L A B Y R I N T H A SURREALIST ARTS & LITERARY MAGAZINE
SPRING 2017 • ISSUE 1 • VOLUME 1
Sponsored By The Wellesley College English Department The Wellesley College Art Department
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DREAMS + NIGHTMARES
LABYRINTH MAGAZINE
Editors-in-Chief STACEY KIM & BECCA PYEON Art Contributors HECTOR ARROYO KATIANA CONDE IVY LEE RILEY RETIGG CAITLIN SULLIVAN VIVIAN YU Literary Contributors MELODY GARCIA ROSAMOND HERLING REMI KOBAYASHI JAMIE MARINO ARTIE MATTHEWS JULIA LIANG MIRANDA TRAN Founders STACEY KIM & BECCA PYEON
SPRING 2017 • ISSUE 1 • VOLUME 1
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ABOUT REVERIES + TRANCES
Labyrinth Magazine showcases the dream state through fictional pieces, artwork, and other forms of multimedia. With a focus on the surrealist narrative, it is as much of an exploration into art as it is into the subconscious. All types of creative works were accepted with the understanding that they were to be based off of the submitter’s dreams, reveries, or nightmares. The magazine features Wellesley College students of all years, as well as a pieces from students of other institutions.
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TABLE OF CONTENTS "Dream" by Katianna Conde
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"No Es Una Media Naranja" by Miranda Tran
2
“Glass Waves” by Ivy Lee
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“Gelatin” by Melody Garcia
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“Untitled” by Riley Retigg
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“When We Lived Together I & II” by Julia Liang
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“Guardians” by Remi Kobayashi
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Photography by Hector Lee
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“Ghost” By Jamie Marino
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“Rain Dance” by Ivy Lee
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“Bus Dreams” by Rosamund Herling
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“Untitled” by Caitlin Sullivan
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“Nightmare” by Joy Zhang
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“The Fields” by Artie Matthews
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“Untitled” by Vivian Yu
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1
Dream by Katianna Conde
No Es Una Media Naranja by MIRANDA TRAN
Roberto: “Soy un cangrejo ermitaño. Me llamo Roberto. Tengo ocho años.” Todos: “Hola, Roberto.” Roberto: “Empecé beber el agua dulce cuando tenía diez años. Mi tío me dio un vaso con agua cuando mis padres estaban hablando con mis abuelos. En el mes noveno, un estudiante de tercer año me invitó a una fiesta. Estábamos compartiendo la misma concha y, por eso, tuve que ir.” Julia: “Tengo una pregunta para ti. ¿Por qué no se fue? En el lago de agua salada, tratamos de enseñar que tiene otras opciones.” Roberto: “Mientras mi compañero...bailaba con una cangrejo hembra, vi una cangrejo hembra más bonita que todas. Le amo a primera vista.”
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Juan: “Ay siempre se van las cangrejos. ¿Se fue ella?” Roberto: “Sí. Siempre preguntaba a mis hijos porque pero no tienen las contestas. ¿Ha ido a un lago de agua dulce? Es un poco similar a las botellas de contrabando. Era difícil a convencer a un/a anémona de mar a venir conmigo.” Juan: “No. No he ido y no pienso en que.” Roberto: “Cambiando el tema, un día, mi compañero del cuarto me dijo que él se necesitaba dejar. Por lo visto, no puede encajar todo de mi contrabando en la concha, él, y mi. Ayer, tuve que irme mi concha porque no había espacio suficiente.” Juan: “Sí. Gracias por compartir. Este es el primer paso para ser libre de la adicción. ¿El siguiente cangrejo?”
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There Is No Better Half (Translation of No Es Una Media Naranja)
Roberto: “I am a hermit crab. My name is Roberto. I am eight years old.” Everyone: “Hello, Roberto.” Roberto: “I started to drink fresh water when I was ten years old. My uncle gave me a glass of water when my parents were talking with my grandparents. In the ninth month, a third year student invited me to a party. We were sharing the same shell and, because of that, I had to go.” Julia: “I have a question for you. Why didn’t he leave? In the salt water lake, we try to teach that one has other options.” Roberto: “While my companion...danced with a female crab, I saw a female crab more beautiful than all. I love her at first sight.” Juan: “Oh, those crabs always leave. Did she leave?”
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Roberto: “Yes. I always asked my children why, but they don’t have the answers. Has she gone to a freshwater lake? It is a little similar to contraband bottles. It was difficult to convince a sea anemone to come with me.” Juan: “No. I haven’t gone and I don’t think in that.” Roberto: “Changing the topic, one day, my roommate told me that he needs to leave. Apparently, I can’t fit all of my smuggling in the shell, him, and me. Yesterday, I had to leave my shell because there wasn’t sufficient space.” Juan: “Yes. Thank you for sharing. This is the first step in order to be free of addiction. The next crab?”
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Glass Waves by IVY LEE
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Gelatin by MELODY GARCIA
Paralyzation of irises, incubation as time passes. The folds have forgotten their bends, leaks creep along the barathea floor. But your eyes remain stuck to the ceiling. Materialization of estranged nightmares, recognizable inside the perfect comfort of your room. Like the lamp sitting blue, you feel familiar, but someone isn’t meant to be here has become the malignant curdle, the center of the posy that will no longer put you back to sleep.
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Untitled by RILEY RETIGG
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When We Lived Together I by JULIA LIANG Nightmare crept in and lit a fire in the darkness around me. Title I Mother, Tonight I lied again, So that I could call you So that flames won't rush to Lick, Our flesh and wrap its claws around our neckWe've always choked on even the air around him, Pump our lungs with oxygen before we leave (this time for good) Mother, There is no time She and I are made of nothing but firewood He knows all too well, He's carrying a lighter. Come now. Come quickly. I'm stumbling, Hurry, He's coming, He's coming, Come quickly, Come. Look, I have already flames for fingers.
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When We Lived Together II by JULIA LIANG
Title II How many seconds does it take For flames to travel From the tip of my fingers To the heart Of my soul? Rings of smoke are twisting and turning Wrapped around my wrists and sliding down my ankles Are they that now erase my scars, my wounds, but also Me, Coated with fire my bones are so brittle Marrow is dripping God, can, no, do you see? I have always dreamt of deliverance God listens, he sees Gone, engulfed and scattered My soul is finally free.
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Guardians by REMI KOBAYASHI
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Photography by HECTOR ARROYO
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Ghost by Jamie Marino
She sits next to me on the couch and tells me what to write. “In my philosophy class today,” She says. “We talked about space and time and colors and whether they are all outside of us.” There are the words “innate” and “items in space,” then a brief sway of a phrase (“the fact that we are in space”) before her voice peters off. She leans her head against the corduroy backrest and stares at the hollow room. “It’s in you,” she finally says. The room next to us is loud. It swells into a warm babel, pressing against the walls and fogging up the glass. Luckily, it doesn’t overflow to us. I write it all into my notebook. My feet aren’t touching the ground.
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Rain Dance by IVY LEE
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Bus Dreams: Short Metamorphoses While You Wait (Limited Availability, Don't Wait!) by ROSAMUND HERLING
taliesin (public transport reverie #1) i should be drowning, thrashing, crying but due to some whim not my own i’m developing an odd sort of buoyancy a water-resistance, if you will things are starting to roll off my back joys and horrors, censure and praise, balled up like wet weekday laundry sliding down my feathers like hot opalescent drops of oil i am some kind of fortified shorebird picking my long-fingered way along a storm-tossed coast, long-toed abandoned by the gods it’s quiet here; people dress casually there’s sand in the saltwater taffy or perhaps i am a spoon metal, almost uncurved like a shovel blade
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i stir cheap whipped cream into something hot and nameless and i come out dry throwing off white curls of steam like egret plumes i can perch in a cup or lie flat on a napkin or maybe right on the bare wicker table in this tiny coffeeshop it’s probably clean enough i don’t drip too much or maybe i’ve been wrong this whole time and actually i’m the glass windowpane in the front of the store you know, the one the bells jingle against when someone walks through the door raindrops roll off of glass or you can wipe them off same with splashed coffee, coffee on glass, in a glass, coffee glace or maybe i’m the wind or the waves or the falling light maybe i carry things or swallow them or just don’t relate to them at all, right from the start either way i should probably be worried at any rate more than i am 16
Untitled by CAITLIN SULLIVAN
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Nightmare by Joy Zhang
warnings for trypophobia, entomophobia, death There’s someone outside of my window. I can’t see his face, not really, but I can tell that it’s bulbous and chalky and pointed towards me. He wants to kill me. My blanket only covers my legs and chest; my face is completely exposed. I don’t breathe in fear that the slightest movement will reveal me, will flip me off the bed and under a moon-bestowed spotlight, or even worse, bring him plunging into my bedroom. But you can only hold your breath for so long, and soon I crumble and suck in— Something hits the underside of my bed. He’s under my bed. He drags himself out. His eyes are swollen out of his head, so fat that his skinny neck fails on him; his head sags to the side, but his eyes are still on me. I want to scream, but the sound is caught somewhere in my ribs.
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He plucks me up by the back of my shirt and swallows me whole. His throat is lined entirely with holes, tens of thousands of minuscule craters, and they press into my skin as I slide down. I can feel them on my arms. They’ve left holes on my arms. I don’t want to feel them growing larger and larger until they are gaping and terrible, so I squeeze my eyes shut. But I can still see them on my skin. The bottom of his stomach is lined with grubs. They pulse underneath me when I land on them, and immediately swarm on top of my thighs. This time, I can scream. I thrash and rip them off, but there are so many. They spill over each other in a frenzy to burrow into the crevices of my flesh— devour me until my skin is eaten through. The only thing that is more painful than those empty holes is the terror inside of me. I’m probably going to die. I don’t think I’m ready to die, but the pupae have decided for me. And then, I wake up. The room is empty. But I can still hear him laughing at me, crying inside of his stomach. I pull the blanket over my face.
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The Fields by Artie Matthews
Small toddlers play with fire. Shadows cast onto men wrestling on the ground. A bearded man saunters around the smoke. Flinging his long flaxen hair around the throats of young boys, he kisses them with a maternal tenderness. The children turn into the elderly, who stretch out their backs and flap their loose skin like feral chickens. Soon the contortionist asks me if I know where her mistress has gone. Her name is Spider, she says, before wrapping her legs around me like a boa constricting its prey. I hold her tighter. The smell of flesh grows pungent and thickens in the air like coagulated blood. Lovers hide and make arresting music. The sounds of madness run in our veins and fills us with life. After all, we have nothing to lose in the fields.
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Untitled by VIVIAN YU 23
SPRING 2017 • ISSUE 1 • VOLUME 1