and had trouble processing, but I did manage to
ask, “Where are the others?,” dreading his response. “They’re distributed across several different zoos--the closest is in the Bronx. If they can pick up some tricks, some might even make it into the circus!” I didn’t even try to argue. I took the webcam and gladly showed him out. Heading into my daughter’s bedroom, I found Noa and my daughter Tia together on the rug. I was initially alarmed, but I also knew that Noa was gentle and still recovering from her injuries. The two girls were playing with items from Tia’s toy chest. Noa seemed interested in a puzzle made of plastic blocks, and I watched as she seamlessly put it together. Weeks passed, and Noa became healthy and happy. I worried that, soon, James would insist we send her off like the rest of her kind. As I laid Noa and Tia down to sleep for what felt like the umpteenth time, I realized that at this point, Noa felt so much like part of our family that I could not remember what it was like before she came to us. As I tucked Tia into her blankets, I hoped that one night soon I would hear her first word. “Can you say, ‘Mama’?” I asked. She looked up at me, giggling. I asked again, and this time I heard a response--but not from Tia. Perplexed, I looked over at Noa, who was muttering, “Ma-ma, Ma-ma.” My heart skipped a beat. I immediately knew that this baby could never be displayed in a zoo. How could she be, when she was so clearly one of us? Why shouldn’t she get to grow up with my own daughter? Where do we draw the line between animal and human? I spent the next two weeks in Washington, searching for anyone who would help free the Neanderthals and return them to their native habitat. I began a petition to raise awareness, but everyone seemed too busy to care. I came home feeling defeated, when suddenly I had an idea, maybe the only hope for Noa and her kind. If I could show people how human she was, maybe I would get more support for the cause? I set up a website with a livestream showing Noa o
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BY JEREMY SAUER interacting with my daughter, playing with toys and taking first steps. I even started a Youtube page where videos were posted of first words, and I asked the community to guess whether it was Tia or Noa speaking. Within three weeks’ time, we were an international internet sensation, and thousands had joined the cause, signed the petition, and contributed to a GoFundMe campaign. Not too long after, we had won the fight. All the captive Neanderthals were being sent back to their home island, to live in peace. James, of course, was not happy about this, especially because I insisted all profits from the Neanderthals be channeled into wildlife preservation projects. But what about Noa, now a toddler? I met with James and directors from the Smithsonian to discuss her fate, arguing that she should be allowed to grow up and make her own decision as a young adult. The others wanted her reunited with the tribe and sent back to the island. But I could not let her go. She was part of my family, part of me. That was the moment I decided to sue for legal status for Noa as a human being, with me as her guardian. Noa deserved all the rights every human deserves, especially the right to freedom and to decide for herself what to do with her life. Noa was one of us.
B Y D AV I D S H E N G
“SEATTLE PRIDE” BY INGRID COMELLA
BY MAGDALENA SMITH
“ T H E PAT H ” B Y L I L L I A N H WA N G - G E D D E S
“JACKOLYNN PUMPKIN SUMMONING COMIC” BY GUINEVERE FULLERTON
THE BENCH IN THE PARK
B Y D AV I D S H E N G
[CHARLES ANDRULIS] The Bench has been there for decades now. It is a worn wooden bench, covered in graffiti, but never replaced. It sits next to a sidewalk, like so many others in the park. One has a ethereal view of the Ocean from it at dawn and dusk, and some say that the crashing of the waves sound like voices. The Bench is cleaned, but never restored, and only when it falls apart will it be replaced. No one knows who made the Bench, but all know of the Bench, as it is known to the people as the Bench of secrets. There is a ceramic Heart underneath the Bench, with a stack of paper beside it. One can write down their secrets and put them in the Heart. Or one can record their secrets aloud, the microphone leading down into the Heart. All sorts of secrets have been recorded here, from stolen toys, to drug addictions, to secret lovers. The Bench and its Heart do not judge or object to anything. One can record without the fear of being overheard; it is common courtesy to leave someone on the Bench alone unless they want to share a secret. In 1967 a housewife wrote down a record of an affair then stuck it in the Heart. She never told anyone else, but was satisfied with telling the heart. 5 years later, she came back and recorded another secret. This time she had stolen food to feed the child that came out of the affair. Stories like this can be found in the Heart. A man who hid
his alcoholism. A girl who feared to come out as a man. A woman who didn’t know how to report domestic abuse. The Heart is full of stories, and it never shares them. One day, someone breaks the heart. He publishes all the secrets it held in the Newspaper, shattering the community. The Heart is rebuilt, but it is too late to stop the wave of distrust. People looked on friends with suspicion and families fell apart. Lovers fought and shopkeepers closed their doors. Then, someone made a personal Heart. Something small enough to be carried, but large enough to store a lifetime of secrets, with a roll of paper attached on top. A Heart where one could write down secrets, theirs and others’. They store the secrets, carrying them in their Heart, only releasing them if their Heart is broken. Each person born in that town was given a heart and told to treasure it at the age of six. The Bench still exists, and people still share their deepest secrets with it, but more and more keep their secrets in their or their friends’ Heart. It is impossible to share a secret with someone without breaking your heart. When Passers-by come to the town, they remark on how open and accepting everyone is. They are told ¨We have shared our secrets, and know that they are still secrets,¨ for no one wishes to break their own heart.
“SQUIRRELY” BY JEFFERSON SHENG
“ O K“ABYR, OTOAKKL EY NA BBRRI ED AG KE ”” B YB JY EI FNFGERRI DS OCNO MS HE EL NL AG
BY MAGDALENA SMITH
“COUNTER PRODUCTIVITY” BY JEFFERSON SHENG
BROOKLYN BRIDGE BY INGRID COMELLA
FUSION [FRITZ MAROHN]
1 Listen at
https://soundcloud.com/thetattler/fusion-by-fritz-marohn
S I LV E R FALLS
ALL THE NEWS THAT’S FIT TO TATTLE
BY INGRID COMELLA
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