The Idol, 2018 by Kelly Adirondack Center

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THE IDOL. uNION lITMAG. 2018.

Editor’s note As the year comes to a close The Idol is back at it with our annual publication. Having come back strong last year, we came back this year more prepared than ever. We are beyond ecstatic to present some of the wonderful submissions we received this year. Thank you to everyone who submitted their work, the selection process is always difficult. We’ve truly enjoyed going through each and every piece we received. We would also like to thank our fabulous staff, and all the work they have done in helping with the selection process, layout, and endless patience throughout the year. We look forward to the coming years as we continue to grow! A Note from Andie: Seeing as this is my last year at Union, I can’t help

but lament on my time here and the time I’ve spent involved with The Idol in it’s revival. It is incredible to see The Idol make such a wonderful comeback, and a special shout out to Sam for the being the key reason we’re back at it again!

sTAFF Executive Board

Literary Editor : Andie Becker Layout & Arts Editor : Sam Miller

Literary Board

Nathan Oasis & Andrea Huey & Savannah Jelks & Elena Ruiz & Jenny Mutch & Shea Delehaunty & Jenna Salisbury

Arts Board

Andrea Huey & Savannah Jelks & Elena Ruiz & Jenny Mutch & Sruti Bandlamuri & Thomas Aung

Layout Design Board

Sruti Bandlamuri & Kristina Tully & Nathan Oasis

Contents 04` Ellis 05 Barnes 06 Fiore & Garner 08 Cahill 09 Ham & Kalsoom 10 Golodik & Jelks 11 Anonymous & Chen 12 Salisbury 13 Golodik 14 Jelks 15 Anonymous & Blakelock 16 Avanzato & Klug 18 Mountain 19 Caruso 20 Cleveland & Jordan 21 Chabra 23 Blow 25 Haig & Tully 26 Garner 27 Brown 28 Britton & Picconi 29 Bendix 30 McNeil & Sebastian 32 Hubbard & Kopchains 34 Golodik 38 Jordan 39 Bennett 40 Blakelock 42 Piedad 44 Cleveland 45 Hajjaj & Jones 46 Capron & Smith & Taslitz 47 Apolo & Aung 48 Weinstein 49 Miller 50 Rice 3

Allegory of the Flower. Abby Ellis. 2018

by Hannah Barnes

It must have been 100 degrees, but your breath still felt cool on my neck– distracting me from the heat. Your presence was cold, like a brick of ice in the center of the room that just couldn’t seem to melt, no matter how long I held my hand to the surface. Turning to face you, I could feel my blood raising; a pot of boiling water right before it crashes onto the stove. Sweat dripped from my temples as if they were the first drops to escape over the surface. My nerve endings felt like the bass of a stereo that had been heightened by the sound of your voice. Everything else was a distant rumble, except for the flat line of a screaming tea kettle buried deep in my rib cage, only to be poured out with steam so hot, It must have been 100 degrees but your breath still felt cool on my neck– distracting me from the heat 5

The Lyft Driver

Fire Line Do Not Cross. Emily Fiore. 2018.

by William Garner

He’s awake at 4:30 AM Practically alone in the Holland Tunnel With only the restless stirrings of Mahler, Rising from his radio before any birds sing. There’s a request from LaGuardia It’s a German couple and he makes halting conversation With the bits he’s taught himself They’re impressed and ask him for breakfast recommendations As he nears their Soho hotel He tells them the name of the first open restaurant he sees And no he doesn’t know what time the Met opens. Next, an old man who wants to go from Chinatown All the way to Great Neck No matter, as long as he pays Next it’s Central Park West Flatbush Astoria Yankee Stadium The Frick He lurches along with traffic 6

Sometimes making polite conversation, sometimes silent Smirking when asked to change the station to Top 40 (Philistines!) Colorful stores, dusty brick, and pedestrians scrambling in the August sun Dazzling motion all swirling around his brown-leather, air-conditioned fish bowl Trying to ignore all these untethered travelers As he edges around Times Square And that stupid parade blocking Fifth Ave. Sometime in the late afternoon he takes a break, Munching a 99¢ slice while reading some Illegally downloaded Sartre On his used ereader. Fine time to contemplate free will, n’est-ce pas?* He just happens to be parked near Baruch College A group of students walk by He sighs If he were to start now he’d be, what? Four years behind? His phone rings It’s his mother, also a driver His sister is locked out of the house Could he go back to let her in? So back he goes through the tunnel Now less alone Wondering about an old friend At a college somewhere near Albany Doing research, going abroad Writing poetry The friend visits sometimes during breaks.

* pronounced ness-pa, French for ...isn’t it? 7

And then they try, With mixed success To line up their lives. As he wades Through the rush hour soup He wonders if today Thereâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll be a man in front of his house Maybe in a suit or police uniform Telling him to go back Somewhere he left when he was five A religion heâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s renounced A language he hardly knows While his sister, still in her high school uniform Looks on, Gaping.

Words Fly. Alanna Cahill. 2017.

my peace by Uma Kalsoom

my peace is laying at home in my bed, my mother by my side looking at her radiant face and listening to her talk about her day wishing I could lay there forever my peace is sitting in my backyard at 4 am smelling the heavy summer and staring at the stars thinking how blessed I was to be chosen to live this life my peace is in my books in each sentence, each word, each syllable I dive into each curve of each letter that lets me in to let go my peace is in me in my bones and in my blood in the way that I love, the way that I hold myself my peace

One. Richard Ham. 2017. 9

Future. Abby Golodik. 2017. by Savannah Jelks I envelop myself in the cloak of nonchalance Hide between the layers of ambiguous meaning Survive in the day and age where communication through text Means something else Where words lose meaning And I learn to live in the shadow of doubt To dwell in the margins between the real and the implied Because it’s not that my feelings aren’t real But that every time I let light slip through the curtain I open myself up to the elements To vulnerability, and to you And without knowing that you’ll do the same I choose to protect myself To retain my power even if it comes at a price So I remain shrouded Not quite present, not quite gone Waiting with my shield for you to either pick up your sword Or lay it at your feet.

Dear J,

Why did we ever put a label on it? Why did you ask me out, but not mean it? Why did you creep under my skin and burrow into my heart? Why do I care when you don’t? Regrets have eyes that follow where I walk A shadow of what might have been But I have to choose me Put myself first for once Because I deserve it And I know that I deserve it And maybe at this point hate would be better I’d rather you hated me than deal with a casual backhand across the face The feeling of looking over the precipice feeling secure And then suddenly slipping into the abyss I should have learned to tread more carefully Should have learned to respect myself more Should have learned that emotional attachment means nothing to you But I’m learning And still learning And maybe one day it will stick Just not with you

Shots in Nott. Rong Chen (Angie). 2017. 11

by Jenna Salisbury “Sit tight Ms. Wu, we’ll deal with you shortly.” Principal Griffin huffed as he rushed into his office to answer the ringing phone on his desk. The ruddy-faced man looked redder than usual in his frazzled state as he quickly closed the office door, sealing himself behind a shield of oak and glass. I sat on the world’s most uncomfortable chair in the hallway, my head bent low so all I could see besides my dirty sneakers was the speckled linoleum floor. My leg began to shake as I anxiously awaited my punishment. I had never been in trouble at school before. Closing my eyes, I remembered what my mom had told my siblings and me before dropping us off at school. “Don’t make waves,” she warned. Most kids got “I love you” or “Have a great day at school!” But our mother always sent us off with the wise words of “Don’t make waves.” Well today, I made a damn tsunami. Not wanting to think about my mom’s reaction when she’d gotten the call, I searched for a distraction. I didn’t have much to work with, being bound to a metal desk chair and all. I settled for my necklace. I pulled the long, golden chain out from under my hoodie. At its end was a rat carved into a flat piece of jade. I played with the chain for a little, twirling it as it glinted in the sunlight pouring in from the window across the hall. I thought about what had happened. Just 20 minutes ago my day spiraled an entire 180 degrees. And the worst part about it was there was only ten minutes left of school. I was sitting against the wall outside of the girl’s locker room in the gym, waiting for the bell to signal the end of the school day. I know, P.E. last period blows, but it’s got its advantages during swim season. Like always, I was the first person finished changing. I was in the middle of sketching of a small hummingbird when a shadow interrupted my view. The pad itself was really small, just a cheap party favor from a friend’s birthday, so I needed good lighting in order to see what I was drawing. I looked up to ask the person to move when I saw the face of the devil. Renée Lisbon was glaring down at me, her hard-blue eyes fixed on my black ones. I quickly looked 12

back down at my note pad again. “Could you move over a little, I can’t see.” I asked, my voice monotone. “I can stand where I want, chink.” The word bit the air like a rabid dog. Ignoring the comment, I stood up to move to another spot. Suddenly I felt Renée grab my arm and tug me back. That’s when I swung. I felt like a simmering wok, spewing steam and hot oil from its searing bowl. In a matter of seconds, we were on the ground. I managed to pin Renée down on her back by punching her in the gut and throwing her backwards like my older brother, Mikey, had shown me. Then the punches flew. She sneaked in a few blows, but for the most part I kept the upper hand, bloodying her lip till it looked like she’d eaten raw birds. I pummeled her like the dough in my family’s restaurant. I was making dumplings out of her, flattening her out like a wonton skin and beating her stomach, Grant Hall. Abby Golodik. 2017. looking for the red pork filling. Before I could throw another punch, however, Coach Cod intervened. The woman threw me off Renée and yelled for someone to call the nurse. “Principal Griffin, Wren’s mother will be here shortly,” called his secretary. I continued playing with my necklace, letting my fingers trace the shape of the jade pendant. It felt cold and smooth against my skin. The necklace was a gift for Chinese New Year, the year of the Rat. The Rat was my Chinese zodiac, and my mom decided I was old enough to wear jade. Now we are by no means rich, but a Chinese family will neglect the water bill to get their kids a piece of jade. They believe the stone will offer protection and luck. I really hoped it was true. I could use any help the gods or ancestral spirits could give me. Minutes dragged on like hours until I heard the sharp clack of my mother’s boots echo throughout the hallway. I held my breath, unsure of what was to come. By the time my mother was standing in front of me, my fingers were red from rubbing the jade rat. Begrudgingly I looked up to meet my mother’s 13

gaze. Her expression surprised me. It wasn’t anger or disappointment like I expected. Just, serious. Unreadable. Right as I opened my mouth to explain, the secretary opened the office door and indicated my mother go in. Without hesitation, she marched into Principal Griffin’s office. I smiled, knowing I wouldn’t be the only one making waves today.

Mandala. Savannah Jelks. 2017.

Before mi abuela left She taught me of values (and made really good rice). Off she went, back home To paraiso. With no regard for me, Onto the plane alone. I hear from her occasionally And tell how things have been. She’s surprised each time When informed of terrible wins: 45 called you shitholes So I am afraid to come visit. You can’t come here either I’m not strong Enough to protect You from the dangers of values. The Wave. Ian Blakelock. 2017.

The Grapes of Wrath by Gianluca Avanzato

The fruits have all gone sour On the ground they start to rot He promised to clean out the muck But the muck begins to clot The pickers stand there ready But theyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll never touch the fruit As the grapes of wrath grow heavy They can almost sense the truth The grapes of wrath grow heavy We quarreled over statues As the air grew thick and dense Some stood with arms wide open

Some hid behind a fence There are some things you canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t bury Be it history or crime The grapes of wrath grow heavy They tug down on brittle vines The grapes of wrath grow heavy The ghosts all flood the campus The angels flood the streets The porky man grows restless As birds nibble at his feet Outside the storm turns deadly The vines begin to shake And the grapes of wrath grow heavy As the ground begins to quake The grapes of wrath grow heavy Within the pyrite tower He paces and he paws While Columbus guards the circle Blood dripping from his jaws The manâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s palms become sweaty As he looks outside and sees That the grapes of wrath grow heavy Almost falling to his knees The grapes of wrath grow heavy

Tea Terrace. Anna Klug. 2016. On the way from Mu Cang Chai to Sapa in Northern Vietnam, we stopped to meet local men and women who were hand picking green tea leaves.

My Queen

by Benjamin Mountain the crusade of her jeweled madness How I weep to understand her, to smell her essence when she passes to see her presence near me To feel her cold dead lips on my skin, my tears freeze on her extinct life When she holds my withered soul blue with age and death As she draws from me, the innocence I promised when I became her slave Her eternal nightmare, For just one moment of bliss, an evening with a Queen How Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll never forget the way, she had slain me.

youthquake. Emily Caruso. 2017.

by Silas Cleveland I wouldn’t smoke but for nostalgia And even then it’s rarely With each inhale a slight recall With each release a sorrow goes as well Between the hazy clouds that swirl around my eyes Past dreams that dance in dreary mist Lost in smoke they drift away I know it kills me slowly But it kills me to forget I wouldn’t smoke but for nostalgia

Untitled Film Still # 8. Kevin Jordan. 2017.

Telemarketers Suck, Don’t They?! Living with Indian parents is a blessing and a curse. As an American too, I get a nice caramel-blend of collectivist, Punjabi culture with a gentle touch of Western individualism. Although my parents (mostly my dad) can be a little hard… *in thick indian accent* “Kabir!! Vye- rren’t you dock-ter yét?!” “Dad I am 7. Let me have a childhood first!”

by Kabir Chabra

From enrolling me into Kumon1, Summer-School programs, mandatory tutoring sessions, leadership camps2, and other after-school learning academies ever since I was the age of 5, my parents wanted to do everything in their power to ensure I went to a top tier Ivy-League school (Surprise! I didn’t!). Even though my parents had been rather exasperating with my studies growing up, they have a lot of idiosyncrasies that I find, especially neat. Let us just focus mostly on my father, Sonny Chabra, the proud son of an army officer who fought on behalf of the 1 An after school math and reading program for preschool students through 12th grade. Basically this place that made you take tests everyday and, as a child, this place was equivalent to a North Korean prison camp. 2 Relax, not the same one Hitler went to.

Indian National Army3 in World War II and your typical rags-to-riches inspirational icon. In spite of the fact that my dad came to this country with only 20 dollars in his pocket (to support him, his 3 sisters, his new wife and his new born child), he was able to miraculously turn that $20 into millions through carrying heavy jeans on a subway every afternoon and slowly rising his way up to become a self-started Chief Executive Officer of two IT companies. My dad’s a man of few words. Strict, but honest. Tough, but caring. Quiet, but drop-dead hilarious. I remembered a particular moment that stuck out to me. No, not his stories of how he survived the 1984 anti-Sikh riots or his narrations of being in Iraq during the ferocious rise of Sadam Hussein. And no, not the time he was able to build a new IT business, ASI system integration, after the former company, AMC, perished during the 2008 Market Crash. But the time he talked with a telemarketer. Living in Suburban America, one is bound to get needlessly bombarded by desperate telemarketers hell-bent on selling you meaningless shit. To begin, I was in 6th grade when I witnessed life-changing, albeit extremely stupid, conversation my dad had with a telephone salesman. We were just sitting on the couch, minding our own business and watching Bill O’Reilly complain about the gosh-darn immigrants for the millionth time when suddenly the phone rings. *brinnnng *brinnnnngggg *brinng* My dad picks up and as the daredevil he is, he puts the damn conversation on speakerphone “Hi, who is this?” My dad gruntingly exclaims, knowing exactly who the fuck that is “Hello Sir, This is Bob Hartman from the Yadada Credit Score Company4 speaking. I was wondering if you’d be interested in our services. Is Mr. Parvinder Chabra there? (Side Note: Parvinder is my mom’s name…the nerve of the racist bastard!) “No he was my husband. He passed away 10 years ago” “Oh no, I am so sorry for your loss. I should best be going then.” “NO BOB! Where are you going?! I’m lonely!” 3 An armed brigade that was formed to secure India from British rule. They . were basically like the Black Panthers of the Indian Independence Movement. Yeah, my grandpa was a badass… 4 Obviously that’s not the name of the company. I just have a chronic illness where my mind automatically blacks out and enters into a 2-second fugue state whenever someone talks about things business or stock-related. Same thing happens when I watch Golf or look at Karl Rove’s face 22

“Ummmmm…” “I love you.” *Bob immediately hangs up* With tears coming out of my 10 year old eyes, I stared into my dad’s overly-stoic, normalized expression with nothing but glee. Even as I write this story, I cannot help but chuckle to myself. After this conversation, even though this interaction was quite mundane, it changed my perspective of my father. He went from being a serious, unnerving businessman who frowned on any chance of seeing a person’s individualism to a silly, little clown. The most ridiculous part of this story is Breath. Kaitlynn Blow. 2018. that after this strange conversation my father had with his new paramour, Bob, he did not even laugh or smile. His blank expression looked like he just finished having a personal conversation with an important Senator about healthcare reform. Even though this was a small event in my and my father’s life, it is a moment that I will cherish forever. Although people tend to get intimidated by my father when they first meet him, where ultimately they perceive him as an angry, strict, conservative capitalist devoid of any emotional capacity to feel joy or happiness (at least that was how my pesky, pubescent, and sophomoric self viewed him in high school), my dad, if you really get to know him, is just a fucking teddy-bear. Even though my dad has a sick wife, survived two near-death experiences, lived in Iraq under the reign of Sadam Hussein, built a new business from scratch after his old one became bankrupt during one of the worse economic crashes in American history (next to the Great Depression of course), he remains tenacious, visional and persistent…with no hesitation 23

to entertain himself from time-to-time. To this day, I still have mixed feelings of my dad. One day, I think he is the unscrupulous angel of death while the next I see him as a goofy comedian. However, one aspect is for sure. The guy worked his ass off to get to where he is today, and everything he does, no matter how painful it is to me and to his other children, is well intended. Although we may find some family members pesky and cantankerous at times, just remember that it is better to appreciate a personâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s good qualities while they are here breathing (and making the occasional moronic banter with a poor telemarketer) rather than when they are notâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;just floating personalities we keep inside our memories.

Haikus to a Fratboy

by L.K. Haig

I love to love you You love kegs, sex, and cocaine Where do I fit in? God, feed me his soul: Let me take it as my own. I will make him soft He told me my mouth Always tastes like gin and blood “My goddess,” he cried You want me at night But why don’t you long for me When the sun is out? I guess I’ll let you Pull my shirt over my head For the thousandth time I want to love you With all of the air I breathe And you want to sleep

Not To Touch. Tina Tully. 2018.

I knew something was Not right when he pulled out the Ropes to tie my hands Why do you starve for My touch but not my words when They are just as soft? I only cried for An hour because you will Never do better

Ballad of Jersey City by William Garner

I went out one day in August Biked from my shaded street Past Newport’s turquoise towers Glinting in the heat.

Or the towering glassy condos Stacked around my street like blocks. Here the dust and peeling signs Laid down a history Which in downtown had all been drowned In truffles and bubble tea.

I left behind these giants And the sheen of my downtown For Riverview Park up in the Heights My old friend’s stomping ground. We sweated around the neighborhood

I went out one day in August Saw a city I’d always known Now I wonder how long it’ll take Before this city’s gone.

Sammy gave a rambling tour His memories made me pause in streets I’d just driven past before. We wandered on, to Central Ave A crowded concrete stream Bought styrofoam cups of chicha morada And lúcuma ice cream. We watched the parade of awnings Murals brightening weathered brick Banners bragging we could “EAT! SHOP!” and “ART!” In this “Special Improvement District.” A record store was playing salsa As cars honked down the street Past shops where you would order In a language I didn’t speak, But it didn’t seem as foreign As the pricey coffee shops

Untitled. Peyton Brown. 2018.

Eye of the Storm. Olivia Britton. 2018.

The Roadside Swamp. Kallan Picconi. 2017. 28

by Chris Bendix

This room is dark. It smells of pine wood. My breath becomes crystals. Lit by the ghosts of embers In the now barren hearth. A memory flickers. The light of a candle, Trapped, Within a shard of glass. It hangs there forever; Immutable. I cup my hands around it, My fingers meeting yours. Although we have; The glimmer will never fade. The warmth is there, For as long as you care to take it.

I’m Black

by Raphael Sebastian II Hey guys! Umm… I’m black. And It doesn’t matter if that’s what I identity as or not Because if I get pulled over I’m Still more likely to be shot. And I’m still gonna be followed while I shop. It doesn’t matter if I wear a crop top, short shorts and some Crocs, I’ll just be labeled as a weird nigga… But that means I’m still a nigga. I could make a Facebook post right now about how I’m coming out as white and how kid rock is the best artist of this generation and how Donald Trump has a vision for the “right” America. But I’m still not gonna be able to walk through this Campus with my hood up without people being afraid of me because they think I’m from Schenectady. You can swear on your grandma’s grave that you’re not a racist, But you’d rather divert your path and walk around the nott than having to face this(point at skin) This is the color of my skin And I was born with it because it was the color of my kin. And this is the reason I stay up at night wondering if I’ll ever win Unless I play basketball or rap, Like most successful black men.

[REPEATED] Doodle No.2 . Rachel McNeil. 2018.

This poem is just as uncomfortable for me to present, as it is for you to listen to because... THIS is the thing that I most resent. I’m put in a box, Not because of the places I’ve been Nor the amount that I’ve sinned But simply because of the melanin in my skin. But that same resentment is what drives me to try and make a change in our society. So that I can be judged not by how I look, But what’s inside of me. So I stand in front of you all today TRYING to offend you. Because if you got offended You’re the one who’s views need to be amended Stop. They can’t be defended. Because a world in which no one holds resentment towards themselves or others because of THIS… Is a world that sounds wonderfully splendid. Because a world in which NO ONE holds RESENTMENT towards THEMSELVES or TOWARDS OTHERS because of THIS… Is the world that was intended. Thank you

c r o w s

by A.J. Hubbard How Abe Marangoz, complete with a top hat and a day-old shiner, ended up under the grille of the Paulson family Escalade baffled his new neighbors, but they all agreed it had something to do with the crows. It’s true that the birds had grown louder in volume and larger in force, or it seemed that way. The murder, congregating in the hours before dawn each of the last seven days, keened in tones that ranged from muffled despondence to the screeching of industrial equipment. Perched by the many dozens on the trees outside Mr. and Mrs. Nybalm’s house, their chorus far overqualified itself as a breach of the peace. The birds sure are acting strange! Hitchcock jokes had been all the rage in the first 48 hours of the crow fiasco. As the days passed by, however, levity turned to silent consensus of suffering, exchanged through looks and prolonged sighs when passing by in the street. It was the talk of the cul-de-sac; no one could sleep through the night. What did these crows want, and how long before they went away? Mrs. Sellers, predisposed to outrage, said that the gathering of the crows must mean the town, which recently leveled a wooded marsh to construct a shopping plaza with two frozen yogurt establishments, no longer had enough trees to support an oversaturated and rowdy population of birds. Mr. Pulmerian, thirty-year resident of the street, suggested that the birds could simply be in heat, before wondering quietly to himself whether birds mated in coital manner, or if they pollinated each other like flowers. Mrs. Pulmerian, ever the pragmatist and an early bird herself, balked at the sudden fervor of her neighbors, and was quoted as saying that the crows’ behavior “was nothing new and nothViolet! You’re turning Violet!. Ben Kopchains. 2017. ing unnatural.” 32

Still, their more discerning minds having been sabotaged by a week of restless nights, most of the residents of Golden Pines Circle were left to wonder if the crows were some sort of omen. By day eight, even young Abe’s iron-clad logical sense had begun to splinter. When he awoke that Wednesday morning to another onslaught of pre-dawn wails, the front yard of his aunt’s house was blanketed by the most snow he had ever seen in the month of October. It only followed that there was some supernatural mumbo-jumbo afoot. Happy Halloween, he thought to himself. Abe’s aunt had told him the night before that her flight home would be delayed by the storm, so he wasn’t surprised to find the house to himself as he prepared for school that day. Luckily, he had discovered days before that re-runs of Star Trek: Voyager play in BBC America’s 5a.m. timeslot, so he had something with which to drown out the crows as he made six peanut butter and jelly sandwiches to bring to school (as a nervous eater, Abe packed two extra sandwiches on top of the first, plus an additional three for his friend Davis, who had a similar way about him). Every couple of seconds, Abe touched the soft and swollen skin below his eye. He also periodically glanced across the kitchen at his aunt’s landline phone. -Trevor Belmont and his friends had felt it reasonable the day before to try and intimidate Abe. You see, this Halloween had fallen on the final day of the annual Northbury Junior High School Public Oratory Symposium, and the competition was cutthroat. Only his first year in the town, Abe was intent on taking home the top prize, or, at the very least, watching Trevor lose. Abe was told the Northbury P.O.S. had always been the who’s who of who’s getting A’s in high school, and victory in the competition came with the bragging rights of being the town’s most exemplary eighth grader. Trevor was reciting Marcus Tullius Cicero’s “First Oration Against Catiline”; purely bush league stuff in Abe’s estimation. Trevor and his henchmen caught Abe leaving for the bus on that Tuesday, and dumped out the contents of his backpack; all his books and papers and pencils went sprawled out on the blacktop. Rifling through it, they found a copy of his oration piece, and began to defile it with words like “fartface” and “pubes.” Having only ever really been exposed to the Johnny Lawrences and Biff Tannens of film, watching these pimpled menaces defend the honor of their oration pieces by defacing Lincoln’s Second Inaugural Address suggested to Abe a seismic shift in the art of bullying since the 1980s. Swept up in this competitive heat, Abe needed to defend himself. He locked and loaded what he felt was a high-caliber, no-holds barred comeback roast: “Cicero’s ‘First Oration’ lacks emotional resonance with a modern-day audience.” 33

Abe, understandably, did not feel as though he deserved a punch in the face for saying this, but, in the interest of fairness, neither did Trevor Belmont. He was only trying to fake a punch to make Abe flinch, but followed through with it too far, and socked Abe square in the cheekbone. The resulting sensation was new to Abe, and he discovered that he felt no instinctive fondness for getting punched in the face. Abe did not feel that he had inherited a lineage of warriors and fighters; the cowardice of his grandfather, for whom he was named, was of some renown. The story went that, as a Navy man, he had once jumped overboard after hearing a fellow soldierâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s gun misfire.

In a strange and noncommittal follow-up, Trevor immediately apologized, quite profusely, for assaulting Abe, and then followed this by saying, “Don’t mess with me again, kid.” Storming off, he tripped on his shoelace and tried not to glance at two high school sophomores kissing up against the school building. -With the sun rising and his six sandwiches made, Abe was sitting by the phone when the crows began to taper off that Wednesday morning. He was, once again, parsing through the Second Inaugural Address - a fresh new copy. As an Abe himself, he felt that the choice of speech was quite fitting,

Porch. Abby Golodik. 2018. 35

and, at risk of being repetitive, Lincoln was also Abe’s Halloween costume for the sixth time in as many years. His aunt’s phone began to ring off the hook. He lurched towards it with a nervous excitement. “Hello?” “Abe?” The voice sounded familiar, but it was not his mother. “Yeah, who’s this?” “It’s Bethenny, from across the street. Did your aunt text you last night?” “Yeah, she told me her flight was snowed in, and that you’d be driving me to school.” “That was the plan, but take a look outside. You’ve got a snow day, kid.” Abe slouched down in his chair. “Shit.” “Strange way to say ‘hooray!’, but alright. Anyway, just reach out if you need anything today. We’ll probably eat dinner around like 8:00 if you’d like to join.” Abe thanked her and hung up after saying goodbye. For the next 25 minutes, his eyes stayed fixed to the phone. Then came a moment of realization that the crows had stopped their wailing completely, as they did each morning around 7:00, and Abe’s eyes began to flutter and fill with sleep. -As with all great problems, an online forum had quickly been established in Abe’s neighborhood to discuss rooting out the crows’ malfeasance. The page, entitled Golden Pines Mothers, Unite! - Crow Patrol, itself a spin-off group of Northbury Mothers, Unite!, and a spiritual sister to Golden Pines Mothers: Low-Sugar Fruit Gummies for Growing Tummies, provided the more shrewd residents of the neighborhood with clues to what exactly happened on that Halloween night. The forum was moderated by the usual final voice on neighborhood matters, Eve-Blanche Paulson, chairwoman of the Golden Pines Neighborhood Protection Committee. Mrs. Paulson reveled in being the busiest woman in Northbury; she led two different PTO groups that she founded, and took two weeks out of every summer to teach Yorkshire Terrier puppies to swim competitively. Mrs. Paulson’s last verifiable action before the accident was the creation of a pinned post addressed simply to “Neighbors.” This, however, was at 9:17p.m., and another thirty-five minutes passed before she got in her car at roughly 9:50p.m. The post, which for many in Golden Pines marked a clear sign of Eve-Blanche’s spiral downward, read as follows: Neighbors, I know we all prioritize the safety of our children, the beauty of our small neighborhood, and the ongoing preservation of the American way of life. As 36

Golden Pines residents, I am aware we anticipate a certain level of comfort, though sometimes, when faced with existential threats to our community, we must move ourselves to act. That is why I have chosen to write a second post (after 9pm!), to urge you, as concerned residents of the town’s most beautiful cul-de-sac (as per the Northbury Patch’s annual listing for 2017, congrats again!! :D) to consider taking “extraordinary” measures as it pertains to the issue of the crows. I have reached out to Pest Control to ask about the powers within their jurisdiction, and am hoping to hear back soon. In the meantime, we are not without options. We should consider assembling a neighborhood task force. If memory serves, two boys in the neighborhood, Will and Andy, have achieved First Class Scouting Rank and boast rudimentary archery experience, both of which could provide an essential service in attacking perched crows from ground level. Also, if anyone knows any poison alternatives (safe for children and pets!) that might do the trick, please MESSAGE ME DIRECTLY. -Abe awoke violently to the ringing of the phone. The voice on the other line congratulated him on having “stayed at one of our resorts in the past,” and he quickly hung up. Only a few moments later the phone rang again, and Abe answered it with hesitation this time. “Hanover residence, this is Bern’s nephew Abe speaking.” “Hey, old man, answer my text messages.” It was Davis. Apparently, the Public Oratory Symposium had been rescheduled for Friday, and, with the two extra prep days, Davis was considering switching speeches. He also called to tell Abe that he probably could not get a ride over in the 37

storm to hang out like they had planned for Halloween. In the grand scheme of things, Abe was not overly bummed. They had already scrapped their combined costume idea (by virtue of their complementary names, Davis was going to counter Abe’s Lincoln with Confederate President Jefferson Davis, but decided that any costume that could, in isolation, amount to a tacit endorsement of chattel slavery should be avoided). Without Davis, Abe decided that he would dress up anyway, to go full method in preparation for the rescheduled symposium, more in the spirit of competition than of Halloween. As he sat around his aunt’s house dressed as the 16th American President, Abe’s snow day relinquished to an anxious lull. By his third PB & J, Abe had paced a half mile around the island countertop. Waiting for his mother’s collect call, he read through “...a just, and a lasting peace among ourselves,” more than a dozen times. All the neighborhood was similarly afflicted. For most, it seemed that the snowfall which blanketed the street in white was the calm before the real storm - the storm of iridescent black feathers and ghostly wails. Anxiety now prevailed throughout the gated community. Exhausted, the residents of Golden Pine Circle were suffocating under the weight of early next morning, anticipating another Untitled Film Still # 6. Kevin Jordan. 2017. night’s sleep cut short. Mrs. Anderson, at present, was scrolling through online real estate listings for the other side of town. Mr. Dole had spent the afternoon clutching a bat on his screen porch, anticipating a crow assault at any moment. And, perhaps in the extreme, the Breyer parents had struck a hole in the wall of their bedroom, and, propelled by manic rage, began piling in blankets and their children’s clothes as provisional soundproofing. -38

“You do know that this is all a lot, don’t you?” Bethenny Paulson stared at the thirteen-year-old standing in her front doorway, wondering whether she should ask first about the black eye, the vintage-style suit coat, or just let the kid in. Abe looked down towards his feet. “Oh, I forgot I was wearing this actually.” Bethenny gestured for him to come inside, “How’d you get the black eye?” “Public speaking,” Abe shot back. Bethenny laughed. “Ah, you’re in the P.O.S. That explains more than you realize.” He followed her into the Paulson family kitchen, and, spotting an ornate bowl of dark chocolate almond bark, he slyly Into Black. Ari Bennett. 2018. helped himself to a piece. She walked over to the stovetop and took the lid off a boiling pot. “Is spaghetti okay with you?” “Anything’s fine. Thank you.” Abe’s dinner with Bethenny Paulson turned out to be quite splendid, and Bethenny Paulson’s diner with Abe turned out to be passably entertaining. It was only the two of them. Bethenny’s brother Kyle had just entered his tenth hour of Roblox on the family desktop, and her father had briefly microwaved his wallet around lunchtime before falling asleep indefinitely. Her mother was out of commission completely, scrambling to devise a solution to the problem of the crows. Over dinner, Bethenny told Abe about how she had dropped out of the Public Oratory Symposium on the day of the competition. She laughed as 39

she said that her mother probably never really forgave her for the embarrassment. Abe got the impression that Bethenny was not fond of her mother. Truthfully, he had something of a crush on Mrs. Paulson. It was something, he had told Davis, in the way that she “moves like a mature and nimble pixie,” a fundamentally creepy thing to say. After dishes were clean, Abe thanked Bethenny again, and asked this time if he was free to take a piece of chocolate bark, to which Bethenny said that the chocolate was off-limits to guests. Feeling just a tinge of guilt, Abe left to take a lap around the neighborhood in search of Halloween candy. -For Bethenny Paulson, the crows were like a recurring nightmare, carried into the waking hours by her mother’s obsessive concern over their presence. By the moment she stepped into the driver’s seat of her mother’s car on Halloween night, she felt like she was at the end of a weeklong hypnagogic episode. She was not angry with the crows. She was afraid. When she heard them caw and yowl, she pictured Mrs. Boyer, hanging limp from the makeshift scaffold that rose above her dining room china. This image haunted Bethenny, and she felt that maybe it haunted the crows, too. Mrs. Boyer had been a recluse, considered the strangest neighbor in Golden Pines. Neighbors were regularly unsettled knowing that she walked around the cul-de-sac at all hours of the night. The “official” story was that it was the Sullivan boys, Isaac and Peter, who first saw Mrs. Boyer’s body through her large back window. They said 40

they had been running through as a shortcut to Tommy Calabraise’s, but they were really in their usual spot in the woods, grifting Andrew Newman on overpriced weed. Bethenny was the only other person who knew this, because she had been with them. Isaac and Peter Sullivan had looked through the window at Mrs. Boyer and knew, first, that they would have to act, and second, that they would have to take the fall for Bethenny, as it raised too many questions for the daughter of the Golden Pines Neighborhood Protection Committee Chairwoman to be snooping around other people’s property and happening upon dead bodies. People really didn’t talk about Mrs. Boyer after this. Bethenny’s mother commented just once on the town’s online forum about the “unfortunate passing,” and Mr. Pulmerian claimed he had seen her out walking once in the middle of the night. Other than that, it was pretty much zilch. What horrified Bethenny was that, when the Sullivan boys told people what they’d seen, half the town silently treated them like they’d done it. They were basically outcast for having Drip Drop. Ian Blakelock. 2018. been there. Bethenny could tell by her mother’s glacial looks that she was to stop hanging out with the Sullivans right away. Bethenny almost felt like telling Abe about Mrs. Boyer. She found it funny, but dinner with Abe had made her, for the first time in a while, feel like she lived outside Golden Pines. As strange as it was to watch this adoles41

Spring. Carlos Piedad. 2018.

cent Lincoln impresonator try not to get tomato sauce on his suit coat, there was a genuineness in him that she had watched her own brother, now ten years old, shed years ago. She knew a bit from Abe’s aunt about his situation; dead dad, mom in jail. This was the kind of kid that could get chewed up and spat back out by Golden Pines Circle. It wasn’t until her mother burst into her room an hour afterwards, distressed by a flippant comment left on her online Crow Patrol forum, that Bethenny was suddenly and unwillingly reacclimated to the Golden Pines lifestyle. “You have to drive me to Grace Hatley’s this instant.” “Mom, it’s almost ten. Can’t you just call her?” “Did you see her comment on my post? Uncivil is the word for it. My job is all about maintaining community stability, and Grace has made a frivolous attempt to off center us. Going over in person and having a word with her is the only way to reestablish the genial norm.” The comment in question was brief and incisive. Left at 9:44p.m., it 42

was only seven syllables, the second act of a haiku. Why not buy some ear plugs? Duh. Bethenny resisted her mother up to the point where voices were raised. Walking to the car, that unmistakable noise crowded and perforated the nighttime. The crows had begun already, hours before the clock had struck midnight, their nervous cawing reflected in the face of Bethenny’s mother. With one hand holding her smartphone and the other on the handle of the passenger side door, Eve-Blanche Paulson looked depleted, her daughter much the same. “Bethenny, hurry! Unlock the car!” “I am! I am!” Clyink! Once seated, Mrs. Paulson shook nervously as she dictated out the comment that she was typing into her forum: “‘...in effort...to preserve the community’s... air of,’ Bethenny! Bethenny! How do you spell ‘affability?’ Oh, it’s one ‘L’! Focus on the road, Bethenny!” The Escalade struck the fake-bearded young president with a muffled thump. Caught in the headlights, Abe did look more Lincolnesque, mostly in the way in which he froze, statue-stiff. Her instincts very nearly punctual, Bethenny clutched the emergency break. Her Learner’s Permit slipped between her seat and the center console. -This moment played out quite differently for Abe. Firstly, he was struck by a full-size SUV. Secondly, his most immediate concern was that he had left the front door to his aunt’s house ajar, having left only to retrieve the top hat he had dropped across the street on his way home from trick-or-treating. Lastly, Abe’s instincts allowed him, in the infinitesimal moment in which he realized what was about to happen, to convince himself that he had this coming. To understand this impulse, it is necessary to delve further into Abe’s infatuation with Mrs. Paulson. In the self-professed nadir of his adolescent awakening, he had once thought of Mrs. Paulson as he touched the most shameful portions of his shifting teenage anatomy. And now he had also stolen some of her family’s artisan chocolate! In the moment in which the Paulson Escalade barreled towards him, Abe could not help but believe that this was his punishment; God, or General Motors, or the crows - whoever was in charge - was making an example of him. The last thing he remembered was quickly authoring a vow of celibacy if he made it out of this alive. As he lay half-conscious in the snow, Abe thought he may have heard the ringing of the phone, mixing with the rising song of the crows. 43

Kiss Me

by Silas Cleveland We’re killing hopes with killing wishes Our poisoned lips that won’t let go Killing time with killing kisses Deny the loneliness, but life it misses Company, which impossible we follow We’re killing hopes with killing wishes ‘Cause death just tastes delicious When tasted on another’s tongue, though Killing time with killing kisses Desperate, anything, to kill the emptinesses Haunting fears make lies that to ourselves we show We’re killing hopes with killing wishes Does it even matter that they’re hollow blisses? Drunk on ignorance we keep on dying slow, Killing time with killing kisses Lying to ourselves to live, we’re vicious But we know. Oh god, oh god, but we know. We’re killing hopes with killing wishes Killing time with killing kisses

by Hayley Jones We are a formality Our education a mere accommodation Taught to sit in silence Move but with the stroke of our pen Not to question. Not to breathe these solemn breaths And ask ourselves why they are solemn. What are questions of love and happiness? No consequence. Adult by human numbers and physique But I see us scorned and chastised Like a child at the water’s edge. You’d think it ends once you’re older-We all did. Yet our bosses And our bosses’ bosses In their faces lie the teacher’s displeasure And then we are children once more.

Uniform Diversity. Zineb Hajjaj. 2018. 45

by Jenna Smith Ah intimacy, of eye contact. How I wish We could be that close “Mistake” made once, twice, Three times there’s purpose– music, And the blues plays on.

collapse. Rebecca Taslitz. 2018.

I found the tears weren’t Worth it. In the end, I can’t Afford the tissues Don’t say beautiful. Say important. Say I have Something to offer. Ya know, at the end The fruits of all this labor Aren’t gonna feed you. Soothe my woes, my dear These dirty thoughts house maggots That eat at the soul The trees whisper to Anyone who will listen, But we talk too much. Damn damn damn damn damn. Language is power. I’m not Apologetic.

Radioactive. Lauren Capron. 2017. 46

by Steven Apolo People smile at me People like talking to me People love the persona I wear Behind the persona Is something Nobody has seen Behind the persona Is who I am Is something nobody has seen People say Just be yourself I laugh I imagine Digging my nails Under my persona I tear it off My skin Drenched in blood Whatâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s wrong You donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t like The real me

We Stay Connected. Thomas Aung. 2018.

The Night of the Broken Glass by Ben Weinstein

As I walked out one morning A sour smell filled my streets And I knew what it was Clicking boots along the pavement Nazis flooding the town square Holding bats and hammers The sounds of my people shrieking The sound of windows shattering The synagogue desecrated Dad’s tailor shop demolished A sign ordering to not use the services of “Jewish Rats” They rounded us up and kept us in town square We watched as our stores went up in blaze But the white paint was on the remains, “Jude” We couldn’t run and we certainly couldn’t hide People who once knew us acted like they didn’t G-d please save us

Tool Board. Samantha Miller. 2017.

Old Montreal. Pamela Rice. 2018. 51

Entropy is a thermodynamic concept related to energy distribution, where high entropy means the usability of a quantity of energy is diminished. The second law of thermodynamics states that the total entropy of an isolated system can never decrease over time. In laymen's terms- entropy is a quantifier of chaos and disorder and the universe is inclined toward disorder. It has been theorized that the ultimate fate of the universe is an increase in entropy to a state where all the energy in the universe is useless, preventing new processes from occurring. This is referred to as a heat death of the universe.